“I think he likes you, Bridge.” I ran my hand up and around his tail. “Look, it’s so curly, just like a giant spring.”
“Hi, puppy dog.” She hugged him around the neck, speaking through a mouthful of fur. I fervently hoped the dog didn’t have fleas or some ghastly disease. I wanted to give him a bath, but I wasn’t sure whether he would stand for that.
“Let’s take him down to the creek and see if he’ll go into the water.”
We put on our jackets and headed outside. When we reached the edge of the mowed yard, I took Bridget’s hand and we waded through the heavy, sharp-bladed grass.
This was virgin grass, so tall in places that all we could see was the hairy hoop of the dog’s tail bouncing along ahead of us.
As we rounded the curve of the creek, I glanced over my shoulder. I could no longer see the house. Even the grain field south of the house — the last reminder of civilization — had vanished. We were utterly surrounded by the natural world. After yesterday’s terrible fright, I was even more conscious of our isolation.
I checked my urge to run back to the yard. This was absurd. I knew exactly where we were, and there was no danger of getting lost. I had studied the Alberta Wheat Pool map dated 1963 on the back of the kitchen door and learned that this farm formed a north-south rectangle, one mile wide and two miles long. Across the short northern end of the rectangle, where the house and yard were situated, the creek emerged from the forest and formed a lazy loop before it wandered away toward the mighty Peace River. As we rounded the curve, the creek widened into a large pool, formed by the beaver dam at the far end.
Suddenly the dog froze with his ears cocked, his nose pointed toward the water. I stared in the same general direction, but I couldn’t see anything.
“Slap!” A sound like a pistol shot suddenly broke the stillness. I jumped and looked around nervously for the source of the sound.
“Mama!” Bridget clung to my leg in fear. The dog started to bark loudly and furiously at a circle of ripples widening in the pool.
Then I remembered my great-aunt’s diary. “It’s a beaver! The dog scared it, so the beaver slapped the water with his tail to make a noise and warn the others!”
She looked at me in surprise. “What’s a beaver?”
“It’s a furry little animal that lives in the water. They have flat tails like tennis rackets, and their teeth are so sharp that they can cut down trees.”
Bridget stared at me skeptically. I led her over to a pointed stump. “See, those little chips around the edge are the marks made by their teeth.”
“Do you think I could chew down a tree?” She thoughtfully fingered her tiny pearls.
“No, beavers are the only animals in the world that can do that.”
I pointed to the beaver lodge in the centre of the pool, rising above the surface of the water like a twiggy igloo. “The beavers swim under the water to their house, like an underground cave. They store their food in there, nice yummy green branches, so they have plenty to eat in the winter.”
That was the sum total of my knowledge about beavers. I was woefully ignorant about the natural world, especially the one that surrounded us.
We turned back toward the house, and the dog trotted beside us while I wondered how he had sensed the beaver’s presence before I had seen or heard anything. Maybe this dog could make himself useful after all.
Then I remembered the purpose for our walk: to give this bedraggled animal a bath. I tossed a stick into the creek, and the dog dove after it. Hopefully fleas couldn’t survive this icy water. He jumped out and shook himself furiously while we backed away, trying to avoid the freezing droplets.
“Mama, what should we call him?”
I thought of my great-aunt’s dog. “How about Riley?”
Bridget pondered for a minute, then called: “Here, Riley!” The dog turned and bounded toward us. “Look, Mama, he’s so smart that he already knows his own name!” She hugged and patted his wet fur ecstatically.
When we got home, we rubbed Riley down with an old towel and then went looking for shelter. We didn’t have to look very hard. There was a homemade doghouse in the barn. We dragged it close to the back steps and made a bed for him with ragged quilts.
Riley went into his house, turned around a couple of times, and lay down with a sigh of contentment, his head on his paws. “Look, Mama, he’s smiling!”
“So he is!” In spite of myself, I felt comforted by his presence. Including Fizzy, now there were four of us against the wilderness.
That evening I poured boiling water from the kettle into a round tin tub on the kitchen floor, already half-filled with icy water from the pump.
“No, you can’t put Fizzy in the tub. Cats don’t like water.”
“Could I give him a sponge bath?”
“Fizzy has his own way of cleaning himself, and he won’t appreciate your help.”
Bridget laid out two clean towels on the kitchen table, arranging the shampoo and conditioner so their labels faced in the same direction. Fortunately the upstairs linen cupboard yielded a good supply of towels, albeit a little threadbare.
The kitchen was pleasantly warm and steamy from the boiling kettle. The south-facing windows were still showing pale pink twilight as I lit the oil lamp, and the glow cast shadows into the corners.
When the water was the right temperature, Bridget climbed into the tub first. I reasoned that her little body would shed less grime than mine, but after I washed her hair and rinsed it by pouring water from the green-striped pitcher over her head, I looked at the bath water and felt less confident.
I didn’t want to empty the tub and start again, so I refreshed the murky water with another kettle of boiling water and stepped in. I sat in the tub with my knees under my chin while washing my own hair, awkwardly pouring three pitchers of lukewarm water over my head. Never again will I take hot showers for granted, I told myself grimly.
After I emptied the tub and mopped up the overflow on the kitchen floor, we donned our flannel pajamas, and I started to comb Bridget’s tangled curls. For the past week, I hadn’t even bothered. Now her hair was a mass of knots, like the matted clumps found in a stray cat’s fur. While I coaxed at the knots with a broad-toothed comb, she struggled and whined.
“Damn this hair,” she said tearfully.
“Bridget! That’s a bad word.”
“You say it all the time when you’re combing your hair.”
“Well, I won’t say it anymore. Anyway, I don’t think I can get these knots out.” I threw down the comb. “Maybe I should give you a haircut.”
“No! Mama, I don’t want to look like a boy!” Bridget’s lower lip stuck out, the usual warning sign before a tantrum.
“Think how much easier it will be to keep clean if your hair is short!”
Her lip stopped quivering and her face took on a thoughtful expression.
“You won’t have any knots. You could even comb it by yourself.”
“Well … okay. But not too short!”
“I’ll find the scissors.” With great care, I managed to comb the clumps a few inches away from Bridget’s scalp, and then cut each strand of hair to two inches, give or take. The knotted pieces fell to the floor, where Fizzy batted them around with his paws.
When I was finished, Bridget did resemble a curly-headed boy. I felt a pang as I remembered how adorable she looked when her hair was combed into ringlets and tied with ribbons.
“Do you want to see yourself?” I asked. She climbed onto the chair in front of the washstand and studied herself in the mirror with a delighted expression.
“I feel like my head is made of air. Air instead of hair! Get it, Mama?”
Each morning I stood at the bedroom window to admire the green and gold vista below, threaded by the silver shimmer of the creek. Today a few cloud shadows floated over the butter-coloured wheat stubble like boats drifting across a flat sea.
As Bridget reached into the chest of drawers for a pair of clean
overalls, I stopped her. “Just wear what you had on yesterday.”
“But I had a bath! And my pants are dirty!” She made a tragic face.
“They aren’t really dirty, they just have grass stains on the knees. I’m going to do laundry today, so you’ll have clean pants tomorrow.”
We had been here for five weeks. Everything we owned was stiff with grime and I couldn’t keep putting it off. After we finished our toast and peanut butter, Bridget went outside to play fetch with Riley while I tackled the laundry.
In the back kitchen was a slatted wooden bench stacked with three round tin tubs and a contraption that looked like two large rolling pins inside a wooden frame with a metal crank. It was obviously a manual clothes wringer.
I dragged the bench into the kitchen and set up the three tubs in a row. After a lot of fiddling around, I fastened the wringer to the bench with metal clamps, between the first and second tubs.
After pouring cold water into the first tub, I added a kettle of boiling water. I hesitated over the soap — would it lather if it wasn’t being agitated by an electric washing machine? I didn’t have a bar of lye soap or whatever the heck my great-aunt had used, so I poured in a half-cup of liquid detergent from an economy-sized bottle and threw in two white bras, a white nightgown, three white T-shirts, my best white cotton shirt, six pairs of white socks, and three dishtowels that were now more grey than white.
I sloshed them around with a wooden spoon for a minute, then retrieved an item that had been hanging on a nail in the back kitchen. It looked like something Laura Ingalls Wilder would have used, a wooden washboard with a pale-green corrugated glass insert. Stamped on it were the words “Canuck Glass, Canadian Woodenware.”
I had looked to see if there was any kind of washing machine in the house, but no such luck. I set the washboard in the tub and selected one of Bridget’s socks, rubbing it up and down the glass ridges. To my surprise, the grime came off. I repeated the procedure with each item, dropping it back into the soapy water.
While the garments were soaking, I filled the second tub with warm water. Afraid I would accidentally mash my fingers to a pulp, I carefully eased the toe of one white cotton sock between the two rollers on the wringer, and wound the crank with my other hand.
The sock zipped through the rollers, the dirty water spurted back into the first tub, and the sock fell into the clean water in the second tub. I was hugely encouraged by this, and quickly finished off the whole load.
“Mama, may I please have an apple?” Bridget appeared in the kitchen doorway, and her face brightened when she saw the tubs full of water. “Can I help?”
“Sure. Roll up your sleeves, and you can scrub the clothes with this washboard.” I dumped another load of coloured socks and shirts into the first tub.
While she mucked around, splashing dirty water onto the floor and herself, I returned to the back kitchen for another search of the shelves. They were filled with ancient cleaning supplies — shoe polish, floor wax, mothballs, Brillo steel wool pads, a can of something called Black Flag liquid bug spray, and an old leather saddlebag full of clothespins.
I spotted what had caught my eye earlier — a bottle labelled “Mrs. Stewart’s Liquid Bluing.” The logo bore the face of a very prim granny wearing spectacles, presumably Mrs. Stewart herself, and the words “Whiter Washing!” The directions said to add a few drops to the final rinse.
Everything else had worked so far, so I thought I might as well give this stuff a try. I returned to the kitchen and finished wringing out the white clothes, setting them on the kitchen table to await the final rinse.
The kettle was boiling again, so I filled the third tub with warm water. I fed each item through the rollers again and tossed it into the third tub. Then I carefully added three drops of bluing.
“Bridget, I’m going out to the biffy for a minute. Can you stay here alone?”
“I’m not alone, Mama. Fizzy is right here under the table.”
I dashed down the path to the toilet and was back in five minutes. When I came through the door, I saw Bridget hanging her head, wearing a guilty look. My eyes fell upon the third tub. It was filled with water dyed the deepest shade of indigo.
“Bridget Jane Bannister!” I snatched up the empty bottle of bluing.
Her eyes scrunched up and her mouth turned square. “I just wanted to make sure everything was good and white!” She started to howl.
I lifted out one of my cotton shirts, now a streaky mass of dark blue and light blue. I dashed to the sink, filled the pots again and added more wood to the fire.
“Bridget, don’t cry. I know you were trying to help, but we only needed a few drops to make the things white.” I took her on my lap, rocking her against my chest while my eyes rested fatalistically on my laundry.
By the time I emptied all three tubs into the yard, filled them with warm water again and rinsed the blue clothes in a fruitless attempt to restore their original colour, it was past lunchtime and my hands and arms were dyed blue up to my elbows.
I hung my blue clothes on the clothesline to dry. They looked even worse as they frolicked in the breeze. Perhaps it’s just as well they aren’t white any longer, I told myself. This is no place for white clothes, or white anything. Maybe not even us.
September 15, 1924
With what joy did I welcome my new sewing machine! It is made by the Singer Manufacturing Company, Model 127, billed as “woman’s faithful friend the world over.”
The machine is painted with shining Japanese black lacquer, decorated with elaborate scrolls in red and gold and green, and set into a carved wooden cabinet with seven drawers. It is such an elegant thing that I will keep it in the dining room, draped with my good silk shawl.
My faithful friend will be so useful for cushions and drapes and mending. I have nearly worn out my index finger hand-stitching aprons from flour sacks. These strong cotton sacks, boiled in lye to bleach out the labels, may be used for all manner of garments. I spied one farmer wearing a shirt that had not been properly bleached, and perfectly visible were the faint letters on his back reading “Juniper Milling Company.”
I will construct a quilt top from the odds and ends of George’s worn-out shirts that simply can’t be patched any further. For the backing, I will use flour sacks! Pioneering itself is a form of patchwork — we save every scrap of fabric, wood, and metal, as there is always some practical use for them.
Ma sent me a box of tapestry yarns, and I have begun working new seat covers for my dining room chairs. Each of the eight chairs will represent a plant or flower of the north. Truly the wildflowers are so plentiful here that it looks as if the earth is dressed in a flower-patterned garment, and the air filled with a hundred perfumes.
I’m so grateful now that my mother taught me to enjoy the flowers and birds and all living things. As my dear William Wordsworth said: “Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.”
I have begun the first design already: an orange wood lily. There are acres of them in the meadow beside the creek. They are so plentiful that I do not feel guilty picking them by the armload, for surely they can never disappear.
My second seat will feature the prairie rose, a shrub with prickly branches and five-petalled blossoms in the palest of pinks, which gives off a sweet, heady fragrance. When the blossom dies, it withers into a small red seed container called a “rosehip,” used to make jelly.
For the rest, I have my choice of many native plants. Canadian bluebells are both larger and brighter in colour than the ones in Ireland. A type of wild orchid called a lady’s slipper blooms in the loveliest shade of lemon yellow. Indian paintbrush is particularly fine, a tall stalk laden with crimson flowerets.
I may also work a pattern of ferns. The wood ferns are like a lacy green coverlet, their delicate fronds no more than an inch long. Or perhaps a cluster of pine cones. I gathered a basket of them for the dining room table. Each tiny fragile sculpture is a work of nature’s art.
Needlewor
k is my secret oasis to which I creep when my duties press too heavily. My granny always had a piece of needlework to hand which she called her “tisbut” because “’tis but a minute I have to spend on it.” I expect my chair covers will become my tisbut after my chores are done.
Yesterday Annie Bearspaw brought me a most unusual gift, a pair of slippers that she called “moccasins.” These are flat shoes made of thick hide, with intricate stitching on the toes in scarlet and green and blue, tiny coloured glass beads, and porcupine quills dyed a lovely shade of indigo. In the winter the Indians wear these hide slippers in the form of boots with high tops, laced up with rawhide, called “mukluks.”
I have begun wearing my moccasins around the house, and they are warm and comfortable as well as beautiful. The buckskin gives off an odour of woodsmoke, but it is not in the least unpleasant. I will send two pairs home to Ma and Da for Christmas.
George has a Kodak box camera, and I have been making photographs of my house and surroundings to reassure my family that we are not entirely uncivilized here. I asked Annie Bearspaw if I might take her photograph, and she agreed. To ensure adequate lighting, I had her sit on a kitchen chair on the back steps. She posed with as much dignity as the Queen of England on her throne.
Days remaining: 325.
10
September
I threw open the back door and emptied my slop pail off the steps. There was something enjoyable about giving it a devil-may-care flip and watching the iridescent soap bubbles fly through the air. I was turning to go back inside when Riley gave a sharp warning bark just as a truck pulled around the corner of the windbreak. I called to him, praising him lavishly for standing guard. “Good dog! Good boy!”
Both truck doors opened simultaneously. A short, round man emerged from the driver’s door and a short, round woman from the passenger door. “Howdy, neighbour!” they shouted in unison.
The man had solid, muscular arms and shoulders, a barrel chest, and one of those stomachs that look as if the owner has swallowed a basketball. The woman was the same height, with the substantial body of someone used to hard work and good food. Both had short, curly brown hair with streaks of grey. Both had wrinkled, weather-beaten faces and ruddy cheeks. Standing together, they looked like a pair of stocky salt-and-pepper shakers.
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