New Brunswick, Canada.

November 1998 or 2001 or 2007, or thereabouts.

I’m 5 or 8 or 14, give or take.

Forgive me if my early memories are a little mixed up.

That’s what happens when you live your whole childhood in a strict religious community where routine, repetition, and obedience are the fences that hold the flock together...

Without the emotional highs and lows of family love, laughter, and adventure, the days and weeks and years blend into one long straight fence that stretches off into the distance.

Sure, I remember bigger events like breaking my leg and the greenhouse fire but the exact whats, whens, and hows get mixed up.

Sometimes it even feels like I’m telling someone else’s story.

Now that I mention it, what are emotions?

I was raised to not have any.

I was raised to be seen and not heard.

And I’m an obedient boy.

I don’t like displeasing father.

Because despite training me and my siblings to not express pain, love, or especially pleasure…

Father’s discipline still hurts.

And so without proper nurturing, my upbringing was one of emotional survival.

Not one of emotional growth.

*****

Okay, wanna hear a joke before the serious stuff starts?

Sure ya do.

Dad detests jokes but you’ll humor me, right?

Great.

“Why was the nose feeling sad?

It was tired of getting picked on.”

You’re welcome.

*****

“Amen,” we recite as we open our eyes after Grace.

My siblings, Mom and I wait to pick up our cutlery until after Dad has picked up his. 

“Lewis, did you complete the radio tower fencing work?” he asks without looking at me.

The three other faces glare at me, praying I give the right answer.

I stare at the poinsettia arrangement in the middle of the table.

This way I can respectfully look in Dad’s direction but can still avoid his direct gaze.

I know what to say to keep the peace, but I had been up since 5.30 am feeding animals, tending poinsettias, and swinging a sledgehammer and was too exhausted to care.

And so I answer a question with a question – an absolute no-no in my Dad’s house.

“What do you call a sad strawberry?” I ask the room, my face burning red with hope and fear.

My Mom shakes her head, and my siblings busy themselves with their food.

My Dad first lowers his fork, then his knife, and raises both eyebrows, daring me to continue.

Normally I wouldn’t have pushed this far, but it’s not like he didn’t ask for it.

I’ll get to exactly why in a minute, but let’s get back to my joke…

“What do you call a sad strawberry?” I repeat, doubling down.

There are no takers.

“A blueberry!” I yell with the abandon of a prisoner on death row who accepts he won’t be around long enough to suffer the consequences.

“You’re welcome,” I beam.  

My Dad’s face contorts and freezes at the same time, as if molten lava had just hit an iceberg.

I could read the trouble I was in from the stunned looks on my family’s faces.

So to break the agonizing silence, I burst out laughing.

Let’s now rewind to the moment that caused me to release my daredevil in this house ruled by God.

*****

We live in an area of great natural beauty.

Rivers, mountains, and woods surround us, and for one whose childhood was spent yoked to farm, family, and community, this was a great relief.

The community grew, cut, and processed canned food.

We all spent long hours washing and blanching and freezing beans and peas and strawberries and peaches.

The greenhouses didn’t have AC, so I boiled alongside the vegetables while the local “outsider” kids played soccer and baseball in the cool evening breeze.

But as strict as the community elders were, camping was seen as a wholesome activity for kids of a certain age.

Hiking along a mountain ridge with endless miles of forest below, I could dream my dreams of a future life far away from here.

Which was great except that all of us kids were expected to work in the community after graduation.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” the elders would ask.

“Whatever the community wants me to be!” the kids would reply.

Because if you don’t live up to the moral, religious, and professional standards of the community, you’re sent away.

And the threat of this was held over the community like a curse.

And even though there was a finite number of job options, I had no clue what I wanted to do.

I liked building stuff, so I shadowed Dad to learn carpentry.

It was also a cunning plan to draw a drop of emotion from my Dad.  

Can I turn a vase beautiful enough…

Build a bridge long enough…

Plant a tree deep enough…

To be good enough in your eyes?

I toil in the fields here, I work in the shed there, I pray to the Lord everywhere and still…

Still I am not enough.

And anyway, I found carpentry so boring that I fell asleep reading books in the office every afternoon.  

So I learned how to pick locks as I explored becoming a master locksmith.

Did that a few times… easy… next!

I tried craft after skill after profession after trade, but nothing the community offered ever set my soul on fire. 

But the thin, crisp air atop a mountain is a great place to see far into the distance.

And up there I saw the hazy outline of my future.

It wasn't fully formed, and it certainly wasn’t a plan.

It was more of a feeling.

And I’ve told you how my family feels about feelings.

*****

“Mom, Dad,” I gush when I get back from the camping trip, bouncing on the balls of my feet like a boxer ready to fight.

“I know what I want to do after high school.”

I’m immediately struck by Mom’s frown and Dad’s eyebrow roll.

“What nonsense is it this time, Lewis?” he asks, not even looking up from his Bible.

It’s a gut punch, sure, but I straighten up and keep fighting while the mountain air is still fresh in my lungs.

“I want to start my own business,” I blurt, and stand ready to receive the loving hug I had waited my whole life for.

“That's what you wasted your trip doing? Dreaming up another of your crazy ideas? You’ll be a carpenter. Just like me,” grunts Dad, still reading his Bible.

I wobble where I stand, punch drunk on disappointment.

“Get changed Lewis, you’ve got chores to catch up on,” says Mom, delivering the knockout blow.

And splayed out on the canvas under the harsh lights I vow to never share my plans, thoughts, or ideas with my family again.

******

So it’s with this spirit of defiance that I sit down to dinner.

Though I didn’t know how to express emotions, I sure felt something burn deep inside my soul.

It was a sense that although I didn’t quite know how just yet, I would one day lay the stones of my own path, away from the crushing monotony of this rigid community life.

And I use this energy to stare down my father’s contorted features, and I feel a strange power I hadn’t felt before.

It’s the power of knowing that my future lay in my own hands.

It’s a power I’m sure emanates from deep within me.

It’s a power burning a hole in my chest.

Surely even my unfeeling family can feel it.

Surely this whole rigid community can feel it.

And I tell my joke.

And wait for the consequences. 

And then I see something that I’m sure will draw out some feeling in these suppressed souls.

For outside the window over Dad’s shoulder, an orange glow lights up the night sky.

My grin drops to a grimace.

My Dad pounces on my sudden energy shift.

“You’re not going to cry now, are you son? If that’s what they’re teaching you on these trips, that’ll be your last one,” he scowls.

I shake my head and point out the window.

“The greenhouses!” yells my mother.

The whole family rush to the window.

For the next few minutes, all I remember is a pell-mell helter-skelter flurry of activity and tears and phone calls.

It’s November, after all, and the community’s entire poinsettia crop is being readied for the lucrative Christmas market.

This is one of the main annual cash injections that the community relies on.

And now it’s all up in flames.

I retreat from the family huddle and hurry upstairs for a better view, snatching the poinsettia centerpiece on my way.

And as I watch the lifeblood of the community burn in a thick cloud of oily smoke and ash and flame, I open my bedroom window and drop the poinsettia out the window and watch it smash on the driveway below.

Yes, I just destroyed probably the community’s last remaining poinsettia, and I did it with a smile on my face.

What?

Surprised that this nature-loving dreamer can be so cruel?

Well, sure, the crisp, clear mountain air had helped me form some vague, distant life dream.

But it didn’t tell me I had to be nice about achieving it.

*****

Okay, you twisted my arm.

Here’s one more for that road you’ll pave for yourself, someday.

“A thief stole my emotions.

I don’t know how to feel about this.”

You’re welcome.