| Vol.
I, No. 6 | Sugaring
/ Spring Equinox | Mar.
16th, 2001 |
Living
Together
Life Lines . The
Journal Notes of Maurice LeBois, 1850 Ed.
Note: If you read last
month's installment of these journal notes in our Cabin
Fever issue, we offer these journal excerpts again especially for you.
It may not help, at least not more than to know that what you suffer is not
yours alone, but has been shared by others for many years. And if by
chance you are cabin-bound with someone whom, under more ordinary circumstances,
you know you love, then so much the better for you. ...
According to at least one account, the following journal notes were discovered
neatly wrapped in oiled leather, in an old stone cellar "somewhere up in
Jerusalem." However, the account cannot be confirmed. The name
Maurice LeBois, as with much else of this, is entirely fictitious, since nowhere
in the journals does there appear a single familiar or proper name.
Nonetheless, it was apparently written by someone who migrated south out of
Canada in the last century, and the likelihood is that it was written by someone
of Franco-Québecois descent, since portions of it were written in French.
...
The journal apparently covers a
period from roughly the late autumn of 1849, shortly after our writer arrived up
in The Champlain islands, through late spring of 1850. During almost the
entire period, our writer seems to have stayed relatively close to his cabin,
most likely located at or neat the 2000-foot elevation, and most likely located
somewhere south of Camel's Hump and north of the Killington area.
The excerpts presented here are taken from the months of February-March
1850. ... 20th March
I
returned only today from my visit with my neighbors, for while I was planning to
start back the very next day, both he and his wife insisted that I remain with
them another day, and then another. And so it went for but one day shy of a
week.
Their hospitality was most welcome and,
indeed, they made me feel as welcome as any member of the family. We had set out
from the cabin early, so that, when we arrived, it was very nearly the last of
dusk. But, as he had promised, his wife had cooked a hearty meal for us which
was ready upon our arrival. We both slept soundly that night, I, as sound as I
had all the winter, and he, as related to me when, the next day, we went into
the village as we had planned, for supplies, as well as each for a shave and a
haircut.
My neighbor is somewhat an extraordinary
man, at least in this regard: that while he can, at times, seem stern,
particularly with his children -- whom, nonetheless, I am sure he dearly loves,
and who know well, I suspect, that he loves them, also, -- and while he also
seems at times to be almost ascetic by nature, with little regard for the things
of this world, very nearly like a monk or one of the Desert Fathers, he
nonetheless seems also to delight, in an almost childlike fashion, indeed,
almost exuberantly, in some of the most simple pleasures which life affords even
those without substantial means.
So it was that, all
the while on our journey to the village, he talked, brightly and with abandon,
not about the luxury of the shave and the haircut to come, nor about the length
of the winter, nor his plans for spring planting, but of the loveliness of a rug
his wife had braided, or of a box she had painted by hand in small filigree, or
of the alphabet which his children had learned to write in cursive hand.
Upon our return, his wife again furnished us with a sumptuous meal, of venison
and potatoes, with some herb I'd never tasted, as well as some winter squash,
and, as she confided when I asked what gave the dish a delicious sweetness, a
base of maple sap, which she had gathered earlier that day. And, lest I forget,
all with lots of garlic, of which I am very fond and which I have missed these
many months. They also set out two bottles of wine, since, though they are not
terribly well off, they insisted on bringing to table in honor of my visit.
Thus, we dined and spoke long into the evening, the children at first inquiring
of me about my dwelling and what it is like upon the mountain, then asking what
life in city, whence I'd originally come, was like, next playing quietly a game
I could not discern, but one which eveidently gave them much pleasure, as was
evidenced by their occasional laughter and almost constant smiling, and finally,
falling fast to sleep by the hearth.
It was an evening which shall remain
with me a good while, a warmth and ease which the closeness of family can
oftentimes afford, and the likes of which I had not the occasion to partake in
since my own childhood. 24th March
It
is Palm Sunday. The day is bright and warm enough so that the melting snow is
dripping steadily from the eaves.
All day long, some
words of the liturgy recur in my mind: Hosanna in excelsis Deo. I am not sure
why, of all the liturgy of the day, it should be these words, yet they fill me
as much as the warmth of the sun. 26th March
I awoke early this morning and decided it ought to be a productive day. So
it was that, after a small bowl of meal, I went out in the dawn light to split
wood for the hearth. I had been at it for no more than a half of an hour when I
heard a sound. Looking up, I saw a flock of perhaps two dozen geese flying
northward above the ridgeline. I watched them until they disappeared behind the
treeline, then continued to listen for what seemed like minutes until I could
hear them no longer.
Trusting something, perhaps in
the unencumbered sense of time which is natural to them, I felt a relief at the
promise their presence offered. 28th March
Today is Holy Thursday. From my childhood, it had been our custom to visit
an odd number of churches on this evening, and I particularly recall one such
pilgrimage with my aunt Anne, when she took me to a small church the other side
of the city and beckoned me to accompany her down a a winding staircase, which I
did with some reluctance. When we descended the last step, I could see the glow
of candlelight at the end of a corridor as the sound of chant began to echo down
the stairwell.
I was no more than eight years at the
time and, taking my hand, she led me down the corridor and, slowly, I began to
realize that in the old stone walls were catacombs where were buried the remains
of I know not how many former pastors, rectors, deacons, and, he informed me, a
former archbishop who had come from this parish.
Recalling the event now, what most astonishes me is that I did not find the
setting in the least disturbing, but, instead, and especially with the chant
resounding, found it to be a strangely quieting and peaceful experience.
Tomorrow, I shall again begin the journey to my neighbor's home, though this
time alone, with a plan to stay the night in a small grove of hemlock I had
noticed on our last trip. I pray that the weather is with me for the venture,
since I am looking forward to sleeping out of doors. .. *******
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