Tree Fever
Tree Fever
Karen Hood-Caddy
Text © 1997 by Karen Hood-Caddy
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
| Book design: | Craig McConnell |
| Cover photo: | H. Mel Malton |
| Cover art: | Jeff Miller, |
| RR #4, Limberlost Rd. | |
| Huntsville, ON POA 1K0 |
Poem Lost from the collection He Who Shall Be the Sun
by David Wagoner
Published by RendezVous Press
an imprint of Napoleon Publishing
a division of Transmedia Enterprises Inc.
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
05 04 03 02 01 00 99 98 97 5 4 3 2 1
Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
Hood-Caddy, Karen, date
Tree Fever
ISBN 0-929141-53-9
I.Title.
PS8565.06514T73 1997 C813’.54 C97-930136-X
PR9199.3.H66T73 1997
To Florence, Clendon and Gwen for the imperative.
To Austin, Gloria, Irma, Jason, Jean, Judith, Judy, Lizzy, Margaret, Mary, Randi, Renae, Susan and Tia for their support.
Special thanks to Jack McClelland for believing, Sylvia McConnell for risking and Mel Malton for nearly everything else.
This book is dedicated to all trees everywhere.
If what a tree or bush knows is lost on you then you are lost. Stand still.
The forest knows where you are. You must let it find you.
— a native elder’s advice to a young boy lost in the woods
Contents
| Chapter 1 |
|
I awoke to the sound of lake water lapping, the primal, sloshing rhythm of water as it meets the shore over and over again. Sitting up, I opened my eyes. Sprawled before me, the luminous, naked body of the lake shimmered and shook in the rough embrace of Muskoka rock.
Blue, orange, purple-black and green, the water rolled towards me. Only a few weeks ago, the lake was held prisoner under ice that cracked and snapped like a whip keeping an animal in submission. But now the water was free again and rambunctious, slapping and clapping restlessly against the dock. Sometimes in its rollicking, splashes of water leapt into the cool spring air, breaking into a spray of silver droplets that sparkled in the light.
Wrapping a blanket around me, I moved to the open window. The waving arms of a thousand evergreens greeted me. I breathed deeply as though I might draw the lush smell of them into the landscape of my body.
Should I go for a swim? If anything could pull the sluggishness from my body it would be the coldness of the lake. It would wake me up, get me going. I’d slept in again. Why was it so hard to get up lately? And when I was up, I couldn’t get myself going. A swim would be perfect. Years ago, I started every day with a swim.
My shoulders hunched and my fingers pulled the blanket more securely around me. My body did not like this idea. Is this what aging does, makes you decide things because of temperature? Comfort? Disgruntled, I sighed and stared out at the lake.
In the dark-green water near the shore, an arrowhead of ducks moved soundlessly. As I watched them, they turned abruptly and scuttled back towards my small wooden dock. Hearing the sputter of a boat, I leaned forward and peered down the lake.
“God, they’re at it again!” I picked up my field glasses and scanned the water. A boat full of fishermen loomed up hugely in the binoculars.
“Look at them. The bastards! They’re tossing bottles into the water.” I paced the room as furiously as if the bottles were being jettisoned into my own living room. “The dump’s just down the road!”
Charlie, my dog, pulled the bulk of his golden body up on his haunches and looked at me.
“You know what I’m going to do, Charlie? I’m going to canoe out there and