Musings – Clinging To The Rock

BRIGUS, MY BRIGUS

What is it about this town, which I so proudly call “home,” that tethers it to my soul with “hoops of steel?” Perhaps it is a common phenomenon felt by every wayfarer and finds a thoughtful expression in the old rhyme,
” Be it ever so humble; there’s no place like home.” That is true, I know, but the demand here goes deeper than that expression.

Perhaps it is the hills that girdle two-thirds of the town’s periphery. Even as a boy, I imagined they were very much like the ” fair green hills of Galilee, where Jesus loved so much to be.” Among the hills of home,” I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts.” There is a sense of peace one finds in the embrace of those everlasting hills. Add to that the sea’s enchantment as it squeezes its way into the remaining third of the horseshoe-shaped bay. That sea has flung its spray into the soul of many men, young and old, to compel them to become master mariners. The sound of the sea, forever, strikes a resounding chord in the depth of my soul.

And then, most certainly, there are the old-time customs, many forgotten in the present, but which have twined themselves into a person’s living memory, to help make him what he has become today.
The sound of the St. Patrick’s Chapel bell at noon and again at sunset echoing throughout the town, reminding the faithful to pray. The train’s whistle’s sound leaving the Brigus station sears a lonely memory in a fellow’s brain to return whenever he hears that sound, no matter how far from home he roams.
Then, there was a respectful observation of the town’s recognition of every resident’s value. There was a unique understanding in this town that ” No one is an island unto themselves.” Upon hearing the news of a neighbour’s death, it was the custom that homeowners would close their window-blinds to share in the community’s grief. Mourn with those who mourn and rejoice with those who are rejoicing was the maxim faithfully followed for years. There was a ritual in some congregations to have the church bell ‘toll out’ the deceased’s age. and subsequently have the town residents would send to inquire” For Whom The Bell Tolls.”
People past and present in Brigus whom I have known and love keep the ‘home fires’ burning on my soul’s altar, and for that, I am eternally grateful.
To have grown up in a family of seven ( 5 sisters and one brother) with a mom whose faith remains exemplary will forever make this place the most beautiful place on this earth. When I add to that, the other people who touched my life in boyhood, and those who remain to do so, I am, of all people, most richly blessed. I hold to the advice of William Shakespear:” Those friends thou hast and their adoption tried, grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel.” Hamlet (Act 1, Scene 3)

A Death At Estey Bridge

There was a death that occurred at Estey Bridge one night some years ago that I find so hard to forget. I wasn’t even there to bid my last farewell. And that grieves me deeply. I saw it coming. The end was inevitable. But I kept hoping that it would not be yet. I knew that nothing could be done to reverse the condition. And so that night it happened, and Fredericton will never be the same again! The grand old barn that stood by the side of the road at Estey Bridge fell that night! It lay a heap of broken rubble in the arms of Mother Earth. ” Earth to earth, ashes to ashes dust to dust.”

The end always inspires a look at the beginning! How did this stately old landmark have its beginning? This building already stood finished in the mind of its creator long before one beam has lain or one board was hewn Other family members too shared the architect’s plan to build, and to offer advice on spending hard earned cash to the extent necessary for such a project. But that was not the total worth of this building. What about the callused hands, the sweaty brows, and long hours of labor from daylight to dark that crowded in upon other family expectations. After all, the total value of this project must be a consideration.But a home must be provided for others of God’s creation! There must be a place where cattle and their food will be safe. This place may even become home for some other treasures not permitted in finer locations, but they might be safe in a man’s second castle! A million thoughts preceded the laying of the beams and the shaping of the timbers.

It would be intriguing to hear the saga unfold if only those old boards could speak, relating fables and yarns from a far away yesteryear. Would there be the memory of children playing in the hayloft or of days when these friendly old boards provided a shelter for boys who came secretly to sneak their first puff and now turning a sickly green forced these boards to record the groans of those who thought for certain that their death was imminent! There would be stories of change. Perhaps the arrival of the first farm tractor initiates a secret visit in the night to somehow comfort the animals that were soon to be displaced. Somewhere there would be recorded the memory of slowing footsteps and the observation that the necessary repairs took longer now and the effort was no longer equal to the task for the hands of the one for whom it had been such a singular pleasure!
Then there would be the slow, painful recalling of the days when the visits to these almost sacred walls became less frequent. I say sacred because I am sure that this place held the secrets of a man’s soul and the very essence of life might well be here.

Remember that God was with Jesus as He toiled in the carpenter’s shed. The eternal Truths of this life were revealed to the Young Nazarene here on this very spot.
Long gone now is the carpenter’s shed and the place thereof is known no more. It’s very foundation decayed and gone. But The Word Made Flesh remains ever renewed! In the shed that once stood on that forgotten spot, Jesus took loving care to make a comfortable yoke for beasts of burden. As He did He mused how he might be able to fashion a spiritual yoke that would enable humans to bear their burdens in triumph and help to bear the burdens of others. Never decry the labors of human hands; forever so often they mirror the soul of the laborer!

Finally, the old place at Estey Bridge would remember that evening when the door slowly opened and, across the threshold there came the man who had given this place its birth. His eyes are grown misty now. Slowly he walked about and reverently touched the remaining treasures of a lifetime. Then with the eye of a master builder, he took one last look at the old beams and the roughly hewn boards; then bowed his head and slowly passed through the doors into the gathering darkness.

(Written for and published in The North Side News Fredericton, 2005)