Epilogue
Summer 1978...
Sleep
was impossible, because my thoughts kept returning to the letters from
Indonesia arriving in my mailbox almost daily. More correctly, my thoughts
kept returning to the person who was writing these letters to me.
Pulling the photo of Kie out of my billfold I gazed at her, and in wistful silence wondered, “Could you possibly be the one God has chosen for me?”
Writing
letters to Indonesia was occupying a great deal of my time, because I was writing to Kie almost daily, and wondering too where our letter writing was
leading.
As I lay awake on the couch looking at the ceiling, counting the tiles and
mentally arranging and rearranging the squares into larger squares and
shapes, birds outside squawked and chattered as they shared their morning
gossip. A while later I heard a train in the distance. Although the steel on wood
route of CP Rail’s mainline was several miles away, the throbbing sound of diesel engines carried far in the stillness of early
dawn. That distinctive thudding song of a passenger train locomotive was
unmistakable, and I knew the train was the westbound Atlantic Limited
dutifully following its rigid course between Sherbrooke and Magog.
Later, following what seemed like more than long enough, I crept out of bed to peek at
the clock in the kitchen; a few minutes before 06:00. The carpeted
wooden floor creaked, tattling about every step I made. Rather than awaken anyone by further stirring around, and not wanting to
waste more time inside studying the ceiling, I ventured outside and
walked down the steep hill to visit the lake. Standing at the water’s
edge, I reminisced, because a
few years had passed since my last visit here in North Hatley and Lake
Massawippi.
In late December 1972 I'd traveled to Sherbrooke on CPR’s Atlantic Limited, and my friend Jim met the train at the railway’s venerable red brick station. Thermometers that night were reading nearly minus thirty degrees Fahrenheit, and remain that way the remainder of the week. Regardless of the cold temperatures, we were determined to welcome in 1973 by celebrating.
The following evening we visited neighbours in a nearby cottage and began what remained of our evening by drinking tequila, licking salt, biting into lemon wedges and puffing away on stinky stogies while playing sporadic hands of cribbage. Night quickly faded into a blur and I passed out into oblivion.
The
following morning I awoke but couldn't recall anything at all about the
previous evening. Scraping away part of the window’s frosted coating. I
peered at the sparkling white world outside. Light powdery snow had
fallen sometime during last evening, because an erratic zigzagging trail of
footprints across the open fields testified to our inebriated trek back
in the wee hours of the morning. I stared at the footprints but still couldn't recall anything about the night before, not even that bitter cold.
Either good luck or God’s intervention kept us from losing our way or passing out and freezing to death in the cold, but to this day I really don't believe luck was involved.
Either good luck or God’s intervention kept us from losing our way or passing out and freezing to death in the cold, but to this day I really don't believe luck was involved.
Although Jim’s family no longer resided in North Hatley not much else had seemed to have changed during the intervening six years, nonetheless I still felt embarrassment over that evening.
Restless
aspen and poplar leaves rustle incessantly from every little
breeze that disturbs them, but this morning the trees were silent. Massawippi’s entire surface was still and mirror-like peaceful. This particular morning
was the only time I'd ever witnessed the lake’s surface absolutely
flat and motionless, and truly a scene of tranquility in a hurried and
impatient world. A most welcomed reminder of calm to soothe my restless
thoughts.
My
brother had left his rubber dinghy and oars at the beach. Fortunately
for him the dinghy hadn't disappeared overnight, but that moment I was glad he'd
neglected to put it away. Placing the inflated rubber conveyance into
the lake, I climbed in and rowed out a considerable distance from
shore. I ceased rowing, pulled in the oars and allowed the
dinghy to drift freely. Although daylight, the sun wasn't yet peeking
over the hilly horizon. After several minutes of aimless floating, I
returned the oars to the water and rowed until almost crossing the lake
to the stony cliffs of the opposite shore. In the silence I drifted while
scanning the tops of the cliffs for signs of wildlife. Nothing was stirring, even fish weren't biting.
Again
my thoughts drifted back to the past, a weekend escape in North Hatley Jim and I made during summer '72. He'd been itching to
cruise the lake in his new boat, which was nothing more than an ancient cedar-strip
punt powered by a beat-up looking six horsepower motor. That Saturday
morning was cloudy and the darkening sky almost shouted a warning to us
that a summer storm was blowing in. Undaunted, the two of us set out in
the boat for downtown North Hatley to pick up a supply of vittles for
our weekend stay. The inward cruise was uneventful with the wind on our
backs. Minutes into our return voyage, however, heavy rain
driven by strong winds struck. We were soon soaked through. In defiance against the nasty lake squall I
puffed away on my faithful pipe, and persisted in spewing out smoke and
cinders.
In
spontaneous foolishness, I stood up, placed one foot on the bow,
pointed toward shore, and trying to imitate an old salt, hollered, “Land
Ho! Land Ho!”
“We’re not on earth, we’re on water!”
“You know what I mean.” Jim retorted, barely loud enough to be heard over the sputtering motor and driving downpour.
“I’m practicing in case we get lost.” and again yelled out, “Land Ho!”
“How the hell can we possibly get lost in sight of land?”
“Ya see! I’m good at this. Land Ho! Land over starboard bow!”
“That’s port bow.” Jim corrected.
“I stand corrected.”
“Sit
down you damn fool.” Jim hollered again.
He swung the boat around the point and toward shore, changing our heading almost into the direction we'd come
from.
“Land Ho! Over port bow!” I yelled once more.
“That’s starboard bow this time.”
“No Cap’n. It’s port bow this time. Our port’s over there.” I confirmed while pointing to an indiscriminate-looking place on the shoreline.
“How do you know?”
“My trusty pipe’s gone out.”
“What’s your pipe got to do with where we are?”
“The first pipe lasted as long as the trip into town, so the trip back should last about as long.
“Bilge!” he retorted, making the word sound like a profanity.
“I’ve
been out here on a boat before, and I recognize those points of
reference on the far side.” I confessed, while pointing toward the unmistakable stony
cliffs on the opposite of the lake.
Awakening from my reverie of the past and feeling wistful, I muttered, “Yes, I’ve been out here before.”
Lake
Massawippi’s tranquility and the quiet beauty of mountain scenery were
conducive to meditation and contemplation. Again my thoughts returned to
the young lady on the other side of the world. Regardless of the fact
that Kie and I had never met or seen each other in person I was slowly,
and even somewhat reluctantly, beginning to realize that our letter
writing had become deeper, far more than only a casual acquaintance and
friendship by mail. At least to me it was. Not wanting any part of
another journey into disappointment, heartache and despair, I seriously
pondered whether or not I was reading too much into her letters.
Repeatedly questioning my feelings and probing my deepest thoughts about
what was happening, one question I could not answer kept persistently
gnawing, “Why is she spending so much of her time writing to me?”
Lifelong
residents of the area had told me that the lake’s depth at this point
was probably about 300 feet. I was not going to dispute that fact. In
spite of daylight and the water’s clarity, it had that deep darkness
appearance. Whether 30 feet or 300 feet, if the dinghy was punctured and
suddenly deflated, then I would be in over my head. As I lay back and
relaxed, my hands splashed into the water. The cool surprise made me
recall the story about Jesus and how he had walked on the water. No one,
as far as I could recall from all that I had learned or read, had ever
made such a claim. The account about Jesus walking on the water appealed
to me because it was far too preposterous to be an exaggeration. The
story had to be complete truth or a complete lie, but could not be
anything less in that gray area between the two extremes. The choice was
either believe or disbelieve but there was no middle ground.
While
aimlessly floating about in the dinghy, I continued to contemplate my
written relationship with my unseen friend in Indonesia. Finally I
realized that first I would have to absolutely certain in my mind about
how far I was prepared to go with our relationship before asking or
expecting anything from Kie in return. If developing our relationship
meant traveling to the far end of the earth to Indonesia to be with her,
was I prepared to go? Yes, I was. I would never be content to go half
way by only silently thinking about going. If deepening our relationship
meant ignoring traditions, breaking long-established unwritten rules,
and defying all conventional wisdom, was I prepared to do it? Yes, I was
ready. If our relationship meant charging ahead with nothing other than
a blind faith and trust in God, would I do it? Yes, that is exactly
what I would do no matter how foolish my actions were going to appear.
If the future or our relationship meant marriage, was I ready for it?
Yes, I wanted her.
I
wanted all or nothing at all; no uncommitted gray middle ground. In
exchange I was prepared to give all or nothing at all; again, no
uncommitted gray middle ground. For the first time in my life I was
absolutely certain about what I wanted out of life and with whom I
wanted to spend the rest of my life. I was also acutely aware that my
vision would all be for naught unless my friend in Indonesia was
prepared to want all or nothing at all and join me. This risk was great
and the stakes extreme but I believed the reward to be far greater. I
was ready to give everything, convinced that I had at last found the far
end of the rainbow.
While
I had a clear picture in my mind about how I wanted our written
relationship to develop, and while I had chosen to attempt to overcome
an almost impossible barrier, I really did not know whether or not my
never seen but often thought about friend felt any of the same feelings
for me. I had never asked Kie directly or indirectly about what she
thought or how she felt about our written relationship. Many times I
asked myself, “Am I reading too much between the lines?”
Was
my imagination slyly filling in blanks in spite of my best efforts not
to allow it?
Thinking about probing further by actually asking Kie if
she cared anything for me was making me uncomfortably anxious. The palms
of my hands were wet from perspiration, not lake water, and this was in
spite of the fact Kie was half a world away. If the expression, “Once
bitten twice shy” actually has a meaning, it did then. I didn't want to
be bitten a second time, but I didn't want to shy away in fear either.
Wrestling with the very real possibility of being completely wrong and
then having to face and live with the disappointment of failure and
rejection kept me restless with indecision. Uncertainty and indecision
are like listening to diminished seventh chords that resolve into more
diminished seventh chords. Afraid, I selfishly craved for a single
instant of absolute certainty in this uncertain world.
The
sun had quietly appeared over the southeastern horizon and I realized
that I was going to be sunburned very quickly. Also, a light breeze had
come up unnoticed and the lake was no longer as calm as it had been
earlier. I rowed the dinghy back across the lake and returned to the
cottage. I was hoping that a cup of fresh coffee and possibly a hearty
breakfast would be ready and waiting for me.
Dad
was up and had already made the morning pot of coffee. He had also
driven into downtown North Hatley to pick up a copy of the Montreal
Gazette from Earl’s. Dad always starts his days with the Gazette and, as
expected, he was sitting in a chair reading his morning paper. Many
people take their work home from the office to work on during evenings,
but Dad is probably one of those lucky few who can actually claim that
he has someone else deliver his work to his home free of charge so he
can look it over the next day after the work has been finished by
someone else. Then again, I suppose employment with the Montreal Gazette
did provide that unique benefit, except during vacations when Dad had
to go out and buy his paper like everyone else.
Leaving
Dad to his paper, I sat alone at the dining table and pensively stared
through the window toward the grove of elderly cedar trees growing on
the steep slopes of the ravine beside the cottage. On the outside of the
glass barrier, a large black spider was patiently and motionlessly
waiting in the center of its web which had been strung and spun across
the upper left corner of the window frame. Inside, a blue-tailed fly
noisily buzzed and persistently bumped against the same pane, oblivious
to the deadly danger hanging on the on the other side. An eighth of an
inch and nothing more, however, to the fly the glass was in impenetrable
barrier. To me the glass was fragile and could have been shattered on a
moment’s whim. Life is fragile and that which separates life and death
is equally fragile.
With
only a broken television to watch or constantly crackling radio to
listen to, the cottage was certainly a peaceful place to spend the
weekend. The relaxed atmosphere readily encouraged undisturbed
daydreaming. Wistfully, I was wishing and hoping that one day I would be
able to share a weekend here with Kie, not as my far away unseen friend
in Indonesia, but here as my wife. Yes, here in North Hatley at Lake
Massawippi. Yes, I was certain as I was ever going to be that I wanted
marry Kie, but I had never once written to Kie to reveal to her how I
felt about her. Opening my briefcase, I pulled out the latest letter and
photograph of Kie that had arrived yesterday. As I read Kie’s words
again and stared at her picture, I was certain that she had similar
feelings about me.
“Can it really be possible?” I silently wondered, remembering only too well how wrong I had been about Phi Bang.
Returning
Kie’s letter and photograph to the briefcase I removed a note pad.
Hesitantly, I began writing to Kie, trying first to describe the cottage
to her, and then trying to describe the mountains of the Eastern
Townships, the town of North Hatley, Lake Massawippi and finally CP
Rail’s rarely utilized route along the lake. Also, I shared with Kie
some details about my morning float in the dinghy but deliberately did
not mention all that I had been thinking about out there on the water.
“More
than a month has passed since my visit to Pittsburgh, and by now you
will know about those events. What you may not know though is that I
don’t think that I’m the same person I was a month ago. I have walked
away from what used to be my dreams. I do not feel any hurt and pain
that always comes when everything dear is suddenly torn away by forces
beyond our control. I know why too. I let go because I did no longer
have the same dreams or wishes. I haven’t for a while now. I believe my
visit to Pittsburgh was going back to bury what had already died.
For
a while I thought my visit there was a mistake, but now I realize the
events of that strange weekend removed any doubts I may have been
carrying with me. Now I am free from the past. I am truly free!
Kie,
I can clearly remember that Sunday morning in Pittsburgh, staring at
the ceiling and thinking about you. Strange in a way. I was in Phi
Bang’s home yet I was alone and thinking about you. Anyway, on that
particular morning I felt closer to you than I ever did to her. I
suppose this is a sad admission to make about a past relationship.
During those few moments of reflection I truly understood that our
letter writing is different, far more intense and intimate than I have
ever known with anyone before. Maybe that’s because you aren’t here in
America running around in a frenzy of activity trying to retain a
Vietnamese identity and trying not to become Americanized.
As
I sit here writing and occasionally glance up at the cedar trees
covering the ravine, I remember two little boys who once explored in
here years ago. I laugh now when I think back to that time when Ted and I
were quite small and we stumbled across a rather overgrown trail that
led into the dark damp cedar forest. The two of us fearlessly followed
the mysterious route which quickly led us to a small weathered cabin
that we thought was deep in the forest. For a moment Ted and I had been
convinced we had found an ideal hideout, until we opened the door and
discovered what an abandoned outhouse was.
North
Hatley is a beautiful place. Kie, I am certain that you would fall in
love with this place if you like quiet places in the mountains. I was
out on Lake Massawippi early this morning. My brother forgot his dinghy
on the beach, so I borrowed it and rowed out dangerously far, across to
the other side of the lake. Perhaps a foolish thing to have done but the
morning air was still, and I had much on my mind to think through.”
I
wanted to tell Kie about my feelings for her but I didn't think now
was the right time. I didn't know when the right time would come or if
there'd ever be a right time, but I felt that the right time wouldn't be
this weekend.
Following
breakfast I again trudged down the hill to the lake intending to relax
on the rocks at the beach. Upon reaching the railway, however, I felt a
tugging from that irresistible lure of having to know what was beyond
the distant bend in the iron roadway which curved out of sight around
the sloped shoreline. Hooked, I detoured along the route of the
Massawippi Valley Railway. The steel strips were nicely rusted from a
lack of trains to polish them. Just as well there were few trains
because the railway was the only land route along the shore. Rather than
moving freight over the rails, I suppose CP Rail was earning more
revenue by leasing parcels of shoreline to cottage owners who wanted
legal access to the lake. Stepping on each consecutive tie, I
short-stepped southward along the neglected railway to the little bridge
across Brown’s Brook.
Leaving
the railway, I climbed over several large rocks and found a reasonably
comfortable seat, that is, if sitting on rocks can ever be considered
comfortable. Had one of those rare northbound trains appeared, the
Brown’s Brook Bridge would have been an ideal setting for capturing an
attractive branch line railway photograph. No train came. My camera had
been left behind at the cottage anyway.
Concluding
my leisurely session of undisturbed meditation a while later I
short-stepped along the railway back to the beach for a swim. After a
few refreshing minutes of cooling off in the lake, I left the water,
stoked my pipe with one of my favourite Latakia mixtures, sat on a log
in the shade and watched a parade of boats leisurely cruising up and
down the lake. I began daydreaming and wondered if a day could come when
Kie and I would be together here, so that we could rent a boat and
cruise Lake Massawippi.
Early
evening was spent scavenging the beach to gather reasonably dry pieces
of driftwood and dead branches. Satisfied that a sufficient pile of
shoreline debris had been accumulated, I soon had a blazing fire going
beside the water, just beyond reach of the waves. Seated on a large
weathered log that had long ago shed its bark, I looked down at the
vacant space beside me and thought, “Kie, this space is reserved just
for you. If you were here with me now, I would place my arm around you,
around your shoulder, so that you could gently rest your head against my
shoulder. Could a moment together like this ever happen with us? With
you, I somehow believe it could.”
In
dream-like thought I watched the evening sky slowly turn black while
sunset faded into oblivion. Unlike in the city, evening air in the
mountains quickly cooled. The warmth radiating from the fire was
comfortably pleasing without being offensively hot or smoky. The moon
eventually appeared above the horizon and cast a reflection that
glittered like a sprinkling of stars across the lake’s surface.
The
fire constantly crackled and spit out sparks as clouds of smoke swirled
skyward. Content for the moment I nonetheless desired to share hours
like these with that once-in-lifetime special person whom I had always
had a deep longing to find and be with. I was now convinced that Kie was
that one special person I had always been longing for and searching
for, and wondered, “How will she know? How will I tell her? What will
happen if I do tell her? What will she say?”
I
spent half the night on the beach sitting in front of the fire, holding
my notepad and wondering what to write and say to Kie and how to share
my thoughts and feelings with her.
“My
dear friend, you once mentioned to me in one of your letters that
sometimes at night you silently shed your tears because your former
beloved is no longer interested in you. During these last six months I
have read and reread your many letters and I cannot imagine why your
former beloved would cast you aside. I can only assume that he must be a
fool. Rather ironic that we are both in similar situations. Neither of
us wanted by our former loves.
If
reality was not so painful to think about, then our situations would
probably be amusing. Two unwanted cast-offs half a world apart
commiserating with each other. For me though, enough time has passed and
she is no longer a part of my life. I don’t know if you feel the same
way about your situation but I’ve learned that time does allow the pain
to pass. It will be the same for you also and this I can assure you.
Kie,
it’s very late now. My eyelids feel very heavy and my thoughts have run
dry. I used to hate Mondays because they always meant another week of
work. Now I’m impatient for Monday mornings because almost always I find
your letter waiting for me in box 1092. Kie, if you want someone to
love you, then I shall love you.”
I
signed my letter, intentionally ending it this way. First thing on
Monday morning I would mail my letter to Kie and then wait for her
response.
Three years later...
In life, some fanciful dreams which seem impossible do become possible... and yes, those dreams too do come true.
Summer 1981 and Kie with me in North Hatley. |
The Oddblock Station Agent