Late December...

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Roots & Wings Contest  (E) Can you capture the essence of an ancestor in one story? CLOSED #1962161 by GeminiGem of House Lannister

 
Prompt 2: Do you remember hearing a grandparent tell you a story about their childhood, or talk about one of their parents? What was it, and how or why did they tell you? Do you know if it was true? Where were you when you heard it? Let us hear it too. Let us feel as if we were sitting next to you getting the story from the horses mouth.

You've probably heard the Frankie Valli song "Oh, What a Night."  One line in particular has special significance for me, though not in the manner the song portrays.

Late December, back in '63...

My story takes place in late December, but not in '63.  Nope.  In fact, it wasn't even one year, but two single years separate by half a century.  Until my fateful day in late December 1973, that significance was just a story told me by my paternal grandfather, George P. Milner, Sr.  Of course, he wasn't a senior in December 1923.  He was a sixteen-year-old boy living on the family farm outside Jonesport, Maine. 

Four days before Christmas, young George was given the job of bringing home the Christmas tree.  There were no lots from which one could buy a pre-cut tree.  George set out for the woods knowing just where to find the perfect fir.  He left right after breakfast with an ax thinking he'd be back within the hour.  The snow was already several feet deep with the promise of more before day's end. 

Indeed, the snow began falling before he was fifteen minutes from the homestead.  I was just nine-years-old when I heard him say....

"The snow began falling, lightly at first, before I'd cleared the inner pasture.  I wasn't worried.  We always had lots of snow before the new year.  And, I'd grown up in these woods.

"Besides," he winked at me.  "Sixteen-year-olds are invincible."

"By the time I reached the woods half an hour later--after all, walking in deep snow with snowshoes is tough work--the snow was falling pretty hard.  Some of the flakes were big as silver dollars.  It was getting hard to see.

"But I knew where the perfect tree was, just a short ways into the woods.  I'd find it and be headed back in no time.

"Do you know what a whiteout is?  Grandpa asked me.

"No," I said, my eyes big as saucers.

"Hold your hand up in front of you," he instructed.  I did.  Then he held a piece of white paper between my eyes and hand.  "What do you see?"

"Nothing but white," I said.

"Can you imagine so much snow swirling around you that you can't even see your hand, much less the trees you're trying to walk through?"

I just shook my head.

"I couldn't get any bearings to find my way.  I didn't know if I was heading deeper into the woods, or I'd turned toward home.  I finally figured I wouldn't find that tree.  Fact was I'd forgotten about that tree when I realized I had no idea where I was.  I'd never been so scared in all my life," he said.

My grandfather was a big man, about twice as tall as me.  I used to swing from his arm.  He'd even hunt bears.  I couldn't imagine him being afraid of anything.


Ten years after his story during Christmas break in December 1973, a buddy and I were out in the Maine woods to set up a couple of Orienteering courses for the University of Maine ROTC Department.  We planned to be out overnight, and set up a base camp with a small bright orange tent.

Orienteering is the ability to navigate from one point to another using only a map and compass.  One must find each point in order as the directions to the subsequent points are displayed only at the previous point.  Orienteering teaches the cadets map reading skills.

Beginning about 9 a.m., we split up to each set up a 12-point course.  I'd completed two points when it started snowing.

And snowing.  AND SNOWING!

In less than half an hour I experienced the very feelings my grandfather described.  I finally understood the terror wrought by a total disorientation of one's senses.  You could turn in any direction ... and have absolutely no idea which way to head.  Everything was white. 

However, unlike my grandfather, I had a compass.  At least I could determine the reverse direction I had to go to get back to our camp.  I figured I wasn't more than a thousand meters from the tent.  One klick. 

But that small bit of comfort I had at knowing the direction to head was eaten away with every agonizing step in knee-deep snow.  The longer it took, the more worried and scared I became.  Seven hours later, I almost tripped over the tent, the bright orange color all but useless in the heavy snow.  I was wet, cold, and thoroughly exhausted when I climbed into that tent.  And I was as elated as my grandpa when he finally found his way back home near sundown.

My friend found his own shelter that day.  We would meet up the following afternoon.  My last thought before collapsing in my sleeping bag was of my grandfather's journey home some five decades before.