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'W.B.'s Quest for the Perfect Christmas Tree'

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‘W.B.’s Quest For The Perfect Christmas Tree’ The magnificent special blue of the Newfoundland December sky, the bright sun shining on the white snow, turning it into an endless carpet of tiny crystals, two young men at the Christmas tree ‘For Sale’ area of the parking lot surrounded by brightly clad children gave the whole scene before me a certain look and feel that reminded me of the stories and descriptions in the Charles Dickens books. One of the young men had taken a small fir tree and was trying to get it to twirl on his cold hand as he would twirl a basketball. He obviously was enjoying his audience as he joked, teased and continued his performance. The children were laughing, the young men entertaining, and Christmas music was playing on the PA system. All those things together created a memory to savor. I slowed my pace and absorbed it all, tucking it in my memory bank. Then suddenly I heard, from inside the circle of Christmas Trees, the voice of a young woman. She was obviously very intent on getting her very best tree ever. “No, not that one dear, I want a perfect tree this year.” Her voice was soft and kind. Just then a large bus arrived with the hiss of brakes, and the doors opened with the clunking sound that only buses seem to have. The combination of the ‘perfect tree’ comment, the sounds and smells of the bus, all combined to open my box of memories and a particular memory from a very long time ago. It was not just the comment of the tree, but all the small bits of a common day came together to bring forth a long forgotten part of my life, the life of a student. And with that forgotten memory came to me the laughter of a group of student nurses getting on the Bonavista North bus during the late sixties. It was part of our lives to take the bus to Gambo, leaving our studies and the Nurses Residence behind, and going to Gander to visit my friend Jeans’ parents. Jeans’ Dad would pick us up in Gambo and take us the remainder of the way to Gander. A few days after entering Nurses training in 1966 I had the life-altering experience of meeting a girl named Jean Elizabeth Cornick. We assessed each other, deemed each other worthy of attention and a lifelong journey of friendship began. We never looked back as we learned, worked, played, pulled practical jokes, backed each other up at all costs, and generally tolerated Residence life like chained cats. With Jean as a ‘best buddy’, her family came into my life as well, and my family into hers. Jeans’ parents were Madge and Wilson Cornick, but Wilson was known to all as Bill. When I found out his initials were ‘WB’, for Wilson Bramwell, I dubbed him WB. That nickname stuck and I called him that from then on. He got quite a charge out of the quirky little nickname. He was no ordinary ‘Bill’, so WB it was! WB was married to the love of his life, a charming British Nurse he met while overseas during WWII. Madge had a lovely lilting British accent, and a great laugh, could cook like the best chef, baked great bread and rolls and was very kind. She would feed us the hot rolls with the melted butter dripping over the napkins, and sit back with her Corgi ready to listen to all our terrible woes and problems. It became a ceremony of sorts over the three years of nurses training, and one we were so fortunate to have. Meanwhile WB practiced gruffness, but in spite of his big size, he generally failed gruffness and fell victim to laughter instead. He tolerated us all with great patience and always with kindness. So on this afternoon of the Christmas tree sale, the bus and all the activity surrounding me, my memory took me back to a clear recollection of piling off the bus in Gambo where WB would be waiting with his big warm car to pick us up. He would mumble and grumble about all the luggage we had, and we would be making the run for the big car, with everybody talking at once, including WB. And off toward Gander he would drive, taking us to Madge and the hot rolls. One characteristic of friendship is the sharing of family stories, anecdotes, milestones, laughs, tears, and all that make up a life. Such was, and is, the way it went for Jean and me. So it was inevitable that sooner or later I would hear her Christmas Tree Story. And I did! One day we were particularly bored, something neither of us could tolerate. So Jean started talking, with a twinkle in her eye. “Ever tell you about Moms’ perfect Christmas tree,?” Jean looked at me and asked. “No, but you’re going to tell me aren’t ya?” I asked with a laugh. So she began her story. When WB returned from overseas with his young bride and baby son, it was apparent that, like most of our fathers who served overseas during war time, he was filled with angst, bewilderment, and shocked by all they had seen and endured. He, like all the others, wanted peace, happiness, and a better world for their children. WB was the stereotypical post war man. He was forever planning, and combining his wild sense of humor and his quick wit to execute those plans. One Christmas time Madge stated she wanted the ‘perfect tree’, nothing else would do. So she sent WB off to fetch this tree. In an hour or so he returned, but the tree got the rejection sticker from Madge. So off went WB, with the tree dragging out of the back of the vehicle, promising to do better. A few hours passed, and WB arrived back. He had the right tree ‘this time’ he announced, but Madge thought it too sparse. He happily stuck it back in the vehicle, and set off for once again. Twice more this happened. Madge saw it was getting late, but soon WB was back. He jumped out of the car in a flourish and announced that he had finally found the tree she wanted. He took it out, stood it up, Madge did her walk around inspection and proclaimed the tree to be ‘Perfect’. She muttered something about the ridiculousness of taking all day to find a tree, but the tree was brought into the house and prepared to be decorated. So what of it you ask? Well, Madge’s question of ‘why he couldn’t do that the first time?’, was somewhat unsettling. What she did not know, until many years later, was that it was the VERY SAME TREE EACH TIME! Every time she sent him for another tree, he drove down to the pub, had an ale with his friends and returned home. The answer as to why he was so congenial throughout all of this was that he had much festive ‘spirit’ that day! During a phone conversation with Jean not too long ago I could hear Madge’s laughter as if saying “You didn’t fool me Bill!” as I pictured her with the oven door open, and I remembered the wonderful aroma of freshly baked bread, and see her later sitting with us and listening to our various issues and concerns. We have lost both Madge and Bill now. They left so much of themselves, so many memories for us to cherish. Even the memory of a young man and woman decorating their ‘perfect’ tree until the young man falls asleep, knowing he is with somebody who loves him. WB and Madge, Wilson and Marjorie, Mom and Dad, Nan and Pop, all those names, and all those roles, they treasured so much. The kindness they showed a group of young student nurses, will never be forgotten, nor will they be forgotten. They taught us so much, and their support and friendship were invaluable. We will forever remember all of it. Thank you ‘WB’, and Thank You ‘Madge’, for kindnesses shown, over and over. Through you we learned to pass kindness onto others. You left quite a great legacy. Thank you for all the special moments, the great laughs and marvelous memories. May you now always have the ‘Perfect Tree’. Bonnie Jarvis-Lowe