The Paradise Tree

by Elena Maria Vidal

  Aunt Ellen whisked back in with a pitcher of milk for the children. “Your Grandfather was eventually appointed the first Irish Catholic magistrate in Leeds County. He was successful in having his disputants settle their disputes without the aid of the law, thereby making friends of those who no doubt would otherwise have been enemies. He was a peacemaker.”

  “But he was not afraid to bear arms in time of need, eh,” said Uncle Mick. “In the troubles of ’37 and ’38, he served in the volunteers, and was stationed for a part of the winter of ’37 in Gananoque under Captain Robison of Beverley, in whose company he held the rank of first sergeant. The following spring, Captain Kindrick took command of the company, and Grandpa served under him as well. He retained his rank not only during the call-to-arms, but until he retired in his old age.”

  “Was that Captain Robison the same John Robison for whom the Squire worked when first he came to Canada?” asked Uncle Ben Slack, Aunt Joanna’s husband.

  “Eh,” said Uncle Mick. “But when he first arrived in the summer of 1821, the village was called Stone Mills. Later, it was called Beverley. What is it called now, Fergie?”

  “It is called ‘Delta.’ Aunt Bridget and Uncle Anthony have a hotel there called Flood House, where many people like to go fishing,” replied Fergus. “They like to fish in the lake, that is,” he added, as the uncles smiled.

  “Very good, Fergie,” said Uncle Anthony Flood. He was by far the handsomest of the uncles, resembling one of the Norman knights from whom he was descended; his wife, Aunt Bridget, was certainly the prettiest of the aunts. All of their children were very good-looking as well, and clever, too. It seemed to Fergie that his Flood cousins led a very exciting life at their parents’ hotel and had many friends, with whom they always had adventures. Most of them were at Long Point that evening, and had formed a circle with the other older cousins, all laughing and talking in spite of the solemnity of the event. Aunt Bridget had reminded them all earlier that “Pa would not have wanted his wake to be too gloomy. He loved his family more than his life. He wanted us to be good, and it made him happy to hear us laugh.”

  “He never spoke much of the sea journey,” said Uncle Mick. ”He came by boat as far as Montreal, and ended up in the vicinity of what is now Ottawa. He drifted down through Lanark County, to what is called the Narrows. He came to Stone Mills, where his cousin John O’Connor was married to one of the Robison girls. He worked for John Robison, until he saved enough money to acquire this land. Then he married our mother, who had only lately arrived with her family from Ireland, and was living with her father and brothers in Kitley Township outside of what is now known as Toledo.”

  “The coffee is ready, if anyone wants some.” Aunt Ellen called in from the kitchen. “Charlie, perhaps you should have a cup.”

  “No, thank you,” replied Charlie, Fergie’s father. He had been drinking whiskey, more than Fergie had ever seen him imbibe in the past. His voice sounded odd; his eyes were a bit glazed; Fergie was a little concerned.

  “Nine years passed between Pa’s coming to Canada and his marriage with Mother,” Ellen said, as she joined the group. “At the time of his arrival in this country, the people were very much prejudiced against anyone professing the Catholic religion, and more especially if the person happened to be an Irishman. This was the result of the teaching of the earlier Irish Protestant settlers, who entertained the idea that the Irish Catholic was the embodiment of everything vicious and cruel, and that it was the teaching of the Catholic religion that made them so. Papa suffered many inconveniences from such prejudices, but being a man of determination and kindness, always ready to give an answer concerning his faith, he succeeded in dispelling many misconceptions from the minds of those with whom he became acquainted.”

  “Remember when he would invite the ministers to dinner?” asked Aunt Joanna, drying her hands on her apron as she sat in the chair Uncle Ben pulled up for her.

  “He did that for us,” said Aunt Ellen. “He wanted his children to hear both sides of religious questions discussed. He would answer all the objections made by the gentlemen, and the exercise served to strengthen our faith.”

  The coffee had been poured, but several of the men, including Fergie’s father, kept on with the whiskey. The voices grew louder and the laughter more boisterous. The small children forgot that they were to be seen and not heard, and ran about, hiding in the pantry under the stairs where Mother kept her jams, shouting and shrieking in their play.

  “Charlie, give us a song on the violin!” requested Aunt Bridget. Fergie’s father, with quiet docility, retrieved his violin, and although he seemed to be in a bit of a daze, he began to play “Finnegan’s Wake”. Mother handed around wooden spoons and pie pans to some of the older children so they could harmonize. Aunt Bridget joined hands with her son Percy and as they began to twirl about the room. Several of the younger cousins joined in. Uncle Mick’s son Cousin Charley Joe took Aunt Ellen’s arm and pulled her into it, ignoring her protests. The smaller children jumped up and down, clapping, or skipping around outside the circle. Those not dancing joined in the singing.

  Whack fol' the dah will ya dance to your partner

  Round the floor your trotters shake

  Isn't it the truth I told ya?

  Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake!

  “That song is not appropriate!” exclaimed Aunt Ellen, but no one heard her except Fergie. Grandpa continued to lie in state, as the candles burned down around him. As Father finished the reel, a shout went up for more, but Father shook his head and handed his violin to Charley Joe, who struck up “Whiskey in the Jar.” Father returned to his chair and his drink, oblivious to the dancing and laughter. Joe Bevins was nodding with sleep at his papa’s feet, but Fergie was too anxious for his own father to allow himself to doze along with Joe. He had never seen his father’s face with such a strange expression. Sure, he had been sorrowful but never had his countenance been contorted with pain. Tears ran down his face.

  “I am not worthy to be the son of such a man. I have made nothing of my life, and can barely keep the farm he left me, the land for which he labored so long.” He spoke so softly that only Fergie heard him, although Aunt Ellen frowned in their direction. “I will lose it if I do not make more of myself. And Emily, my own Emily must live as a poor farmer’s wife, she who could grace a palace.” He wept.

  Fergie decided to tell Mother. He rose and went over to the fireplace where Mother was deep in conversation with Aunt Bridget. He waited patiently until Mother finished what she was saying, and turned towards him.

  “Mother,” said Fergie, in a discreet tone. ”Something is the matter.” He looked towards his father, and Mother followed his gaze. Father was trying to stand up, and swaying as if he were ill. Mother’s eyes flashed, as she patted Fergie’s shoulder, and bustled over to Father, putting her arm about his waist as he staggered.

  Aunt Bridget, having left the dance, took Fergie in her arms and kissed him on the cheek. “Good boy. Now, up to bed with you. Everyone else will be going to bed soon, or going home. Your Father will be fine in the morning.” Her hand caressed his cheek, and he gazed into her blue eyes, which were intensified by the streaks of snow-white in her auburn hair.

  “Aunt Bridget, will Grandpa’s funeral take place tomorrow?” asked Fergie.

  “No, dear,” she replied. “Grandpa will not be buried until the spring, when the ground thaws, and when your other aunts are able to travel here from New York State. Then they will bury him at the church in Philipsville next to Grandma. In the meantime, they will put him in the vault at Brewer’s Mill. Tonight, Aunt Ellen and I will pray beside him.”

  “It will be a long winter for him down in that vault,” said Fergie, thoughtfully. “He will be glad to be near Grandma again, eh?”

  “Yes, darling. Good night! We will see you in the morning,” said Aunt Bridget.

  Fergie left her and started towards the steep, intricately carved dark-stained staircase. As he climbed the wooden,
creaking steps, he saw a shadowy figure silhouetted at the top. It was George.

  “Where have you been, George?” asked Fergie. “I missed you. My father became ill. I think he drank too much whisky.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, but you know that I am shy in company,” replied George. “I’m sure your father did not mean to drink too much. He is a very good man. He is just sad over Grandpa.”

  “Well, maybe so. But I’m never going to drink whisky or beer when I’m a man. Not ever. I want to always have my wits about me, even if I am sad,” Fergie reflected. “I know that Father is a good man. Look at how he milks the cows for our Protestant neighbors on the day of the Orangemen’s Parade. And he is helping to raise money to build a church in Lansdowne.”

  “Always remember those good things.” George smiled, and then yawned. “I’m very tired, Fergie. Goodnight!”

  “Goodnight, George!” George disappeared down the corridor with its curved wall. Fergie went to his own room. It was ice cold as he slipped out of his clothes and pulled on his nightshirt. Mother knocked at the door, and came in with a bed-warmer. After his bed was warmed, she tucked him in, and said his prayers with him.

  Jesus, Mary, Joseph, I give you my heart and my soul.

  Jesus, Mary, Joseph, assist me in my last agony.

  Jesus, Mary, Joseph, may I breathe forth my soul in peace with you.

  “Is Father feeling better?” asked Fergie, as they finished.

  His mother kissed him. “He is fine. Don’t give it another thought, dear. It has been a long day for everyone.”

  “Father must miss Grandpa very much.” He felt warm and safe in the darkness and loved by God, the Blessed Mother and all the angels.

  “Oh, he does, to be sure, Ferg. However, we all must think of how much better off Grandpa is now. He has been delivered from this bitter world. He is with Our Lord.”

  “Is he with Grandma, too?

  “Yes. I am sure he is with her. Remember, how much he missed her.”

  “When he is buried next to Grandma in the spring, will we all be there?” Fergie whispered the question as drowsiness overwhelmed him.

  “Oh, yes, all of us, and the entire county, and more. Now, go to sleep.”

  Fergie drifted into a dream as if on a gentle current. He saw his Grandma in the cemetery at Philipsville dressed as a bride. She was not dead, but sleeping, and surrounded by flowers. Grandpa was there; dressed in his best suit and strolling towards her through the graves. Fergie saw him walk over, take her hand, and raise her up. Then, they walked together towards the distant meadow. Fergie called after them, but they did not seem to hear.

  CHAPTER 19

  The Procession

  March 27, 1887

  “And if you come, and all the flowers are dying, and I am dead, as dead I well may be, you’ll come and find the place where I am lying, and kneel and say an Ave there for me.”

  —“Danny Boy”

  After the long winter came the thaw and the time for Grandpa to be buried. Fergie and George rode towards the church in Philipsville in the buggy with Mother and Aunt Ellen. Father was in the wagon ahead with the pall-bearers. Aunt Mary and Aunt Lottie had arrived with their husbands and were staying with Aunt Ellen and Aunt Annie in their house across from Father’s barn. The grownups had talked late into the night, and Fergie had sat on the floor by the stove, half-dozing and half-listening.

  Fergie often tarried at the aunts’ house, in spite of the fact that Aunt Ellen was extremely punctilious and prone to be fussy. But he never doubted her love for him. As for Aunt Annie, her thin face brightened at his presence; she joked with him, and asked him about school. The aunts had two cats that did not get on with each other, so one lived upstairs and the other lived downstairs. The kitchen door opened onto a veranda, which looked right onto the Saddle Rock, as well the loom house. In the spring it was especially lovely with lilacs in the front and the billowing, blossoming apple tree in the rear, one that Grandpa had planted long ago. The lawn was meticulously kept and trimmed with narcissus in the spring and peonies in the summer. In the winter and fall it was delightful as well, for then the entire house smelled of ginger bread, apple tarts, and the sugar cookies with which Aunt Ellen felt it her duty to keep Fergie supplied, not to mention the Christmas cake kept perpetually fermenting in a crock of whiskey. The aunts knew where the best berries were on the farm, which were preserved and stored in the cellar for winter consumption, a cellar so deep the frost could not touch it. In the summer the small frame edifice was cooled by a breeze from the lake and Aunt Ellen and Aunt Annie would have tea in the garden with the various friends and relations who came to call. They kept a Jersey cow called a “tea milk cow” because her milk was just for the house; she lived in the barn with Father’s cows. Aunt Ellen kept a copy of Miss Lelia Hardin Bugg’s The Correct Thing always at hand and unfailingly corrected Fergie’s table manners and general deportment; she was also full of stories of family history, which the boy soaked up like a sponge.

  Last night, Fergie had listened as his aunts spoke at length of the old days and of the siblings of Daniel O’Connor.

  “Life was hard in Ireland,” Aunt Ellen said, after distributing the cups of coffee. “They were all very intelligent, however, and persevering. While handicapped by the penal laws, they all managed to obtain a liberal education that, accompanied by natural wit and wisdom, made them fit to cope with the problems of life.”

  “They all came over, didn’t they?” asked Uncle Henry, munching some gingerbread. Henry Palmer always wore meticulously tailored suits, dapper but understated, as became a prominent American physician. Fergie knew Uncle Henry would sleep that night at Mother and Father’s house because Aunt Ellen and Aunt Annie’s cats caused his asthma to flare up.

  Aunt Ellen nodded. “Almost all. Uncle Michael came to Canada after their mother died. He and his second wife, Aunt Catherine, settled in St. Lawrence County, a few miles from Brasher Falls. Uncle Patrick went to Nova Scotia and father lost track of him as mail service was not then as it is now—a letter crossing the ocean could take three months. He lived at Sydney Mines, Nova Scotia. Uncle John went to London, England, acting as a bookkeeper in a big shipbuilding concern. He returned to Ireland and married wealthy.” She grew quiet and sipped her coffee.

  “What of Owen?” asked Aunt Lottie. “I don’t remember Pa ever speaking much of him.”

  “Of Owen, I know nothing,” Ellen abruptly replied and sipped her coffee. Fergie watched her and wondered about the mysterious Uncle Owen. He stared at her long, sharp nose in her thin face; her grey eyes betrayed no secrets. “As for Uncle Timothy, he was a great athlete and could outrun a fast horse, as well as turn all sorts of somersaults. He followed Uncle John to London and worked for the same shipbuilding company.”

  “Pa was very close to Uncle Charles, wasn’t he?” asked Aunt Lottie. She was the most stylish of her sisters, especially now that she was a great lady, married to Uncle Henry. Yet her lovely, unassuming attire lacked the flair and romance of Aunt Bridget’s, who always seemed to be an exotic flower in the wilderness, a lily on the lake. Fergie had once heard Father complain about how he had to drive Aunt Lottie all around the county every summer when she came to visit them, and Mother chided him for it. Aunt Lottie was Father‘s youngest sister and she and Uncle Henry did not yet have any children, having only recently married.

  “Yes. He was much younger than father, but they were devoted to each other. Uncle Charles came to Canada early on, after our parents were married. He settled in Delta and owned a farm, but he was a very successful tailor and worked always at his trade. He was a very handsome genteel man. He was only 55 years old when he died; Pa was heartbroken.”

  “Consumption is the scourge of our time,” commented Uncle Henry.

  “Oh, the youngsters who are taken by it . . . it’s terrible, terrible!” sighed Aunt Lottie.

  “Yes, indeed. We never know when we shall be called from this world,” said Aunt Ellen. “God’s will be d
one. Even in our family there have been losses. Father and Mother were blessed that in a family of eleven, they only lost two.”

  “Your parents had eleven children?” asked Uncle Henry. “I thought they had nine!”

  “There were eleven.” Aunt Ellen looked stern, as if she was being pressured to discuss something highly confidential. She immediately changed the subject. “As for Pa’s sisters, they never left Ireland. Aunt Margaret married a Casey and Aunt Norah never married. Pa began to lose track of his family in Ireland after his mother died and especially after the Great Famine in the ‘40’s ─ all news of them ceased.”

  As he drifted in and out of sleep curled up by the stove, Fergie wondered about the two children Grandma and Grandpa had lost. What had happened to them? Why had he never heard of them? He felt fear and trepidation at the sudden changes that swept through life. Everything was uncertain. People were separated from their families for years and years and never saw them again; people died without warning. Just last fall he had been to the funeral of a young girl, not much older than himself, who had died from consumption. He wondered when and how he would die. Only God knew. He wanted to discuss it with George, but George was not with him; he had not wanted to come to Aunt Ellen’s house, but stayed with Father and Mother. When Fergie awoke he found he had been lifted onto the sofa. The adults were still talking.

  “How has Charlie been?” Aunt Lottie was asking.

  “Better,” replied Aunt Ellen. “Emily had to lay down the law, however. No strong drink is allowed in the house, not ever again. He has been sober ever since. He loves her too much to hurt her.”