Footprints in the Snow
By Ronald Ady Crouch
Digital ISBNs
EPUB 978-1-77362-801-1
Kindle 978-1-77362-802-8
WEB 978-1-77362-803-5
Copyright 2014 by Ronald Ady Crouch
Cover Art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Dedicated to all the snowman builders out there …
Chapter One
It was my tenth birthday as I recall, many years ago now, far too many years ago for me to remember a lot of things that happened in my childhood. This story however, remains as vivid in my imagination as if it were only yesterday when these strange events took place over seventy years ago.
My birthday was on a Monday, a school day. A whole five days of school before the weekend. A Wednesday would have been better, at least it would be in the middle of the school week and downhill to Saturday. I remember thinking to myself, If I was the Prime Minister of Canada, all children under the age of thirteen years would have the day off on their birthday. First class Monday morning was always arithmetic with Mr. Earl, a very strict and severe schoolteacher. Woe betide anyone who arrived in class without their homework completed and ready to hand in. Mr. Earl had the habit of pacing around the classroom, slapping a thin cane against his leg, making a dull thwack as it struck the thick material of his pant leg. It was shaped like a walking stick, but would have been of no use for such a purpose. No, this cane was specially designed for only one purpose, as a means of punishment. Failing to have your homework completed on time meant three beatings on the rear end while bent over the teacher’s desk. We called that horrible instrument of torture, Sting. I was well acquainted with Sting. It would not have mattered that it was my birthday, birthdays were not exceptions for a thrashing for some indiscretion.
I lived with my parents on a farm in rural Ontario along with my adopted brother Jake, he was two years younger than me. I say was, because he passed away five years ago. Pity, he was a good chap and would have been able to verify the facts of this narrative were he still with us. Anyway, that morning I entered the kitchen to the familiar smell of oatmeal cooking in a large pot on the cast-iron woodstove, the sound of Happy Birthday being sung out of tune by my family.
“Happy birthday son,” said my dad, handing me a small parcel wrapped in thick brown paper. Mom bought a huge roll of it on sale at the farmers’ market, everything got wrapped in it, no matter what the occasion. Mom set a steaming bowl of oatmeal at the head of the large pine harvest table. Dad’s place, but this morning, by tradition it was my place in honour of my birthday.
“Open it,” my mother said. Whatever was underneath the paper, was encased in a cardboard box. That much I could deduce. Whatever was inside was weighty and loose inside the box, I knew that because it slid from one end of the box to the other as I tilted the package. In mom’s neat, artistic handwriting were the words, Happy Birthday Shawn. Love Mom, Dad, Jake and Pepi. Pepi’s our black and white Border collie. He’s a working dog, earning his keep by rounding up the sheep. We have a lot of them. As you can appreciate, I’m sure, opening a present is a moment to be savoured. I wasn’t one to tear off the paper in a frenzy. No, that wasn’t my way. Carefully I pried up the brown tape at each end, then slid my index finger along the package exposing the plain, thin cardboard box beneath. It couldn’t be helped, some of the brown paper tore away, adhering to the sticky tape despite the great care I was taking. I folded the paper neatly and placed it on the table beside my oatmeal, then wiggled my finger under the small flap thus opening one end of the box, allowing an object with a dark-brown wooden handle and brass edging to slide into the palm of my hand. A magnificent Buck Knife with a single blade that must have been at least four inches long.
“Thank you,” I said, almost speechless. “It’s just what I wanted.” Jake sat beaming across the table at me.
“I helped choose it,” he said proudly.
Dad, a bear of a man, in size that is, tousled my hair, mom bent down and hugged me. “You’re welcome Shawn,” she said. “I’d prefer you didn’t take it to school though. You might lose it.” In later years I came to realize that wasn’t the real reason she didn’t want me to take it to school. “Leave it in your bedroom until you get home.” I nodded.
“Other than school, keep it with you at all times. A knife is a useful tool to have with you, you never know when you’re going to need it. I guarantee, the time you leave it behind because you can’t be bothered to go back and get it will be the time you need it.”
“Yes Dad.” I opened the blade “Wow! You had it inscribed with my name.” Shawn McKenzie – Explorer.
“As it’s your birthday, I’ll drive you boys to school,” said my mother.
“But it’s not my birthday,” said Jake.
She smiled at him. “Jake, when it’s a special day, sometimes we all get to share in it.”
“Because it’s your birthday Shawn, no farm chores for you this morning. Jake, you mind helping your dad this morning?”
“Sure Dad.”
“Okay then, eat your breakfast and we’ll make a start before school. You see to the sheep, give them some hay and a little grain and check their water. Make sure you only take the grain from the bin marked sheep, give them the wrong grain, they’ll get bloat and die.”
“I know Dad, Shawn told me that already.”
“I’ll take care of the horses, the cattle and the pigs. When you’ve done the sheep, see to the chickens and collect any eggs.”
“Okay Dad. I hope that rooster’s not around, he’s mean. Last week he chased me all around the back yard, I ran around the pine tree three times and he was still right on my heels.”
“I know son, we were all watching from the kitchen window howling with laughter. It was like something out of a cartoon. Take the broom with you this time, but don’t hurt him, just keep him at bay.”
“I don’t know Dad, he’s pretty mean.”
“He’s just protecting his girls Jake,” said mom. “Don’t wear that bright red jacket this time, he’s got a thing about bright colours, wear that old brown one of Shawn’s. Don’t turn your back on him either, he’ll creep up on you and just when you least expect it, he’ll attack.”
“We should have him for dinner,” said dad.
“No!” said Jake, with a look of horror on his face.
“I thought you didn’t like him?”
“I do kinda like him Dad, because he’s different.”
I poured maple syrup over my oatmeal, harvested from our very own maple trees. Mom sold bottles of it at the farmer’s market every Saturday along with fresh farm eggs. In the summer she sold fresh strawberries and raspberries, in the fall, apples and pears, all grown on our farm. We kept our own bees and always had a plentiful supply of honey. During the week she ran the farm shop next to the house. During the holidays Jake and I helped her out as we did every Saturday at the market, unless dad needed a hand with something on the farm, then I stayed behind to help him.
While dad and Jake attended to the chores, I sat at the table staring at my Buck Knife, full of pride and happiness. I heard my mother laughing, glanced up to see her looking out the kitchen window, I joined her quickly. Jake was running for his life across the snow-covered garden, our Plymouth Rock rooster in hot pursuit.
* * *
Despite my birthday being on a school day, there was o
ne other dark cloud building on the horizon … the cleaning out of granddad’s bungalow. Grandma had died the year before, on a school day, just like her to be considerate so Jake and me got the day off. Granddad had recently moved into a seniors’ residence in the village. Normally my grandparents would have been having breakfast with us, celebrating my birthday. Our recently installed telephone rang, making us all jump. We hadn’t yet got used to this modern piece of technology.
“It’ll be for you Shawn,” said my mother. I picked up the heavy black receiver.
“Happy birthday Shawn!” said granddad, his deep gravelly voice sounding older somehow, but then he was ninety. I told him we would be coming over to see him after school. “Good,” he said. “The cake will be here waiting for you. I know it’s your birthday, but that’s no excuse not to work hard at school, it’ll pay off in the end you know.”
“I know Granddad,” I sighed.
It was nice not having to trudge the two and a half miles through the snow to the old school house. As soon as my mother dropped Jake and me off, my job was to get the woodstove going and with Jake’s help, bring in more logs to feed it. I watched the snow falling heavily outside the window. The snow created an air of excitement mixed with anxiety inside the classroom. The small rural red brick school was really just one big room filled with our desks and chairs. Mr. Earl must have felt the atmosphere changing in the classroom.
“Settle down everybody. We haven’t finished reciting the tables. Robert, recite the six times table please.” I was pretty sure I would get the seven times. I sat looking down at my desk, eyes closed praying I wouldn’t get picked, willing myself to become invisible. “Very good Robert. Now Shawn, the seven times table please. Shawn, are you paying attention?”
It was a complete disaster. “Well, someone needs to work on their tables. Mary, the seven times table please.” Mary Conner was flawless. “Well done Mary.” Mr. Earl beamed with pride, then looked at me and scowled, slapping the side of his pant leg extra hard with the cane, making the whole class jump. I felt my heart pounding inside my chest. “First thing tomorrow morning Shawn you will recite the seven and the nine times table without any mistakes, otherwise you will not be allowed outside. Is that understood?”
“Yes Mr. Earl.”
“What is it Jake?”
“It’s my brother’s birthday today.”
“No excuses.”
By Friday afternoon the snow was almost waist deep.
Chapter Two
“Five more lambs born this morning,” said Jake full of excitement. Dad began to rise from the table. “Shawn and I helped deliver one, she’s suckling now with her brother.”
“The other ewe had triplets,” I said. “Two girls and a boy. The boy has black and white patches, he looks like a Holstein cow. We put them in separate pens in the barn, Jake did a really good job.”
“Well done the pair of you. I’ll head out to the barn, you two finish your breakfast. How’s the rest of the flock?”
“They’re good,” replied Jake. “We gave them some hay and feed and checked their water. Jacky has them rounded up in the pole barn.”
“She’s one good donkey,” said dad. “Very protective of the whole flock. We’re going to have to think about getting another donkey as the flock grows, one like Jacky, already used to sheep.”
As dad headed out to the barn, mom was smiling at us. She came around the table and put her arms around Jake and me. She smelled like freshly baked bread and lavender, a smell I’ll never forget. Even now, if I get the tiniest whiff of either scent, I’m immediately reminded of my mother and find myself transported back in time to that moment.
When dad returned from the barn he was carrying a basket full of fresh brown eggs. “Picked these up from the chicken coup on my way back in. Okay boys see if your mother needs a hand with anything, the market won’t be open this Saturday because of the snow. I’m heading in to the Township depot to pick up the snowplow, the roads aren’t going to clear themselves.” Dad gave mom a hug and a peck on the cheek before leaving for work.
As dad’s old Ford pick-up truck bounced down the farm lane mom said, “I won’t really need you boys this morning. Why don’t the two of you build a snowman together? I’ll find you an old hat and scarf you can use, you go grab a large carrot for his nose. I’ve got some old golf balls I painted black for an art class, you can use them for buttons down his front.”
“What about his eyes Mom?” said Jake.
“I’ll paint you two golf-ball eyes. By the time you’ve made him, I’ll have them ready for you.”
“Thanks Mom,” I said. “You’re the best.”
“You’re very welcome.”
* * *
“Where shall we make him Shawn?”
“Somewhere he can look over the whole farm and we can see him from the kitchen window.”
“Up the hill by the fence,” said Jake pointing. “Next to the field where the Belgians are.” I looked up the hill to where Barney and Lucy, our huge Belgian plough horses were standing, looking over the gate.
“Perfect,” I said. “Come on, we’ve got ourselves a snowman to build. Not any snowman, but a huge snowman.”
Jake and I trudged up the hill armed with snow shovels. We started off by making a large snowball, then began to roll it along the fence line. As we did so, it began to grow in size as the snow on the ground began to stick to it. Eventually it was just too big and too heavy for us to move it any farther, despite the two of us putting our backs into it.
“Guess this is where we’re gonna start building it,” said Jake. “Seeing as we can’t move it anymore.”
“This position is as good as any,” I replied. “It’s a good ten feet from the fence so the horses can’t reach over and grab the carrot off his face. It’s still not big enough though, we’ll have to add more snow, build it up then smooth it off.”
By the time we had finished with the base of our snowman, it must have been well over five feet high. We rolled another ball of snow along the ground to make his middle, but had to take some off, we couldn’t lift it off the ground onto the lower part of his body, it was so heavy. Once we did get it positioned, it looked like a large white soccer ball sitting on top of a huge white boulder, totally out of proportion. Jake looked up at me, his dark brown face flecked with snow. We both nodded in agreement and began adding more snow to his middle. By the time we’d finished, he must have been standing nearly eight feet tall, even without his head.
“Jake we’re going to need a ladder if we’re ever going to put his head on. I’ll head on down to the workshop and get one, if you don’t mind staying here and continue smoothing off the rough edges.”
By the time I got back, Jake had him as smooth as a billiard ball. Getting his snowball head on top of his body proved more difficult than I imagined. Jake did his best to hold the stepladder steady as I struggled to climb the ladder carrying the watermelon size snowball in my arms, pressed against my chest. As I was about to place it on top of his body, the ladder wobbled, I lost my balance and tumbled backwards into the deep snow, still clutching the over-sized snowball. It felt like the ram had smashed into my chest, knocking the air out of my lungs. I was stunned and gasping for air. Faintly I heard a faraway voice … “Shawn! Are you okay?” I had the sensation of flying upwards, which was partly true. Jake had grabbed my ankles, where he got the strength from I don’t know, but somehow he dragged me out of the snow. What was to be the snowman’s head fell away from my chest, giving me instant relief and that wonderful sensation of air flowing back into my lungs.
“I thought you were dead,” said Jake, looking genuinely concerned.
“Funny, I did too. Okay, let’s try that again, but this time, try not to let the ladder wobble will you?”
“Sorry Shawn, I didn’t mean to. Anyway, the good news is, you didn’t break his head in your fall.”
“No, just mine.”
“That’s good then, probably knocked some sense int
o you.”
“Jake, you’re starting to sound just like Dad.” That made him smile. To be thought of like dad, what a compliment.
The next attempt was another disaster, only this time I jumped clear of the ladder at the same time pushing the snowman’s head away from me. I heard Pepi barking, turned to see mom trudging up the hill through the snow.
“I figured you boys could do with a hand. I was watching you out the kitchen window, then I saw you fall backwards into the snow. At first I was in fits of laughter, quickly replaced by concern when I didn’t immediately see you reappear, then relief when I saw Jake pulling you out and helping you to your feet.”
Though my mother was a petite woman, she was unbelievably strong. “Okay, you boys hold the ladder, I’ll climb the ladder and place his head on top. I thought you were building a snowman, not a snow giant,” she laughed. After getting his head finally into position, Jake and I began handing up shovelfuls of snow so mom could enlarge the snowman’s head to be in proportion to the rest of his body. As Jake was the expert at smoothing him out, removing all the rough areas, we let him climb the ladder and add his finishing touches. He did a great job.
“I forgot to bring the bag up with his hat and scarf and the painted golf balls. You carry on here, I’ll go and fetch them. You might as well put his nose on while I’m gone.”
“You do it Jake,” I said.
“You don’t mind me doing it?”
“Of course not, look how well you smoothed him out, very professional I think.”
“Thanks Shawn,” he said full of excitement.
Shortly afterwards mom was making her way back up the hill carrying a bag and dragging a dead tree branch behind her. Pepi was still with her. He was her dog after all. She trained him from a puppy. Not only was he an expert sheepdog, but a good pet too. She looked up at the snowman in amazement.
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