The Catharine Tree

Back in 1994, I decided to undertake an oral history project pertaining to our family. With this in mind, I asked family members to submit their favourite memories on a variety of topics. Once I’d received these recollections, I typed them up, printed out a booklet and handed them out as gifts to everyone on Christmas Day. We continued this tradition for seven years—that’s seven volumes of family memories which were recorded for future generations to read. 

The first memory to be written down was one that my mother had told us many times over the years. It never fails to move me to tears. It’s a powerful reminder that for many people, Christmas is not a time of joy, but rather a holiday that is filled with pain and personal loss. I think it is also a testament to a young girl who, wise beyond her years, understood that, despite what happens to us, life must go on. To me, it speaks volumes not only about the amazing strength of my mother, but also about the true meaning of Christmas. 

Here is my mother’s story in her own words: 

 

Catharine

 

Back in December, 1939, my oldest sister Catharine, who was almost fifteen years old, developed a boil on her chin. Dad took her to the doctor. He said to bathe her chin with hot water and salt to try and bring the boil to a head. Well, her face swelled up and she was taken to the hospital on Monday, December 19. 

There was no penicillin or other drugs to help. Nor was there a blood bank back then. Dad, his brothers Harvey and Ozzie and the Harris boys all gave blood which the doctor gave to Catharine trying to clear the poison. She had blood poisoning, then lockjaw. A terrible thing. Mom and Dad stayed there for four days.  

 

Catharine died on Thursday, December 22, 1939. The funeral was held at our house. I had never seen so many flowers. The room was packed with them. So many people too. The house was filled with people, upstairs and down; the barn too. She was buried December 24. It was a green Christmas that year, very mild, and I wore my spring coat as I only had a snowsuit.  

 

Catharine and Aunt Anne

 

Our Christmas was never the same again. We lost my grandma on October 6, 1939 and then, Catharine. Catharine often said after Grandma died, “I don’t know how I’ll get along without my Grandma.” It was almost like it was to be—that she went to be with her in heaven. 

It was the saddest Christmas that year. We went to Aunt Anne’s. She kept Rae, age 2, while Catharine was in the hospital.

 

The next year, 1940, Dad didn’t feel like cutting a tree for Christmas. I can remember going out with a handsaw and cutting branches off these huge evergreen trees that stood in a row along the back lane. I tied them together with twine and made a tree. I was twelve years old at the time. We decorated it and it looked pretty good.

I Want...You Want...We All Want What We Want

This week, I watched a clever video on YouTube entitled Zombie Plague Sweeps America which juxtaposed images of Black Friday shoppers with those of Zombies.  Erich Fromm, the author of To Have or To Be, might well have agreed. According to Fromm, there are two styles in which people define themselves: they either add themselves up in terms of what they possess or use themselves up in a process of being. These two modes of existence struggle for the spirit of humankind: the having mode, which concentrates on material possessions, power and aggression, and is the basis of greed, envy and violence and the being mode which is based on love, the pleasure of sharing and productive activity. 



The Reindeer Which I Won in a Drug Store draw.
I was convinced that Santa brought it.

The childhood game of I Want which I played with my siblings recognized these two modes of being. When the Sears’ Christmas catalogue would arrive at our house, my sisters and I would huddle around it on the couch. We would take turns choosing an item off the catalogue page by saying, “I WANT….THIS!” Invariably, the person who got to go first would choose the best item on that particular page. There would be collective groans as the top pick was selected because we would want it too. Then, the next person would choose and the next until all the items on that page were gone. One of the rules of the game was that if it was your turn and one ugly item remained, you still had to choose it. This was also groan-worthy.  

Looking back, I recognize that inherent in this game (invented by us in an era before shopping malls) was the unspoken understanding that yes, you may want things, but the fact is that, as the song goes, you can’t always get what you want. As an adult, I’d add, “And that’s a good thing.” Growing up on the farm in the sixties, we knew that we could want all kinds of things, but the odds of getting them were slim-to-none.



This is my sister's stuffed monkey.
Thou shalt not covet?!

 



Sure, back in public school, I may have thought that I’d die if I didn’t get Go-go boots, but guess what? I didn’t get the boots and although I still talk about them from time to time, I swear I wasn’t scarred for life. Not much anyway! And that Easy Bake Oven that I thought I just had to have doesn’t make a lot of sense in retrospect; not when you consider the fact that we were baking with the real oven at the age of seven or eight.  

This year, my sisters and I made the decision to scale back on the consumerism--to limit the amount we spend and keep our gifts to three each. This was before I read the article on Matthew Ruttan's blog which made a similar suggestion. I like his idea that, in giving three gifts, one can follow the example of the Wise Men by giving one “frankincense” gift that is spiritual; one “gold” gift that is fun and flashy; and one “myrrh” gift that is practical. What I’ve discovered is that, by limiting the number of presents, I’m being more mindful and putting more thought into my choices. 



Edith Stella (Musselwhite) Ferguson

 



In closing, I’d like to take a moment to remember our friend Stella Ferguson who passed away on December 15, 2003. It is ironic that Stella died so close to Christmas because she loved the holiday season. Born in Hampshire, England, she’d often reminisce about her childhood Christmases there—how her mother would save up during the Depression and WWII to make each Christmas special; about mince tarts, puddings and inviting the post man in for a Christmas drink. For Stella, it was all about family, friends and community including one’s village church.  

A stickler for good manners, Stella believed a man should take his hat off when entering a house and was quite vocal about this; so you can imagine how moving it was to watch the hearse carrying her casket drive slowly past a construction crew. One by one, each man took off his hat and held it to his chest as the hearse drove past. I couldn’t think of a more fitting tribute. Stella would have loved it.  

Ten years later, I still miss her. I suspect I speak for everyone who has lost a loved one when I say that I wish you were here to celebrate Christmas with us. Rest assured, you will never be forgotten. Oh, and Stella, when we raise that glass and eat those chocolate-covered gingers in your memory, we will remember what you taught us: that the most precious things in life don’t come with a price tag.