I stare with amazement as a horse drawn wagon, loaded with three chickens, a sack of grain and a package wrapped in brown paper rattle by and stop just beyond a small building with a bell tower.
[24] I stare at the stores as we walk along the wooden sidewalk toward Main Street. The buildings are all made of wood, not brick, not cement. As we walk by the store front windows, my reflection rolls like waves on the shores of Lake Roosevelt on a calm sunny day.
We turn and walk down Main Street two blocks to the edge of town, or at least it seems like the edge of town because the wooden sidewalk comes abruptly to an end. I sit down and dangle my sore feet off the edge of the wooden planks.
“You see that building?” William asks pointing to the store right behind me.
I had thought it seemed odd a moment ago, but my attention had been more focused on my feet. I glance over my shoulder at the sign in the window. “Yeah, I see it. It’s a bakery.”
[25]
“Did you notice that it is built from brick?”
I take a second look. Sure enough. A light red, sandy-looking brick. I peer down the street at the other stores. Those seem to be constructed entirely of wood.
“That’s cool,” I say.
William’s eyes betray an instant of perplexing hesitation and I decide that the word ‘cool’ does not have the same connotation in 1866 as it does in my century. However, William takes my comment literally.
“Yeah, I suppose,” he replies slowly. Then with pride he states, “It was built from Roworth bricks. Mr. Roworth says that bricks are fireproof
[26], and that everyone should build out of bricks.”
“He’s got a good point, William. Bricks won’t burn like wood will, that’s for sure. And besides,” I add, “you could save a whole forest of trees.”
I get that blank look again. “So, did you actually make any of the bricks in this building, you know, in the brickyard?”
“No,” William answers. He leans over and rubs the brick wall with his fingers as if the rough sandy texture will enhance his memory, “The Bakery was built in 1862. I did not start working for Mr. Roworth until the summer of 1864.
[27] But, I heard Mr. Roworth talk about adding onto the Bakery with another brick building. The bricks we started to make today will be used for that.”
“That’s great!” I say. But in my mind I think, Cool! I rub my feet and then carefully tear long straight pieces of apron cloth and wrap my sore feet, tying the ends of cloth in flat, Boy Scout-perfect square knots.
I feel different now, I think. Different in a calm sort of way. It feels really good to have my feet covered for a change. In my mind, though, I know it is more than that. For the first time since coming to William Cottle’s home I feel peaceful and calm. I now know where I am. And it is hard to believe, but I am in the year 1866. I know this, and because I can now accept this incredible fact, I can also come to terms and accept how I got here. The spirit pouch. I put authentic items into the old leather bag. A totally white stone, a real dove’s feather, a vial with actual water, a bean and something personal, which was my cross country medal. The spirit pouch brought me here, I am sure. But why here, in Colorado of all places? I will have to think about that. But at least I know how I got here, and knowing that, I also know how to get home. That makes me feel calm and happy.
Smiling, I stand up and test my new rag shoes. “The pioneers would have been lucky to have such nice shoes,” I say smiling again. I can tell that William does not entirely follow what I am saying. Of course, I am referring to the Mormon pioneers and how some of them wore their shoes out and had to tie rags around their feet.
“They won’t last very long,” William says.
“Yeah,” I admit. “It’s a good thing I get the real boots tomorrow. Thanks, by the way, for lending me some money.”
“Hey, what are friends for if they can’t help each other?”
“Thanks.”
We walk up the road and manage to hitch a ride on a wagon that is going to Dogtown. The whole ride is only a little over a half a mile, but with my sore feet every step I can avoid is a blessing.
We arrive home at about 6:30 P.M. It really is William’s home, a cabin in Dogtown, Colorado. But it feels like my home, probably because Elizabeth and Henry treat me like one of the family. Like a son and a brother to William. It is far more than I deserve.
I stand on the front porch for a moment and soak up the peaceful surroundings. The sun is deep on the horizon and getting ready to set as it paints a few straggly clouds orange on the fringes. A gust of cool wind from the west touches my face and then seems to filter through my shirt. A dog barks in the distance and a couple of birds flitter across the open meadow. A light appears in the small window of the nearest neighboring cabin.
Annie pokes her head out the door. “Supper’s ready,” she says, disappearing as fast as a mouse going into a hole.
I push the door open and step inside. The family is gathering at the table. Annie and Joseph have already landed in their designated spots.
“Jared, its good to see you!” Elizabeth smiles as she places a large pot on the table. “Did you have a good day?”
“Yes. Yes I did, thank you. And your day went well, too, I hope?” I inquire, trying to be a polite guest.
“Yes. It is a lot of work around here, but I have good helpers.” Her eyes settle on Annie for a moment and then back on me. “Jared, why don’t you sit next to Tom again? Scoot over a little and leave room for Grandmother and Grandfather."
I sit down and join the rest of the family as they take their places around the table. Henry glances around, “William, would you ask a blessing on this food, please?” I bow my head.
“Dear God, we are thankful for our home, our family, our friends and our food. Please bless this food for our good and please bless those who prepared it. Amen.”
“Henry, would you dish yourself some stew,” Elizabeth directs, “and then, Tom, when the stew gets to you would you dish some up for Annie and Joseph?”
Annie scrunches her lips together and makes a face of unspoken protest which seems to say, “I’m big enough to dish my own food.” I am just excited to know that it is stew in that pot, and not grits. As soon as the lid comes off the pot I can smell the meat and potatoes, and my mouth is already watering.
Before the stew comes around to me, Tom hands me a plate of rolls and then butter. I slap some on my warm roll and watch it melt into the soft brown surface for all of about one second and then take a bite. “Hey, this butter is real!” I exclaim. I get that blank stare from George and his grandmother, Mary. I am beginning to catch on more quickly, though. Of course the butter is real. They have a cow. Margarine probably has not even been invented yet. “Ah … real … real … really good! George, would you please pass the milk?” I say changing the subject a little. I pour myself a full glass of real milk, lumps and all.
“So, Jared, how was your day at the brickyard?” Henry asks as he sets a hot roll onto his plate. “Did you make a lot of bricks?”
“Yes, sir. We made a ton of bricks.” At least it seems like a ton, I think. “I helped Jack in the pit making pug clay. We made nine hundred bricks?” I look at William for clarification.
“Yep. Nine hundred bricks. And Jared is going to feel all nine hundred in the morning because he carried almost all the clay for them.”
William is right. I am sore already. Mostly in my arms and shoulders. And my feet are sore, too, of course.
“What did he pay you?” Henry asks.
“One dollar and fifty cents,” I answer proudly. I have never been paid such low wages in my life, but I was glad to get a dollar fifty. And my boots are partly paid for. That is good.
Annie nudges Joseph, “I wish I had a dollar fifty.” Her eyes sparkle and I can tell she thinks she would be rich with a dollar and fifty cents. “I could get some new marbles, and …” She pauses and I can tell she is dreaming of all the other things she could buy.
�
��Can I have your old marbles?” Joseph asks.
“No. You have to buy your own,” Annie says snapping out of her daze and poking Joseph with her elbow.
“You should ask for more pay,” Henry finishes his thought. “That’s hard work and Mr. Hooper should pay at least two dollars per day. Isn’t that what they pay you, William?”
[28]
“Yeah, and I didn’t work in the pit, either. Of course, you could make a lot more if you worked in the mines.”
“William.” Elizabeth is giving William the Mother’s Evil Eye. “We already discussed this.”
“I know, Mom,” William says. “I was just letting Jared know what jobs were around here.”
“I heard there were some gold mines around here,” I say innocently. “Do they actually find any gold?”
I get that incredible stare again, like I am an alien, and have just asked something stupid, like if there is any water on the planet Earth. Actually, if an alien beams down to Arizona it might not be so stupid to ask if there is any water, but apparently in Dogtown it is stupid to ask if there is any gold around here. So, I smile like I am telling a joke.
Annie starts to giggle. I am glad that we made friends this morning. She saves me from the incredible alien stare. “Of course there is gold, silly,” she laughs. “There is gold everywhere.” Everyone laughs.
“Even in the rivers, huh Father?” Joseph says authoritatively.
“There used to be gold everywhere,” Henry answers. “Now most of it is underground, in the mines. A few years ago, you could just shovel dirt into a sluice box
[29] or a Long Tom, and wash it with water. But now you have to dig it out of the ground and then crush the quartz and rock to get it out. Even so, there is a lot of gold that is in the rock that we cannot get out.
[30] I work in the mines digging out the ore. It is very hard work, but it pays well. At least it has until now.”
I take a big bite of stew, scraping the bottom of my bowl, and savoring the lingering taste. Dinner is warm and filling, and I feel like leaning back and closing my eyes. As dinner ends, Elizabeth stands up and takes her dishes into the kitchen. To be polite, I grab my bowl and spoon and glass and follow her into the kitchen.
“Let me help you do the dishes,” I volunteer. I am rather proud of myself. This is actually a first for me, to volunteer for kitchen duty. And I am mentally prepared to wash the dishes by hand. I know that there will be no electric dish washer in 1866. I figure that in 1866 everyone helps with the chores, and I am ready to do my part.
Elizabeth laughs. “That is very thoughtful of you, Jared,” she says, setting her dishes on the counter. “But it is a woman’s job to take care of the kitchen. Having a man in the kitchen is asking for disaster. Next thing I know my dishes will be all chipped and broken. Thank you, Jared, but Annie and I will take care of the dishes.”
Annie scowls as she enters the kitchen carrying several empty bowls. She obviously has heard the last part of her mother’s kitchen lecture. I feel smug, though. This is my sort of place. No dishes to do, no cooking, and no room to clean. Mostly because I do not have a room, I think. My smugness quickly fades away into sadness as I remember my spirit pouch desire. I had wished to go to a place where I did not have a room to clean or dishes to do. I actually miss helping my mom. For a moment my heart sinks as I think of home.
I must look a little dejected, too, because Elizabeth places her arm around my shoulders and gives me a little motherly squeeze. “At the first light of the morning, though,” she adds, “you can chop some wood for the stove and the fireplace. That is a man’s job.”
“I can do that,” I say, backing out of the kitchen before I have to make eye contact with Annie who is quietly smirking by the sink. Besides, I think it best to quickly leave before I get assigned another chore. When I turn around William is there smiling.
“Joseph and I are going to get water, William says holding out some metal buckets. “Do you want to come?”
“Sure,” I answer quickly. “I’m not sure that I can carry one more bucket today, though.”
William laughs. “Probably not. Come on,” he motions toward the open front door.
As we step off the front porch William says, “It will be getting dark soon, so we need to hurry.” He looks at Joseph.
Joseph picks up a rock and throws it across the field nearly pegging a small chipmunk. “Oh, all right,” he grumbles. Carrying water does not sound like his favorite job. “I already got one bucket earlier today, you know.”
“I guess you are getting pretty strong then,” I smile, ruffling his hair a little. He runs a few steps ahead of us as we head along a faint trail.
A cool breeze is blowing in from the west and the sky is turning gray in the east. A silver-colored, long bushy-tailed squirrel scurries across the grassy meadow ahead of us and a robin stops to watch us pass by. It is a cool quiet evening and we walk in silence for a short ways.
“When we get back I need you to show me where the axe and the wood are,” I say, picking my footsteps carefully to avoid sharp rocks. “I’m supposed to chop wood for the fireplace and stove.”
“Okay,” both Joseph and William answer in unison.
“I’ll show you tomorrow in the morning,” William replies, giving Joseph a little shove. “Joseph could show you. He knows where the axe is, but I have to get up and care for the oxen in the morning anyway.”
“Holy cow! Are those yours?”
“Yeah. My father bought them yesterday,” William explains. “Father says he is going to buy two more as soon as he can find some for sale.”
“What does he want oxen for?” I quiz. “Is he going to plow some land and do a little farming?”
[31]
“Here in Dogtown?” William shakes his head. “No. Father is not much of a farmer. He would have a hard time even getting weeds to grow! What I really think is that Father is planning to move soon. He hasn’t made an official announcement to the family yet, though.”
“Where would you go?” I ask, a little surprised by the news.
“Utah,” William says, kneeling down by the stream where the water slips quickly between two rocks. “Father has always talked of going to Utah. Maybe this time we actually will.”
William fills two buckets for himself to carry and one bucket for Joseph. Then reaching into the running stream he splashes some water onto his face, wiping it off with his sleeve. Cupping both hands he scoops up some stream water and drinks it from his palms.
“Don’t you want to boil it first?” I ask, watching him reach for another scoop of water.
“Boil what?” William glances at me through the corner of his eye.
“The stream water,” I answer, a little incredulously. I mean, maybe the water in my time is more polluted, but even in 1866 stream water can have bacteria in it, especially with all the cabins around here. Or maybe a cow or ox waded through the stream up above somewhere and one would never know. You might get sick with dysentery or sick from Giardia.
[32] “Shouldn’t you wait until your mom boils it?”
“Are you kidding?” William laughs. “I don’t want hot water. It is way more refreshing cold.”
“Aren’t you concerned about bacteria?” I ask, wondering if William is just leading me on in an effort to be funny.
William gives me that look that seems to say, “You need to repair your universal translator,” or, “I didn’t understand a word you just said.”
“If you drink stream water without boiling it first,” I explain, “it can make you sick.”
“I don’t know what they teach you over there in Arizona,” William laughs. “But that is crazy. I’ve been drinking stream water all my life.”
“And do you get sick?” I ask.
“Sure, every now and then.”
“Well, that’s my point.”
“That’s still crazy,” William protests. “Everybody gets sick from time to time.”
I decide to drop the subject. Wi
thout a microscope I am not going to convince William that there are tiny little bugs called bacteria swimming in his water. And he is not going to believe that they are so small that you can not see them with the naked eye, and that those bugs will make him sick. Who am I kidding! I wouldn’t even believe that story if I had not seen them myself.
[33]
We do not talk much as we walk slowly back to the cabin. I help Joseph carry his bucket and my thoughts slip away almost a century and a half to my own home. I guess I never gave much thought to how blessed I really am. Just clean, pure running water right in our home is a blessing. Shoes are a blessing, too, I think, being reminded by a sharp stone under my wrapped foot.
As we reach the front porch of the cabin Joseph leaves me holding the bucket of water and runs ahead to open the door. While we were fetching water, the rest of the family transformed the small room where the dining table was, into a family room by scooting the table over to the wall under the window. The entire family is gathered in a circle and Henry is standing in the center.
“Put the water in the kitchen, please,” Elizabeth directs, “and then come join us.” She is talking to me, I notice, because William is already setting his buckets on the counter.
When I return from the kitchen I sit down next to William on the floor. Joseph has squeezed into the circle and sits next to his grandmother on a bench.
“Tonight we are going to read a few pages from the book of Mosiah,” Henry announces.
My mouth drops open. “Mosiah?” I ask in astonishment. Maybe I didn’t hear correctly. Maybe he said Nehemiah, or Jeremiah, or Zechariah. I mean, what are the chances that I would be sitting in the year 1866, in Colorado no less, in the home of Henry and Elizabeth, and what are the chances they would have a Book of Mormon? I ask myself. I would say pretty slim.
Spirit Pouch Page 9
