Folks of Critter's Run

By Patricia Boudreau

Some lovable and unusual characters take you through life in an off-the-grid Canadian village. Their engaging stories of fun, work projects, and personal victories in this close-knit community show how it is possible to stick with your values and yet function fully, peaceably, and in tune with the issues that face your generation. It will take courage, flexibility, and a supportive community, as well as committed and caring leadership. In the face of many constant changes, you will be changed too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patricia Boudreau
• Release date: Dec 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781773024332

Book preview

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Folks of

Critter’s Run

Stories of life in a

Remote Village in Canada

Written and Illustrated By

Patricia Boudreau M.T. S.

For those who live

Boldly and strive

To be happy.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book would not have been possible without the caring support of many people, in particular, Christine Demarco and Charles St. John, who lovingly edited the text, my husband Ronald who suffered many lonely hours while I wrote and revised the work, my sisters Lynda and Debbie, friends such as Lorna Doerkson and the Demarco family, my friend and brother-in-law Pierre Boudreau and his wife Gordana, and my cousin Richard Thompson, who supported and encouraged me with phone calls and letters. Special thanks to Natasha Miller at Tellwell Publishing. My heartfelt thanks go out to all of you.

BLESSING

The wisdom in stories

Will light your path and smooth your way

On Life’s journey.

So may it be for you.

— Patricia Boudreau.

THE VILLAGE OF CRITTER’S RUN

There are no roads or railways into this village. A small river nearby can be travelled by canoe in most seasons, but freezes in winter. Any supplies needed are flown in by Birdie, a post office employee, who brings the mail twice a week in her small yellow airplane. There is no TV or radio reception. There are no sewers or running water. Residents obtain water for cooking, drinking and washing from the river or beaver pond. There are no incoming power lines and therefor no electric lights, so the citizens stay up late only on special occasions, when lanterns and candles are put to use. There are no stores or banks and very little currency of any kind is used. Barter takes place among the residents and food is stored and shared at the Granola Bar, a communal kitchen staffed by volunteers from among the residents. Much of the food is gathered from the land or grown by the residents. Most items can be eaten by everyone at Critter’s Run despite their diverse natures.

BIG TROUBLE SMALL TROUBLE

Did you see it? Father Chip asked excitedly.

The big red one? Birdie replied.

Over by the wood pile? Father Chip inquired.

Yes, that one! said Birdie. Did you mean that one?

Yes. It’s really big and really red, right? Father Chip could hardly control his excitement. He loved Autumn and all the beautiful coloured leaves. It’s a wonderful beginning to a world of transformation.

I know what that means! said Birdie. There was a sharp edge to her voice. It’s just the beginning of a whole lot more coming down! And after that, well, you know what comes down after that!

Father Chip detected a note of fear in Birdie. He struggled to harness his own enthusiasm for the coming changes, and remembered his concern for his beloved charge. He looked for words to calm her.

Hang on, there, dear one, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ve got a while yet to enjoy the beautiful autumn season and get busy preparing for the colder weather. Let’s just take one step at a time. Everything will be okay. I take it you don’t care for winter, Birdie? You don’t fly south?

My kind don’t fly south, Father Chip, replied Birdie. We stay here at home. I get by all right. At least I used to. I used to really like winter, but I don’t like winter anymore. I actually hate it now. I hate it, Father Chip, I hate it something awful. It was just fine when I was small but then I started growing, and growing and growing, and now I just hate it. A small tear began to shimmer in the corner of one eye.

Oh Father, she cried out, I know I shouldn’t hate, I know it’s awful of me, but I just can’t help it. I’m so sorry, I really am, but I just can’t help myself.

Now she was sobbing, shoulders shaking, catching her breath, reaching for something to wipe her running eyes and nose. Father Chip immediately produced his ever-ready handkerchief, as big as his furry head, and quickly offered it to catch the swelling flood. Birdie had it dampened in no time.

There, there, my child, said Father Chip, go ahead and cry it out. It looks like that storm has been brewing for a while, hasn’t it. We’ll just take a little walk down by the Trickle Creek and find a nice quiet spot to sit, maybe get a drink of water. You’re going to need one after losing all those tears, hehehe. And you can tell Father Chip all about it, get it all out and tell me what the matter is.

Father Chip jumped into her hand, climbed up her arm, and settled on her shoulder to wrap his tiny arms around her neck and snuggle. The soft fur of his fuzzy head felt warm and cozy there. He spoke softly in her ear. Everything is going to be all right.

Together they walked ‘till they found a small curve where higher water had once cut into the grassy riverbank, and they could sit without being discovered. With a slight stretch of her arm Birdie could reach the cooling water. She scooped up a little of the refreshing liquid and drank, surprised at how good it felt, and how it cleared her head. Her breathing began to calm, and words came, small at first, and tentative.

Father Chip, I am just about the biggest Yellow Harbinger I ever saw. I’m bigger than all my friends. I’m almost as big as the Canada Geese--and the wild turkeys. Father Chip, why did I grow so big? It’s awful to be such a big bird. And now I’m too big for my nest. And I’m cold all winter long. I tried to make my nest bigger, so I could stuff it with cattail fluff, but it keeps falling over. Her voice became angry. I hate winter, Father Chip. I hate being cold. I used to like winter, and now I hate it. I hate it. I hate being cold. And I hate being big.

The next morning found a tired and slightly disheveled Father Chip banging on the door of Gord and Deerie’s house. He ran his fingers through his hair as he knocked, and straightened his vest in an effort to look fresh and lively, though he hadn’t slept well the night before. Much time had been spent trying to come up with a solution to Birdie’s problem. Without much success to show for his efforts, Father Chip had decided to consult with the best handyman he knew. He was here at Gord’s to discuss the fine art of nest-building.

I don’t know much about nest-building! Gord’s big voice boomed out over his morning tea. I can’t say I’d be much help. Not much at all.

Father Chip’s heart sank just a little. He had placed high hopes in Gord to help him in his dilemma. ..but you will keep this between you and me, won’t you, Gord?, he implored. I already feel I might be betraying a trust by telling you even this much, because I know Birdie is embarrassed about her size as well as her problem with the cold. I don’t want to embarrass her any further.

I won’t say anything, Gord replied through a mouthful of warm tea. He swallowed noisily. "You do understand, though, that it will come out anyway, right? Everything always does…can’t keep anything secret in a small place like this, hmm? At just that moment, a dark shadow crossed the window near where they were sitting—silently, stealthily, with cat-like seamless movement, a small shadow, four-legged with tiny perky ears. How long had it been there listening?

Anyway, why don’t we just put a door on the hole in the Post Office Tree, and she can move in there? She’s a Post Office employee. She has access. We’ll just put her nest in there and she can sleep in it. No wind. No cold. No problem. We’ll just ask the old fella if it’ll be alright. Waddya say?

Father Chip jumped onto to the arm of his wooden chair. This move made him as tall as the table top, so he reached up and climbed onto the table to grasp Gord’s hand. That’s a great idea, Gord, if the old man will go for it, he shouted with excitement. Maybe we can make a little window in the door to let in some light, and I’m sure Birdie would be very comfortable in there. We’ll have to check it out first with the Post Office Tree and Birdie, and see how it goes. I was going over to see Birdie today anyway to make sure she’s okay. Let me do that first, and see if she likes the idea. If it flies, so to speak, (he chuckled at his little play on words) then I’ll come and get you and we’ll talk to the old man.

Gord nodded in agreement, sipped more warm tea, and shook Father Chip’s small paw gently between his huge thumb and forefinger. He and Father Chip had always had a good rapport. He liked the way Father Chip settled the tension when things got hot between he and The Count. (That Count could never get his head together, Gord thought, wasted a lot of people’s time with his senseless blathering.) You better get going now, if we’re gonna get this done. Gord sent Father Chip off to see Birdie.

He arrived at Birdies’ in double quick time, his excitement about the possibilities brewing in this situation carrying his feet at rocket speed. Outside the post office tree he stopped and took a deep breath to calm himself. He remembered Birdie’s fragile state of mind before he called to her. He reigned in his excitement and stilled his voice, then gently called out Birdie, are you home? Birdie, It’s me. May I come up? Upon hearing her reply, he scampered up the tree and found her in her nest, still somewhat unsettled, and scrambling for her jacket.

Hi Father Chip, it’s good to see you. Birdie managed a thin smile. I didn’t sleep very well last night, so why don’t we go to the Granola Bar and have a warm drink? We can talk there. She looked like she needed that warm drink. Father Chip could not refuse her.

Just what I was thinking! he replied heartily.

Off they went, not talking much until they got inside the welcoming building that housed their communal food supplies, a few tables and benches of various sizes and an assortment of vessels for food and drink. Birdie was at home here, having spent many hours organizing inventory, preparing and serving food, washing up and cleaning. All of this she loved to do, because she loved the folks who came in to eat and talk. They were all a part of the community she called her friends. Here In this space, she found companionship and warmth, fun and laughter, news and a sense of belonging. These were the things that a single girl living in the country needed more than money or luxury. These things warmed the heart and soul. This place was the right place to have a heart to heart with Father Chip, just as surely as if it had been a church confessional.

In this special place, Father Chip laid out the plan he and Gord had just discussed. He told Birdie of his concern for her, held her hands, let her know how they would work to solve this important problem. He said he was glad she trusted him with her secrets, and that he would be by her side whenever she needed him.

Birdie was overwhelmed by his compassion, and the tears flowed once again. She would willingly do what he thought best, and the plan felt good to her. She and Gord and Father Chip would go together to ask the Post Office Tree for his permission to make the necessary renovations.

Absolutely not! the old man snorted. Impossible! Can’t be done!

Gord’s mouth fell open nearly to the buttons on his vest. What? He thought. I’ve never seen the old man so insensitive. Usually he’s willing to help. And he and Birdie are friends. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This cold, unwelcome response was so unexpected.

Father Chip stared , speechless, eyes wide open.

Birdie was shaking in her sneakers. She felt so vulnerable, so frightened to offend the Post Office Tree. He had always been her friend. Why was he turning on her now? She held back the tears forming in her eyes. A feeling of betrayal hit her heart like a well-hit baseball. Her breathing became tight and ragged. She wanted to run, not sure that her buckling knees would take her.

No one knew how to reply. The tension could be cut with a knife.

Finally Gord dared to speak. I don’t understand. he said. Is there a problem?

There sure is! the Post Office Tree replied sternly. Birds don’t live inside a tree. Birds live outside. Insects live inside. Squirrels live inside. Birds live outside. That’s how it should be. That’s the ways it’s always been. And that’s how it should be. The Post Office Tree’s mouth looked stiff. Gone was the usual smile, round on his lips, the grain of his wood showing his age at the corners. His face was truly wooden now, and knotty and knarly as his aging roots. He was certainly not himself. What was wrong with him? Why was he so stubborn?

Father Chip sensed something amiss. The old man had his shackles up about something and Father Chip suspected it had nothing to do with their request for Birdie. Something else is at the bottom of this, thought the young priest. This old man is hurting, and he is dealing with it the way old men sometimes do. He is relying on what he knew, and clinging to it with all his might, as a defense against something that threatens him. What could it be? Father Monk was determined to get through this show of toughness, soothe his concerns, and bring back the warm caring old man they knew and loved. But he hesitated to say what he knew he must say. His words must be just right so Birdie does not feel deserted in their efforts to help her. Yet he must say it.

"Well, dear Post Office Tree, you know that we love you, and we respect your word. And I think if you had some time to reflect on this situation, you might be able to come up with some way to help Birdie out. I’LL LEAVE IT WITH YOU, and call on you again in a little while. Meanwhile, Gord and I will put our heads together, hehehe, so to speak, and see what we can come up with. Maybe we’ll bring The Count in on this too,