The Bluebird

Other men in history have fathered children in four decades, but all my children are with the same woman.

Isabel’s favourite word is still Daddy and we’ve raised our share of eyebrows in town. Even better are the reactions when the silver-haired goddess -- my wife -- approaches us to shouts of “Mommy! Mommy, over here!”

“Sorry folks,” I want to tell the crowds. “I’m no dirty old man, just very virile.”

I’ve never smoked. I drink only wine and I eat green plenty of vegetables. Still, I can’t take all the credit. Thea, the lady menopause forgot, has good genes. My mother-in-law, Stefania, also had children over four decades. Twelve of them.

Stefania, the woman death forgot, was already old when we moved in with her when Steve was born. That was my induction into the culture of big families. That house was a hive and Thea and I were drones. I worked all day and finished my degree at night. Thea studied during the day and worked evenings. A crowd of relatives buzzed around and raised our children. Somehow, we found time to have Dora.

We grew up and bought our own house. Craig was born in 1987 and soon afterwards Stefania moved in with us. Between our leaving and her coming, she didn’t change. She was just as old and just as energetic.

Since the bone cancer, I’ve had to rethink. Stefania is lying on a hospital bed in what used to be our dining room. At first it was so she wouldn’t have to climb the stairs. Now, it’s to make room for the visiting nurses, home care workers and their equipment. I hope death remembers Stefania soon, but not too soon. It’s Christmas Eve and the family – both Stefania’s and mine – are on their way.

Our celebrations are an exercise in crowd control. Thea’s response to the Nativity Story is that there should always be room at the inn. She faithfully shelters as many people as possible under our roof. Once every bed is full, once every surface is covered with air mattresses and sleeping bags, she invites one more guest.

We live on the lake. There are an inn and three bed and breakfasts within walking distance. These fine facilities, I point out, need our business in the off-season. They could also make our loved ones actually feel comfortable.

“Christmas is about togetherness,” Thea insists. “They can be comfortable any time.”

I’ve stopped threatening to check into a B&B myself on Christmas Eve. I have duties here as chief memory-maker and one-who-delegates.

I have no memories of my own childhood Christmases except loneliness. My friends had family obligations while I was the only-child of immigrants. My parents often spoke of their memories. The gifts they bought me, how my eyes lit up. I know they sacrificed to give me those things, but I can’t remember any of them.

Thea likes to say I wanted a family so I’d have someone to play with. When I think about Christmas, I tend to agree with her. I make sure my kids have some extra happiness to remember every holiday.

“Craig!” I bellow. “Get your shoes off the couch and come down to the basement. I need your massive strength.”

I flatter my teenage son, but I don’t ask him for help. That is my parenting secret to encouraging obedience in teenagers.

“We’ve have a mildew problem,” I say, piling his arms with air mattresses. “These will need to go out on the line.”

I’m not sure when it happened, but my son has developed the arms and shoulders of an action hero.

Craig nods toward the wine racks as I load his arms up.

“Who are we drinking this year?” he asks.

To mark the birth of each grandchild, my father-in-law pressed wine from his own grapes. The vines grew on a trellis over his patio. We ate supper in its shade on summer evenings and harvested the fruit every autumn. There weren’t many grapes, just enough to put down 10 or 12 bottles. Enough wine to ensure that when George was gone, he would be with us every time we raised a glass to mark a christening or engagement. Craig’s wine is the last of George’s creations. A sarcastic little vintage, there’s a sweet berry note that fades to a tart aftertaste. It’s not good wine, but it’s the stuff of memory.

“Don’t know, son. Yours is a bit green. I thought we’d save it for your 19th birthday,” I say.

“So long as I get some,” he says.

As I watch him climb upstairs, I can’t imagine Craig sitting at a desk at the Communications Branch. Even though I’ve been getting fitter since I took early retirement, Craig’s got none of my civil servant’s build. He’s built like a lumberjack and that inspires me.

“Hey,” I call out before he reaches the landing. “What do you say to a fresh cut tree this year? You can go to the farm after lunch.”

“Anything else, Pops? Shall I coax deer in from the woods? We could harness them to convince the kids that Santa has landed on the lawn.”

“Get started on that after you bring the tree home.”

I’m not sure where the tree will go this year. The dining room is occupied by Stefania’s pain pump and hospital bed. I will delegate the decision to Thea. Just because she’s still working doesn’t mean I have to do everything.

I grab the last bottles of 1969 and 1972 to bring upstairs. Like my older children themselves, their wines need time to breathe before they can be enjoyed.

“Is anyone home?” I hear the nurse call from the hallway. We leave the back door open for Stefania’s ‘team’ as they call themselves. I prefer to call them ‘the coordinated effort of social services to help my mother-in-law die in the discomfort of our dining room.’

“Come on in, Lois.”

“I’m actually on my way out, Greg. I wanted to tell you she’s awake,” Lois says pulling on her gloves.

“Good. Thea will be home soon.”

“You’ve got to use this time,” Lois admonishes me gently. “It’s amazing she’s so sharp. Patients in her condition usually need twice the morphine and sleep most of the time.”

Reluctantly, I enter my own dining room. Stefania looks even smaller than she did yesterday. She’s like a baby bird perched on a pillow.

“Gregory,” she whispers. “I want the tree.”

“We’ll talk about it when Thea comes home.”

“I can see the lights, the children opening their presents,” Stefania insists.

“Daddy! I’m home!” Isabel calls out.

“Just a minute,” I answer but she stomps in with snow all over her boots.

“We made snow angels at Becky’s house and her brother was throwing snow balls at us, but he isn’t very good. Not even as good as Jessie. I told Becky don’t worry because Craig showed me how to get boys. So I showed Becky and her mom said we should be nicer even though he’s bigger than we are,” Isabel stops to catch her breath.

“Hi Nana. Did you know Steve and Jen are bringing Jessie and the baby after lunch? Dora is coming with them if she finishes work on time and she’s bringing me Snow Princess Barbie because I told her I want it and I know Mommy and Daddy don’t like it, but her office is by the Barbie store.”

“Isabel! Your grandmother needs to rest.”

“Nana needs a Christmas tree here,” Nana argues, motioning toward the corner.

“The tree is always in here, Isabel insists”. We’ll decorate your bed like a snow castle and we’ll bring all the Barbies to play too.”

In my mind’s eye, I see Stefania struggling to take her last breath surrounded by tulle and tinsel in her dining room hospital bed while my little girl and grandson watch.

I decide to make space for the Christmas tree in the living room after lunch.

“Over my dead body!” Thea says between bites. “You think because you’re home all day you get to make all the decisions? She’s my mother and head of this family. If she wants to be part of Christmas, she will be.”

“She could go any time Daddy,” Isabel says. “She told me so.”

“Am I the only one with a problem here?” I ask my family. “It’s Christmas. We’re celebrating the birth of one little child and so much potential for life.”

“What do you want her to do, Pops? Put off dying until Easter?” Craig asks.

Just as I am about to put my foot down, the rest of my family arrives from the city. My grandson jumps into my lap.

“Hey Pops! You promised to teach me to crack walnuts with my fist this year,” he shouts.

“Let’s see how strong you are,” I say, squeezing Jessie’s arm.

“I hope you don’t think you’re too tough for me!” Craig exclaims, scooping his nephew out of my lap and wrestling him to the floor for a tickle.

“I’ll kick your ass,” Jessie warns him with a laugh.

“Jessie!” Steve and Jen respond together. “Don’t say that.”

I look at my older children. My daughter-in-law, pale and exhausted with Delia in her arms. Steve could pass for my brother, he looks so old and tired. Dora is carrying both briefcase and laptop.

“I remember those days,” I want to tell them. “I remember trying to make mortgage payments on months the car broke down, the roof leaked and the basement flooded. I remember bosses who were ready to blame me for their mistakes. I remember sleepless nights spent feeling that I couldn’t talk to my wife because she had her own problems. It was hard, but it gets easier.”

I want to tell them, but I know it won’t sound right when they’re in the middle of it. So I hug them and wish I could write a cheque to take the load off. That was one thing my parents could do for their only child, but Thea and I have two more to raise and educate.

“Hey Buddy,” Craig asks his nephew. “Do you want to come and cut down a Christmas tree with me?”

“Can I carry the axe?” Jessie asks.

“Sure,” Craig answers.

“No fair,” says Isabel. “I get to carry the axe.”

“I think I had better come,” Steve says wisely.

“Ok, but you can only carry the axe for a little while,” says Isabel.

“I’ll come too.” Dora says. “I could use some fresh air.”

“Let’s all go,” Steve suggests.

“Do we have to?” Jen asks. “It’s so cold for the baby and I haven’t brought my good boots.”

Steve tenses up as his wife speaks. “It was just a suggestion,” he mutters.

“This baby has an appointment with her grandma,” Thea says. “We’re going to give Nana her soup and visit. Jen will just have to stay here and have a nap. Or, a nice long bath.”

“Oh Mom, you already have so much to do without taking the baby,” Jen protests, but I can already see the promise of bath foam taking hold of her sleep-deprived soul.

“Nonsense,” Thea says.

And with that, Pops becomes another passenger in the minivan. All my excellent delegation, wasted. There won’t be time to get Thea alone and convince her the tree belongs in the living room.

The Christmas tree farm backs out onto the conservation area. Signs are posted to tell you where it’s permissible to cut and where you are stepping on crown land. Other signs post rules for safe chopping and prices based on the height of the tree.

Isabel and Jessie run ahead suggesting trees that are too tall or wide. Craig --carrying the axe-- rejects their ideas, but the kids interrupt with more suggestions before he can finish objecting.

Dora and I follow, chatting about her work. The more she talks about her job, the more I long to ask personal questions. Last Christmas there was a boyfriend, this year there isn’t. Dora doesn’t pause for me to ask. I take it as a sign that I should wait for Thea to tell me what happened.

The snow has been tramped down where other families have broken from the path. We follow these footsteps for variety. It’s a wandering search that takes us closer to the woods.

Dora sees the bluebird first.

It’s sitting on a fencepost at the edge of the conservation area. Its red breast puffed out and blue feathers shining in the sun.

“Look!” She whispers and gestures for her brothers and the kids to come.

“It’s a bluebird. They were everywhere when I was a boy. They perched on hydro wires by the dozen,” I tell my family. “I thought DDT had wiped them out.”

“Will you sing for us birdie?” Jessie coaxes in the voice he uses to speak to his baby sister. “Will you sing for us?”

The bluebird stares at us for a moment. Then, he flies into the woods.

“He must be busy,” Isabel says.

The children run off and continue the search.

“You know,” I tell Dora, “the bluebird is a symbol of happiness.”

My over-worked daughter smiles just like her five year-old sister.

The tree is chopped down and delivered to the dining room without the briefest consideration of Pops’ feelings.

Thea, Jen and the baby are sitting at Stefania’s bedside with two brothers-in-law. We interrupt George Junior’s semi-annual joke.

“So, I tell him, of course I go to church regularly. Twice a year like clockwork.”

We laugh politely twice a year.

“Nana, we saw a bluebird,” Isabel says and before she can continue there is an onslaught of comments.

“Really! Where?”

“I haven’t seen one in years.”

“Do you remember their song?”

Even Stefania speaks.

“Oh, I would have loved to have seen that,” she says.

There it is, I think. There’s the sadness that will ruin Christmas. There’s the reality no holiday magic can change. Stefania will never leave her bed. We all know she will never see another bluebird.

Everyone pretends to recover. They decorate the tree and sing carols. Isabel and Jessie string garlands through the bars of the hospital bed. We light candles and, when the time is right, we put baby Jesus to bed in his manger.

Sure, people share their memories of Christmases past. Sure, there is laughter and the children’s excitement, but there is sadness in the air. Its heaviness makes me tired and I fall asleep while reading the Christmas story to Isabel and Jessie.

Shortly after dawn, they wake us. They even rouse Craig who has been known to sleep until three in the afternoon.

We go down to the dining room quietly, so as not to surprise Stefania with shouts of “Merry Christmas.”

She is lying with her face toward the window. Thea approaches, calmly calling “Mama? Mama?”

A bluebird is sitting in the bare lilac bush in our garden.

This time, it sings.