Beatrice MacNeil

The Family Tree

There comes a time when the bones of our ancestors rattle in their dust and awaken in us the desire to walk back in time, and shake from the ghosts of our history whatever it is we seek to uproot, to plant the family tree in the soil of our desire.

In the early fifties, during a religious class, this opportunity came to Grade Six. Sister St. Paul and the class were halfway through Eden, when she announced that we each should start a family tree and trace our ancestors back as far as we could go. She turned it into a contest and offered a prize for the best researched tree.

I sat at the front of the class. Being of French and Scottish descent, I immediately felt the tree shaking.

I left Eden and headed for Culloden. Surely one of my ancestors had shouted the cry, “Sound the pibroch loud and clear!” There was even a chance Bonnie Prince Charles was walking beside him when he gave the command.

From Scotland I headed for France. I had visions of King Louie and some of my relatives landing in Louisbourg. I imagined the fog clinging to their backs and the sea shivering on the lonely shore, in a lonely, somber welcome.

After school I went to visit my Scottish great-grandmother, Hattie. At ninety-five she lived under a quilt free of ambition and anxiety.

“What tree, what prince?” shouted my great-grandmother. “The most interesting member of our family was a Spanish sea captain who landed in Scotland one day, married my grandmother and brought her to Canada.

“Do you think we got this dark from playing the bagpipes under the sun?”

I longed to find a laird or maybe a bard amongst the Macs. Was it possible some broken-hearted bard of my blood had left his poetry floating through the glens?

“I’m telling you they left nothing behind” — my great-grandmother shouting from under her quilt. “When a person runs for his life he takes only his emotions with him. They chased us out of Scotland. Now put that on your tree.”

There was a cousin she did remember that fought in the British army; he took part in the siege of Louisbourg and in the taking of Quebec in the mid-seventeen-hundreds. But she believed the French got him in the end.

From the Highlands of Scotland I gathered for my tree blacksmiths, watchmakers, cobblers and a relative who composed laments for wakes. My tree was starting to look good.

On the top branch I would hang my Great-Uncle Roddie, the boxer, who held the middleweight championship of Canada in the twenties.

My French ancestors sprang from their roots. Dead or alive, the soul of sentiment lived on in them. There was an uncle of Grandmère’s, named Rhéal, who could tell what direction your mind was taking just by looking at you. He was the seventh son of a seventh son and always in demand.

There was another uncle, five or six greats back, who feared no man in or outs of his sight. He was thrown out of Midnight Mass one year for shouting at the choir, “Oh, come all ye faithful but please don’t sing!”

There were midwives and fortunetellers, fishermen and lumberjacks, farmers and fur traders. There were those who settled in Louisiana after the Acadian expulsion and those who couldn’t settle anywhere.

My great-great-grandfather took one last look at the world from his deathbed and announced, “If you practice ignorance long enough you will excel.”

He made moonshine for years and took his recipe to his grave.

Our cousin Alfreda made a name for herself by interpreting forerunners.

I would have to mention the great dancers in the family, those that Grandmère believed set the world on fire under their feet.

And having researched as far as I could, I went to work on my tree. I made the tree out of cardboard and set it up in a can. On little white pieces of paper I hung the names and occupations of my relatives.

Then I filled out the tree with my own inventions. I turned my great-great-grandfather into a philosopher. I gave my uncle five or six greats back the title “music critic.” All the moonshiners in the family became distillery inventors.

I turned Rhéal into a prophet.

I went to school and placed my tree on the table set up at the front of the class. In the contest, I got fourth place. I wondered which of my ancestors would have settled for that.

On the day of the judging, I looked out the window. Beyond the hill, in the graveyard, the headstones darted in and out of the fog.