Christmas Oddyssey - Part II

Part I is in draft form, posted. Some of my family offline must be told before I can tell of these things here.

On Saturday, we left the cottage at three in the afternoon, ostensibly to get me to practice for my two church choirs that evening. Our real mission? To pick up a puppy.

My brother in law lost his dog six months after losing his wife. Living in the country as he does, the isolation and the loneliness have been very hard on him. He'd been talking about getting a dog for a while, but had dithered about the breed. He just couldn't make up his mind. The only thing we did know was what he wanted to call his next dog - “See ya!” (Not coincidentally, that is also how he bids adieu.)

So a month ago, we found a reputable kennel online, picked out a yellow Lab, and arranged to pick her up. And now were off to do just that. We had computerized directions from Google to get to North Augusta, and the lady at the kennel's directions, which assumed we would be coming from Ottawa.

The closer we got, the foggier it got. By the time we reached the spot where we expected the back roads directions to kick in, it was so foggy you could only see about twenty feet. The instructions spoke of an “immediate” turn to the left. We didn't see one. So we stopped at a farmhouse to see if they had heard of our kennel.

The man who answered the door hadn't, but tried to interpret them for us. An hour later, the fog allowed us to see only about five feet, and we were totally lost. We came across a lane. I suggested to my wife that she take it.

In tears now, she said, “What if we get stuck? Which way do I go?”

“There's a light up there,” I offered hopefully.

“Where?” She said in exasperation.

When we pulled in, I heard dogs barking. I hoped it might be the kennel itself. It was not, but an older couple told us to come on in to their house. The man set about interpreting the instructions we had and drawing a map to get there, while his wife comforted us. My wife tried to call the kennel. No answer.

Grateful for their help, we proceeded with the map he had drawn for us. We turned down roads, following the map he gave us as carefully as the fog allowed. We came up to a darkened house, and as well pulled into the laneway, a truck pulled in behind us. It was the lady my wife had spoken to on the phone. Their power was gone, so they'd gone for water. That was why there was no answer. In this day of cordless phones, even the telephone needs hydro.

They led us in to look at the puppy and pick up her papers. Their house was lit up in soft candle light, as they brought out the small, sleepy puppy. My wife was exulting in the fact that we had finally done this, but I was beginning to panic. The first choir was at eight - it was now quarter to seven. I was not going to make it, and it wasn't going to happen. I felt sick, because this isn't like missing some Sunday – this was Christmas Eve Mass.

And we didn't make it, not for that one. But when we got out of the car, my wife turned to me and said about getting Seeya, "I know you feel bad, but we have done a wonderful thing tonight. What we have done for him, he will be very grateful for."

When we got to the church at ten, I asked about the eight O'Clock choir. Apparently, it had been fine. At least I was on time for the one I was leading, the midnight Mass.

When I got to the piano room downstairs, one of my singers was there, and our trombone player arrived a minute or so later. Soon, everyone was there, and we went through all the material. I had written an Agnus Dei specifically for this Mass, but I had written it out a little wrong - I had been a bit hasty about scoring it. So while the piano player and I corrected it, the horns tooted away through their mutes.

I went upstairs, reasonably relaxed. The practice had been alright, and the music might go either way. But it was time to give that over to God. I went to the pews to meet my wife and friends. My parents spotted me from another pew, and came to sit with wife and daughter.

I said to my mother, “I will get to see you at Christmas,” and hugged her. It had been twelve years, and my eyes watered. Hers did too.

The music went well, I thought, and Father gave a beautiful homily on one of his favourite topics – intimacy, the idea that only rarely can you truly give yourself to another person, a vulnerability so eloquently spoken of by a baby in swaddling clothes. At the end of Mass, he gave me a rather extraordinary gift – a guitar. I am not normally speechless. I was this night.

Part III will soon follow.