Part Two

Fri, 12/23/2016 - 21:30

Eva Murray

teacher Linda Murray with students Dale and Hayden Libby at the Cookie Swap.

Eli Philbrook

teacher Linda Murray with students Dale and Hayden Libby at the Cookie Swap.

Eli Philbrook

These days, after the big potluck community supper in the church basement — and how far back this custom goes I do not know, because people’s memories differ—everybody goes upstairs into the sanctuary and sings a few Christmas carols. This is sometimes asking a lot of our little choir, especially recently when there may be only 15 people, usually no accompanist, and typically no singers all that loud and accurate to lean on. Meanwhile, some stalwart volunteer remains downstairs, changing quietly into the old Santa suit.

Kim Ames Peabody, who grew up on Matinicus in the 1970s, remembers the year her dad, Rowland Ames, was the island Santa. She was young enough to think, “Wait…what? My dad?” It was fun for the kids to try and figure out who was in the Santa costume each year.

Over the past couple of decades we’ve had a variety of jolly old St. Nicks, including Rockland music teacher Tom Ulichny, a female or two, and one Santa with a distinct Kiwi accent, but the regulars, who became rather expert at the part over the years, were Peter Wentz, Maury Colton, and Robert Young.

Sue Kohls, who was instrumental in organizing festivities when I first moved here, taught me how all this was supposed to work back in 1988 and, according to Sue, “Jingle Bells” was Santa’s traditional cue. We’d squeak through two or three other carols with a profound sense of obligation, and then belt out “Jingle Bells,” which would bring Santa. I have no idea how long it’s been that way. Santa appears — in recent years, accompanied by the racket of sleigh bells, provided by yours truly — and makes his grand entrance ho-ho-ho-ing and tossing bags of candy around the audience (Kim says they had the bags of candy back when she was a child as well). As he (or she) strolls up the aisle, kids join him up front as he calls out names and hands out the gifts found under the large tree, always a fresh and fragrant island balsam fir.

The kids receive presents wrapped in white butcher paper and tied with red string, a tradition of long documented history. These are provided to island children all over the coast by “the Sunbeam,” the much-beloved social service, fellowship, medical, ministry and Floating Coffee Break vessel operated for over a century by the Maine Seacoast Mission. Teenagers and adults get Secret Santa gifts from the neighbors, which are sometimes silly, sometimes homemade, although the reliably popular gifts are things like flashlights and warm new work gloves.

Manhandling the tree into the church is sometimes a bit of a project, as “the bigger, the better” can easily get ahead of us. For several years, a gang of our son’s high school friends from Gould Academy liked to come out to the island for a few days before they had to go see their own relatives on Christmas, and several times “the Gouldies” got shanghaied into helping put up the island Christmas tree in the church. One of the Gould graduates, a fellow named Kodiak, was a log-cabin builder and pretty expert with a chainsaw. When he got together with church trustee Maury Colton to put up the tree, and the butt of the trunk was simply too big for the tree stand, they knew what to do. One of them was quoted as saying, “I’ve never used a chainsaw inside the sanctuary before.”

The retelling after that sounded a bit like the game of Clue: “Kodiak and Maury, in the church, with a chainsaw.”

The ornaments on said tree carry memories. Each is a plain, colored glass ball bearing a name in white paint. Some indicate neighbors, some name island old-timers and storied elders, some are relatives with tangential connection to the community, and some are a bit of a puzzle, with perhaps only one or two around who would remember them. A few years ago—maybe 20 or so—when the church needed major structural and interior repairs, a large fundraising effort was pulled together. Anybody who contributed could have a name emblazoned on an ornament-- “in honor of” or “in memory of” someone, living or dead, native or tourist. Each year, as we hang the balls and try not to break any, it’s “Hmm, I wonder who that was?” and “Oh, yes, got to take good care of this one!” It is especially pleasing to hang the balls carrying the names of good friends, whether still alive or not.

Kim recalls the church hall being nearly full, with revelers of every age, including some of the old codger fishermen whose wives more or less strong-armed them into showing up. “You had multiple generations here, and some big families.” Recently, the winter population has grown very small, and some years we have a notable shortage of children. Once, a few years back, our daughter Emily, then in college, was the youngest person in attendance. A couple of times recently, preschooler Eli Philbrook, snappily dressed in a vest and button-down shirt, was the center of attention as the only child at the party. This year, we hope to have four or five kids around the tree.

This year the school kids are a bit young for a lot of memorizing lines and structured theater, so the teacher invited us all to a School Open House and Cookie Swap on the 14th, where the students could show some recent work and everybody could enjoy each other’s good cooking. It is typical of festivities of any kind on this island to be all about the food.

Not everything becomes carved in stone. Some years the elementary students made wreaths and hung them on the doors of older folks (student traditions have to be flexible around the ages of the available kids, the particular talents of that years’ teacher, and how long into December the student families are staying on the island). Some years, one islander or another might organize a round of caroling. A couple of times we’ve had luminarias—those white paper bags with glowing candles—but most often the wind is blowing too hard for them. Some years lots of folks would have company to the island, while other years most people leave to join a mainland family. Some years, bad weather sabotages travel plans and throws a monkey wrench into family gatherings. One year, two other former island teachers—Pat Walchli and June Pemberton—and I stood in front of the church tree and belted out, “We three teachers of orient aaaah…Tried to teach you algebraaa…”

I only remember one actual church service, with a minister and the Christmas story from the book of Luke, in the 29 years I have lived here. That happened to be the year my husband Paul got roped into being Santa, and Gardner Griffin and Jacob Benson were babies. Paul is a quiet sort, not giving to the boisterous theatrics we generally look for in a Santa, but it suited the kids that year because he didn’t freak out the babies. Somewhere there are photos of the Santa with the real beard holding those two babies. I treasure that image.

The island church is not really about the specifics and details of anybody’s religion, at least in these recent years, and its denominational affiliation is on almost nobody’s radar. It is a community hall, mainly, a place where an air of dignity and a sense of tradition is added to any gathering, but not a place where anybody should feel unwelcome because they are not of that particular sect. Not every last person on island chooses to participate in the annual Christmas feasting, but hopefully everyone who wants to does. After the food and the tree and lots of snapshots of the kids, we pull the rope to ring the church bell into the “Silent Night” (which is not infrequently a screeching gale,) clean up the leftovers so the mice don’t take over before morning, take out the trash, turn off the heat, and head home to our own Christmas Eve duties and chores.

It may sound like a bit of a greeting card cliche, but there are no strangers here.

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