Meaning a Life

by Mary Oppen

  When I was five my friend took me to school with her to visit. The teacher placed a small chair for me near my friend, and as the children worked with crayon and paper she backed slowly down the aisle looking at each child’s work. I gave her skirt a yank—I wanted her to look at my friend’s paper. She turned, picked me up, and put me outside in the cloakroom. She didn’t want me! I took my bonnet from a nail, put it on, and left the building. As I walked home I passed a house where my mother had taken me to call, and the man of the house had given me stereopticon slides to look at while the adults talked. I climbed the steps, I rang the bell, was invited in and given the viewer and a stack of cards. School dismissed, the children went home, and an alarm was raised to find me.

  Next year I was in school. Miss Telgener, whose skirt I had yanked the year before, gave each of us a large white lump of library paste on a little piece of paper. We used a finger to spread it where needed for our paper work, on paper lanterns, chains or baskets. The paste had an aroma of cloves and a delicious taste, and I asked, “May I have more?” I had eaten mine—it was cool and smooth and the flavor burned a little. I wonder, do they still serve it in first grade?

  My parents and my brothers built a summer house, Mereshack, at Flathead Lake. In our album is a photograph of my mother with me, an infant, on her lap, while my brothers fished nearby on a rocky point above the lake. In summers at Flathead Lake I used to stare into the grasses, and I could sing as Robert Louis Stevenson sang about his childhood in Scotland:

  And all about was mine, I said

  For me the bees come by and sing.

  I loved Mereshack. Walking to our nearest neighbor’s house, I took a path through the woods, our dog Zeewag accompanying me. Grandpa Wade told me stories of his Civil War days and how he had received the wound from which he still limped. I loved the paths, but my ancient friend preferred the smoother walking of the road, a new road in a new nation, and with his cane he chucked the rocks that fell from the hillside, as he walked to Mereshack with me.

  Wendell was our fisherman, and he took his pole and creel with a can of worms or grasshoppers for bait to spend the day by himself, fishing the stream from high up on the mountain until it tumbled into the lake and he was near home, his creel full of brook trout. We ate trout fried crisp for dinner, with wild strawberries brought from an upper meadow for dessert, and next day we all went to gather more berries, cans, and pails tied to our belts. A cedar tree bent toward the water from a steep bank near our cabin; we would climb out its trunk, and as the tree bent lower we kept the motion going and the tree would rise and fall, rise and fall, dipping a little into the lake. I also had a swing from the first branch of a giant fir tree, and when I swung out over the lake high in air I could see a rowboat passing or a launch moving slowly down the center of the lake from a lumber town at one end to the other end, where a road entered the Flathead Indian reservation.

  Mosquitoes and No-see-ums (black flies) were a nuisance in June. I wrapped my legs in tissue paper and pulled my long stockings over the paper to protect my legs. People who had to go out of doors at that season swathed themselves like beekeepers. We kept smudge-pots going on the corners of our big front porch even in July and August, and we seldom lit a lamp because the insects swarmed to the light.

  Papa came on weekends, and in the dark he told a story or Mama sang, and we sang too—“In the Gloaming” or “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.” After my brothers were grown we no longer went to Mereshack; Mama did not want to go there for the whole summer with only me for company.

  At Papa’s vacation time we went on camping trips in groups of four or five families. An accordion-like rack on the running-board at Papa’s left hand was the riding place for Zeewag, who strained forward into the wind and was the first to jump down when we stopped. Zeewag was even more eager than we were to go camping; he made a quick sally to greet each of us before running off on his own investigations. For all of us it was a joyful passage through tall timber with snow and glacier-capped mountains high above us. The roads we traveled were dusty or muddy; saplings or logs laid across marshy places in the road made what we called “corduroy,” over which our wheels rumbled as we passed. Sometimes the men in our party cut more saplings to lay over deep mud. Bridges which had been built for horsedrawn lumber-wagons were thrown across streams or ravines by lumber-workers. The roadway on these bridges was of planks laid over an under-structure of logs, with no side rails; we dismounted before crossing to lighten the load in the car, and someone always walked in front of each car to make sure the wheels stayed on the planks. I then crossed to the other side on foot, aware of the drop to a sometimes roaring river far below. Wide rivers had a ferry, usually manned by a father and son who lived nearby. The road which slanted steeply down into the river was visible on the other bank, rising steeply to continue into wilderness. We passed horses with caution, as they were still unused to seeing cars and might bolt. We seldom met another car, and we never passed one; Papa usually slowed down to wait until the huge clouds of dust had settled. If it had rained, sheets of water flew out as our wheels passed through puddles in the road. Before a trip, Papa inquired at the Post Office until he found someone who had recently been over a road we planned to go on, because roads washed out, bridges gave way, marshy places became bogs, and ferries were sometimes not running. A trip in any direction from Kalispell was an adventure.

  One vacation, we camped the first night in a big shed at a lumber camp where the owner was Papa’s friend. Hay was spread in the barn, and we slept in a long row, twenty or more of us. I awoke to a shot. Papa was sitting up and by the light of his flashlight he was shooting wood rats! In the wilderness beyond the camp, before Papa stopped the car at our next camping place, Mama saw a grouse and she jumped out, shot the grouse, and had it ready for the pot by the time the fire was burning.

  Next day, another child and I started across some shallow rapids with a young woman from another tent holding us each by one hand. As she lost her footing in the swift current she let me go, and I was swept downstream. One of the men heard our screams, jumped in and rescued me. I don’t remember fear—perhaps it happened too fast—what I do remember is the strange assortment of clothing that was found for me until my own dried out.

  On our way home an electrical storm broke over our heads with a cloudburst. We were on a high road overlooking Flathead Lake; the road was slippery red clay, only one car wide with an occasional turn-out for passing. Our car had hard tires with big wheels, and we slipped and slid, coming perilously near the cliff edge, but we stayed on the road and slithered our way to the bottom. As always when a storm broke, we had a discussion: should we put on the isinglass side curtains? If we put them on we all had to get out as the curtains were kept under the back seat. We struggled with fastenings which fitted badly and kept out little rain. It was dark long before we reached Kalispell and Papa lit the carbide lamps, which made a bright light; yet, the road was dark and we were wet and cold. We climbed stiffly down from the car in our barn at home and I still remember the smell of carbide as Papa turned out the lamps.

  I remember this trip particularly as the best thing our family did together. My brothers have yearned for the spirit of those times, and they have lived close to the forests all their lives, but I think it was my father’s spirit that made our way of life—and now, writing this, I add my mother’s spirit too.

  One time Mama and I went to the Indian reservation so that Mama might take the medicinal waters and bathe in the hot sulfur baths. Papa drove us to the reservation and helped us set up our tent on a platform provided for tent-floors; we chose one near a stream. The baths were of sulfur-mud; soda-water and sulfur-water were drunk for the cure. People came to treat a variety of ailments—a girl my age, crippled from polio, became my friend, and after her daily bath we played together. Our friend Mr. Haines, an elderly man, helped us build a water-wheel and a little dam on the stream near our tent; our little whee
l turned in the current and our dam of rocks made a pool into which we put our feet.

  An Indian Pow-wow was held while we were at the hot spring. Flathead Indians came to the ceremony with their sick and ailing from long distances. As they arrived, all the women were walking, with the many dogs running alongside or under the wagons; eligible maidens and the young braves were on horseback. I watched them set up camp—the many teepees made a village around the hot springs—and they prepared for the dance. One boy my age had a red vest entirely covered with bear-claws worked into a design. Everyone wore beaded moccasins for dancing; men wore head-dresses with feathers trailing down the back. They danced, a stomping dance, to drums, and sometimes the dancer turned around and around, again dancing in the circle of men. Men left the dance and returned, campfires smoked, women were busy at the fires, children ran in and out of teepees. The dancing was a religious ceremony, danced with reverence by the Indians, but I did not understand its meaning when I saw it. Probably my attitude reflected that of the grown-ups around me—they held the Indians in contempt. We were even there on their reservation, without thinking to ask permission!

  The trip home must have been long and tiring, but I remember my growing excitement as we came nearer to Kalispell. Traveling has always made the return tense for me; excitement builds until I cannot bear to be met, but want to savor the return all the way from the station, all the way home! For a day or two I prefer to be alone, to look newly on all that I know from a previous time, to see the changes, try to glimpse the meaning of what has happened and is happening, to hear with a stranger’s more alert ear the voices I know well, to see with that more acute eye all that I jealously claim as my own. It is perhaps one of the chief joys of traveling: to come home.

  In early years no limit was set on game to be taken, although a hunting season was declared and we always had a full allowance. A large part of our meat for the winter was game, especially venison, of which Mama made mincemeat. She canned some of the meat with a pressure cooker; haunches were taken to the butcher, who smoked them for us and sliced them thin, and he also kept fresh meat for us in his lockers until we needed it. We sent meat to friends in town who had no hunter in their household; fish or small game was shared too. In my household of four hunters, with my mother sometimes making the fifth, we always had plenty of game. Papa sometimes took visitors from back east on these hunting trips, and after the hunt we had a feast of the game they brought home. One time a heap of ducks lay in the middle of the kitchen floor, and Mama sat pulling the feathers while the ducks were still warm. She looked up, and a duck, bare of feathers, rose from the pile and staggered across the kitchen before it fell, dead.

  Papa carved and served at all our meals. I sat at his right hand, and Mama sat at the other end of the table laden with food for the feast. All the hunters were seated, including the friends from back east who had joined the hunt, and neighbors and friends were invited. All of us were talking, waiting for our plates to be served. Papa finished carving a duck, served a plate, and passed it to the most important guest. He started to carve another duck, and it slipped—it flew across the room to land beyond Mama’s shoulder on the side-board among the dishes!

  The visitors from back east kept my parents in touch with families and friends. At times chance visitors to Kalispell whom Papa met at the Post Office were invited to the hunt and the feast; any traveler was welcome at our table.

  I used to sit on my parents’ bed watching Mama dress to go out in the evening. She wore a different corset from her everyday corset, and she looped the strings over the bedpost and backed away from it to pull the waist in tighter, making her bosom and hips seem large, her waist small. Under the corset was a chemise; over the corset she put on a camisole which tied under her bosom with a string and was elaborate with embroidery and lace at the top. She then pulled on under-drawers edged with lace at the knees. Petticoats came next, several if they were starched and lacy, or she sometimes wore a beautiful taffeta petticoat that changed color from purple to green and rustled, almost whistled. Sometimes she wore a white sequin-covered evening dress, which was her finest. Another I liked was of pink plaid taffeta with a full skirt—this was an afternoon dress which she wore to parties more formal than her Bridge Club. Mama’s hair was bright auburn and long, falling to her hips as she brushed it until it shone. She piled it high and put in a little comb or hairpins here and there, until it stayed where she had piled it. She dusted her face with rice-powder; all the color in her face was her own and she couldn’t have used more. Papa and Mama kissed us goodbye, and we watched them from the doorway as they left the house for the evening. After they left, we had a moment of feeling lost. In a wild sort of spree we could do as we wanted, but what did we want? We could and did stay up late; my brothers telephoned their girlfriends, teasing them and acting mysterious over the phone. Then our spirits lagged, and it was hard to keep up the pitch of excitement that had surged. We withdrew, Paul to his clarinet and I to my book; later Wendell usually read to me, put me to bed, heard my prayers and kissed me goodnight.

  Our neighbors the Coles had come from England by way of Tasmania, 40° south of the equator, all the way to Montana, 40° north of the equator. Their eldest girl was named Tasmania for her birthplace. Raymond, their youngest child, and I (the youngest in my family) were friends. Since we were the older children on our block, Raymond and I chose our companions from the younger children for our games: Run-Sheep-Run, Hide and Seek, Anny High Over. The U.S. was at war and we played Huns and Allies; we must have made our game too real, because I was afraid to go home when I was called to supper. Raymond and I always vied for leadership, and although he was my most interesting companion, sometimes I sat on his chest and beat him. One day my mother called from the doorway, “Mary, get up off Raymond—you’re getting too big for that!” And a difference was made in our play.

  When the Coles had a pile of sand dumped in their back yard for construction work, the kids of the neighborhood came to play in the sandpile. We made a park with little stones and tips of shrubs for trees, but we needed the look of water; after trying pieces of glass for water surface we found that smashed glass produced the effect of water for our fountains, streams, and ponds. We had made a beautiful park and we stood up to admire it, calling to Raymond’s mother, “Come and see!” She looked closely and began removing our smashed glass, and she sent us home although we promised not to smash glass any more.

  After school, as I was the youngest and schooldays were shorter for me, I was the first one to reach home. I would race upstairs to the toilet, and as I sat my brothers arrived, raced upstairs and, standing in a row, peed into the bathtub. Then I went down to the cellar for an apple and a handful of peanuts from a hundred-pound bag that Papa had bought; I ate them raw, but Mama roasted them for the rest of the family. With my apple and my peanuts in my pocket I emerged on my back porch to survey the back yards and to find playmates. In autumn we played in the leaves. We marked out rooms with rows of heaped-up leaves, added halls and gardens, played at housekeeping and visited each other’s house. Or we heaped a mountain of leaves to run and jump into, and for a few days when the frosts first came we walked to school through piles of gold and red.

  Two factions among the kids on our block (perhaps from the two sides of the street) warred, with the red berries from mountain ash trees providing ammunition. We fought all the way home from school, and once when we got home Raymond and I captured Sylvia, who was perhaps two years old, from the other group. Armed with bayonets and swords from my brothers’ belongings in the basement, the two of us marched out to defend our prisoner. We brandished our arms, and Sylvia’s mother came forth to take Sylvia into the house. She sent us home, warning us not to play with real weapons again—and she was unarmed!

  Next door there lived an old Norwegian couple, who owned a rug with great red roses woven into it. When the old woman baked flatbread on top of her big kitchen stove, she would call to Raymond and
me. She buttered and sugared the hot flatbread, a piece for each of us, and we sat happily on her rug in her living room eating the fresh flatbread.

  On the way to school in the winter-time, in the gloaming of winter-short days, I met farmers driving sledges loaded with wood. The low sledges had wooden runners, for the roads and streets were snow-covered all winter long. I would run and step on a runner, clinging to the sledge. Other children joined me, and we rode to school behind the half-frozen farmer and his powerful team of steaming horses. The horses liked the cold and the farmer talked to them: “Gee now, slow there girl, steady, steady.” As we reached the school and hopped off we shouted our thanks, and he raised his arm in salute.

  In winter my brothers took me with them to the coulée* with our dog Zeewag, trained by Paul to pull me on my sled. Paul went beside the sled on skis, sometimes letting one ski fly ahead of him, slipping his foot back into the ski-strap when he had caught up to it. At the coulée we unharnessed Zeewag, and Paul and I coasted down one side of the coulée and halfway up the other. We harnessed Zeewag again to pull the sled to the top. On other occasions our whole family went with our toboggan to the coulée, and we all piled on the toboggan to go flying down the steep side faster than the sled had gone and far up the other side of the coulée.

  We waited eagerly for the ice to thicken on the skating pond; my brothers and their friends cleared the snow from the ice with a long-handled scraper, which they pulled or shoved over the ice, piling the snow at the edges of the pond where the edge-grasses grew and the ice was spongy and soft. In the center the ice was clear, and on the bottom bubbles moved in a sluggish current under the ice. I remember the skating pond at night, with a bonfire blazing near the path where we sat to lace on our skating-shoes or to clamp on our skates. Before I could balance myself alone on my skates, a brother or my father took me round and round the pond. The high-school girls and boys skated fast alone or circled the pond arm in arm almost dreamily, the boy holding the girl with his arm around her waist. As they skated near the fire they became bright and visible, but as they went on into the darkness they almost disappeared. On winter nights my brothers always ate supper fast, to hurry to the pond.