Gathering Hope

past and present in a brief covid story

When you pitch your tipi, the first thing you put up is the tripod. That’s made from three of your heaviest poles taken from a stand of lodge pole pines. They already have the long rope tied around the top of them, which is what you use to wrap around the tops of the other ten or so poles that make the frame of your tipi.

The rope is integral to the whole thing, as you see. It will have several feet left over, which you wrap around and down a tripod pole before you put the canvas skin on the tipi. You do NOT pull the excess rope tight to a stake in the ground right in the middle of the tipi circle, where the fire belongs.

I saw that done once in Vermont, the rope tethered to a stake in the ground, and I couldn’t understand why. If they expected a hard wind, they could take the tipi down. If they couldn’t put it back up because someone else pitched it - well, maybe then. It was a nice tipi. But it was also nice weather, and I was puzzled.

That was back in the 1970s.

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This was what I thought about while waiting for the current lockdown to end. I had a new supply of masks and I was indulging in travel memories - pandemic-thinking. The masks were black, preparation for a visit from my sister and her husband. Covid-19 was on its way out, it seemed, and a small gathering, with precautions, was welcome. They’d arrive in an hour or so and I was ready.

I’d spent most of a year untouched by anyone. Even doctor visits were done on the phone. Other people, glimpsed on dawn walks around my place, were never close enough to speak to. I used a phone a lot, but there's nothing like a live person to be with. I was more than primed for familial company. Nobody traveled far at that time, nothing like the trip from the Southwest in the US to New England and up into Canada, the trip that I was remembering.

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Vermont was beautiful that October, trees of every autumn color vying with a clear blue sky. There were old covered bridges made of weathered wood, unlike any I’d ever seen. However, my traveling companions, three other women, with whom I hitchhiked in pairs, were ready to visit a commune in Canada, in Montreal, Quebec. The trip there had been arranged by Janice, one of the four, the most radical politically. She’d promised a “political commune.” We didn’t know the place was in the process of being busted, even while we approached.

I don’t remember much of that city - it seemed curiously still and empty. At the city commune, the big old house was also empty but for one man and a few chairs. A box of brochures sat on one chair. The man was leaving. He quickly, nervously, gave us brochures to explain his commune, and said we all had to leave, that cops were on the way. We left immediately, stuffing brochures in our backpacks. All I knew was that the commune was part of something called the FLQ, which apparently wanted Quebec to be 100% French-speaking.

At the Canadian-US border, we learned why it was unwise to try to carry unread brochures across a border.

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I didn’t know how long my sister and brother-in-law would stay that time, their second visit during the past year, but they promised me hugs. I had a few beers ready, some cheese and crackers, not thinking about us each wearing a mask. I guess I assumed we’d be “normal” inside my house. It almost happened that way, but caution was still in place for the most part. We were older and determined to be wise about meeting again.

We’d missed a few family holidays and greeted each other with the promised hugs, wearing masks, but close. We knew each of us had been vaccinated and soon shed masks to talk of children, hobbies, photos, walks taken, several people missed altogether. Nobody even thought about food or drinks, not even me. Words and touch were more important; cherished. We spoke of love and laughter, music and books, how we’d missed each other.

We made plans for a family gathering during one holiday or another, and hope filled the air.

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I’m not sure why, but at the US border, the guards there insisted on searching our backpacks. We said “Sure!” not knowing the FLQ was considered a terrorist organization, or that the brochures would nearly be our undoing. It was only our obvious ignorance about their contents, even about their origins, that saved us from living in Canada for however-long. We didn’t know the address of the house we’d visited, we knew no names, we barely saw the man who gave us the brochures, and what DID the brochures say, anyway?

The oldest guard, the one in charge, made the call. They’d keep the brochures for the Canadian guards, but let us go. He advised us to beware of who we talked to in the future, and also to please call our parents to give us rides home. Maybe we should take a bus, he said. We laughed and shook hands with him, happy to be on our way.

We hitched home in record time, except for Janice, who decided to stay in New York City. We were full of hope and joy when we got back to the Rocky mountains, back among friends who welcomed us home with open arms.

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Like that day at the home commune, when my sister and in-law left, we hugged again and I felt that same joy. It was possible now that gatherings would one day return to normal. How welcome that would be!