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.