Charlie, Chuck and Charles

People don't live on in the memories of those they touched as complete people, rather they become a distillation of the best, or sometimes, worst of all they have been.  Each person's memory is like a chapter in a book or a line in a poem.  When assembled there is a cohesive piece of work; without all the pieces, much is left for interpretation and the possibility of being taken out of context.

Charles Jacob was the middle son of Willard and Mary.  As middle children go, with all respect to Richie Cunningham, he was a success.  A military officer, college graduate and proud parent as well as family peacekeeper and mischief maker.  There was a certain seperateness about him that only increased after his untimely death.  The seperateness was in the fragmentation of his persona by those who knew him and how well they knew him.  I have a relic from his earlier military days where he monikers himself as C.J..  I understand those in the military often use different names or nicknames, I suppose as a way to distance the two incongruate worlds of war and peace, though which is which may be open for debate.

I knew him as Uncle Chuck, my godfather and, I suppose, one of my first role models and heroes.  I remember his height, he was over six and a half feet tall, and a kind of softness for someone so large.  What has bugged me for years, is that I can never recall his face.  I can close my eyes and picture the tiny lawn tractor he drove, pulling my red wagon behind, the shades of red and brown on the cowling.  I can also see his uniform, crisp and dark, but the face is forever washed out by the glow of his sparkling white cover.  I was young when he died, only six or so, I wish I had a longer chapter.

To his brothers, he was Charlie, an instigator with the charm to bring peace, a source of pride for a generation.  In some eyes, his legend would grow, others would attempt to project the troubles that would have challenged him in life.  He turned family tradition on its head one Thanksgiving.  To maintain an orderly table with a large number of people and dishes to pass, all dishes passed in the same direction, whether clockwise or counter, depending on the direction of the first pass.  Charles sat across from Jr. and as the prayer ended, he swiftly grabbed a platter in each hand and passed one each direction.  In short order, Jr. had a pile of serving dishes in front of him and more on the way. 

Most intriguing were the pieces of the book Mary carried with her.  Perhaps it was Mary's moments of vulnerability that I was blessed to experience, or the trust I somehow garnered, lead to the sharing of so many stories.  Charles, like myself, had an aversion to water.  Not a real phobia, just a strong feeling that there were few truly good reasons to put one's face under water and to this end we were willing to strongly defend our position.  That Pat and Jr. both took to the water fairly easily which, being surrounded by it and constantly in and out of boats, was considered a good thing, if for no other reason than personal safety.  The benchmark was being able to swim around the length of the long main dock.  At more than 90 feet, it was a good swim for a young person.  The other two boys had long since passed this test but Charles was hesitant.  He had asked for, and received, a set of flippers which improved his kick, but held out on the 'dock swim'.  He also had a large snorkel mask that he wore with the fins as though he was protected by these items, perhaps more symbolically than physically.  Finally, on a hot July afternoon, Mary sat bargaining with Charles over a game of gin rummy.  The stakes began low enough, swim the dock and you can have a soda and  your choice from the snack counter.  Charles dealt another hand of cards.  A soda every day for a week and your choice from the counter, Mary upped the ante.  Charles tallied the score for the card game silently, but Mary sensed an opening.  A case of soda, you get to pick the flavor.  Mary fixed her eyes on Charles.  He pushed his chair, slowly and purposefully, away from the table and walked to his room.  He emerged, seconds later, with his flippers and goggles in place and trudged awkwardly to the stony shoreline.  Cautiously, he negotiated the layers of Canadian Shield granite until the water lapped at his flippers.  Fixing his mask, he began the gentle descent into Gohere Bay.  Once he reached a depth where his legs no longer touched bottom, he kicked off, flippers sending a wake behind.  Mary would later describe how the push provided by those flippers combined with the length of his legs and feet to propel him through the water such that his shoulders barely touched the surface, let alone his face.  The goggles were wholly unnecessary.  Charles picked up speed after turning around the end of the dock and continued until he reached the marshy sand on the east side of the dock.  Placing two hands on the boards, he swung himself from the water, kicked off the flippers, raised the mask and jogged to the camp store where he filled a flat with a combination of sodas, piled several chocolate bars atop the cans and returned to sit across from Mary and deal the next round.

Charles died young, barely thirty years old.  Mary and Willard were at the island.  It had been a rough year or so following an accident in which Charlie's boat had collided with a boat full of fishermen that were trolling in a main channel.  In the wake of his death, the incident was resolved by insurance.  Charlie struggled at times, as many military men do, returning to the boredom of civilian life after the intensity and discipline of his time in the service and tour in Vietnam.  Mary often spoke to me of a series of dreams she had in the months leading up to Charles' death.

The south side of the island on which the Camp is built melts gently into the green waters of Gohere Bay.  From the windows of the owner's cabin, two smaller islands stand sentry, a kind of gateway.  The dream, she would say, is the same, though it comes infrequently, it still comes.  I see Charles, walking down to the edge of the water, just like the day he proved he could swim.  This time he has no flippers, no goggles, no protection.  He wades into the water, slowly at first, sinking bit by bit, until he is floating, and begins to kick.  His arms raise and swing into the water and he glides smoothly to the end of the dock.  I think he'll turn around, like he did on that day, but he just keeps swimming.  I call to him and he doesn't hear or doesn't listen.  He keeps swimming. There is a fog that rolls between the islands from the end of the bay and he just swims into it.  The water is calm and fluid and the fog doesn't roll, it just grows.  And then I'm alone at the end of the dock, calling his name.

People live on in pieces and memories, like chapters in a book, torn from its binding.  To me, he was Uncle Chuck.

Blueberries or How to avoid an unpleasant task by performing a less pleasant task

Mid-summer on Gohere Bay is marked by long daylight hours when even novices feel comfortable with long boat rides after dinner.  Games of horseshoes or pinochle begin after dinner and last into the late night hours with very little lighting assistance.  These long days provide the energy for a surprising lush growing season of juniper, pine, aspen, birch and even maple and oak trees as well as tastier treats such as gooseberries, strawberries and blueberries.  Very few treats are as satisfying, after a long summer day, as a bowl of vanilla ice cream covered in fresh blueberries.

Blueberries are the most challenging, and often the most rewarding and tastiest of the treats.  Right off the vine, they are cool and mildly sweet.  The challenge comes from the growing habits of the blueberry bush.  They grow mixed among juniper berries and at first glance, the mass of green dotted with little globs of blue seems an easy target, especially from a safe distance.  Blueberries and juniper both enjoy sunlight so are found in open patches between groves of trees.  These openings usually occur where there is insufficient soil to allow trees to grow such as mossy rocks or outcroppings, where soil collects between the cracks of granite.  These open patches allow the sun to beat down on the would-be blueberry pickers while the evergreen stands block cooling breezes off the lake.  The combination leads to an intense heat when reflected off the rocky field. 

Perched on hill sides, the juniper are evergreen type shrubs and taller than the deciduous blueberry bushes.  Juniper are small berries with white flesh and a bitter taste.  To reach the sweet and juicy blueberries, requires reaching through the prickly juniper and rolling the larger, round blueberries.  Between the prickliness of the juniper and the ever-present mosquitoes (as there is no breeze to keep them at bay) long sleeves are a necessity.  Because of the sun's northerly arc and constant presence, long sleeves are hot.  Many are the days where hours are spent collecting a can of juicy berries, only to watch them tumble down the hillside, knocked over by an errant elbow or while swatting mosquitoes or adjusting cramping legs.

 While all this sounds very romantic and sweet, such is truly not the case.  I HATE picking blueberries!!!  Perhaps 'hate' is the wrong word, maybe 'despise' or 'dread' or 'would rather shove juniper needles under my fingernails' (actually that happens a LOT when picking blueberries, but I digress).  So when Mary suggested that there were no chores that needed to be done and it was a lovely afternoon, she would like blueberries for her morning corn flakes, I tried to blend into the carpet.  Willard assembled a variety of tin cans and a pail while I grabbed a denim work shirt and baseball cap.  As we headed to the boat house, I hit my head on a low hanging branch from a fallen pine tree that leaned over the path and rested atop the motor house.  My indignation rose as I stomped down the wooden steps and grabbed the chainsaw to end this problem once and for all. 

The saw roared to life and in short order, the tree lay squarely across the path.  Willard shook his head "You can't leave that there."  I accepted the challenge with another burst on the throttle and before the fuel tank was empty, I had limbed the offensive beast.  Willard returned from the motor house with lopping shears as I divided the trunk into tidy six-foot sections.  We hauled the logs to the wood pile, tossed the branches on the compost heap and raked the path, clearing the debris of our afternoon's work. 

About that time, Mary appeared, surprised we were back already.  Willard gave me a sheepish glance as he began to explain that I had 'distracted' him by playing lumberjack, though he did note how the path was now clear.  Mary huffed and said dinner would be ready in ten minutes and we'd best not be late.

It was a quiet evening that ended with plain vanilla ice cream, no blueberries.  The next day began the same way, plain corn flakes, no blueberries.  The morning required a trip to the Falls for mail and such.  After lunch, Willard began to round up the cans and such again when I appeared at the wood pile, saw in hand.  "Just want to block this for you, then in the spring it'll be ready to go."  I smiled and started the saw.  The afternoon passed in a blaze of sawdust and flying woodchips.  The woodpile grew from a single low pile to a four-sided arrangement of neatly stacked, fire-place length logs, nearly five feet tall on every side.  I looked around and suggested we put a roof on for an extra sleeping cabin.  Willard finished raking the pine needles and shavings as Mary appeared with her hand out.  I anticipated the sheepish glance.

After breakfast on the third day of blueberry avoidance, I bounced out of bed and headed to the wood-pile once again and sharpened my splitting maul.  I sent chunks of evergreen and birch and aspen flying in an impressive display of lightning-fast hands, strength and dexterity.  By the time Willard joined me, I was in full swing and on my second sharpening.  By the time lunch rolled around, we had the split wood piled once again and the pile cleaned up with enough wood and kindling for an entire season or more.  Satisfied at a job well-done, I showered before lunch and dressed in shorts and t-shirt.  My joy was short-lived as Mary served my lunch in a plastic pail and hung my work-shirt on the back of my chair.  Willard, looking sheepish once again, said "I don't think there's any more wood to cut or block or split anywhere on this island".  His steely grey eyes looked straight into mine, mostly to avoid the triumphant gaze Mary wore.

That evening, as I applied lotion to my mosquito bitten ankles and wrists, Mary served ice-cream with fresh blueberries and when she set out the cereal bowls, each pre-filled with corn flakes, they were each topped with a handful of fresh Sabaskong Bay blueberries.  The rest went in the freezer for later.  LATER??