Wildwood

by Elinor Florence

  She was smiling widely, beaming with joy. People often looked serious in those old photos because it was difficult to maintain a smile for several long minutes while the plate was being exposed. Mary Margaret looked as if she would have more trouble keeping her face from breaking into a smile.

  I gazed at her picture, trying to divine her thoughts. How did she know that George was the right man, the one she wanted to spend the rest of her life with? Her passion for her new husband shone from every page in her diary. She had even abandoned her country and her family for him.

  By all accounts, the marriage was a long and happy one. Perhaps she had the luck of the Irish. How I wished the luck hadn’t run out before it reached me.

  Days remaining: 292.

  14

  October

  Bridget was now so entranced with Paddy the Beaver that we visited the beaver dam every afternoon, hoping to see him in the flesh. I had found two pairs of binoculars in the house. The first was made of brass, World War One military issue, surely brought home from France by my great-uncle. The magnification was only two to one, hardly effective in seeking out the enemy in his facing trench. The newer pair was stored in their original box, dated 1973. They were much stronger, and I had taken to carrying them every time we left the house so I could look for beavers and other living things.

  As we made our way through the long grass, the only sound was the murmur of the water as it trickled over the stones. We hadn’t seen, or even heard, an airplane since we arrived. It felt as if we had returned to the pre-industrial age.

  Then suddenly, it wasn’t quiet anymore. A distant cacophony of sound reminded me of horns honking on the freeway during a traffic jam. The noise grew louder. It was honking of a different kind, the harsh, haunting cry of wild geese.

  I pointed toward the northern sky above the forest. It was filled with long arrow shapes, strings of wild geese moving raggedly forward. The overlapping V-shapes came closer until they were right over our heads. Their wings didn’t move together because all were at different stages of flapping — some pairs of wings up and others down — but they were moving steadily, inexorably, in the same direction.

  “What are they, Mama?”

  “Wild geese, flying south for the winter.” I wished I knew enough to educate Bridget about wild geese, but all I could remember was one fact: that they mated for life, just like George and Mary Margaret had done.

  I lifted the binoculars to my eyes, but the birds were moving too quickly. We craned our necks to watch them steadily beating their way along a giant invisible route. They were flying thousands of miles away to escape winter, toward the southern warmth of my own country. Their strange cries sounded like a warning.

  “Mama, look! I’m Puff the Magic Dragon!” On the last day of October I woke to find Bridget’s lips pursed as she blew out puffs of white smoke. For the first time, we could see our own breath.

  We lay in bed for a while, pretending we were sending smoke signals, imagining that we were choo-choo trains, puffing up the hill like the Little Engine That Could. It was almost supernatural to see the invisible made visible. I wished that we could always see the air coming out of our lungs. Would it make us more mindful of time passing?

  In Arizona the winter season approached lazily, the summer smog dissipating, our sweaters gradually moving toward the front of the closet, and then Christmas decorations appearing, the trunks of the palm trees wrapped with strings of lights. But here, fall departed like the final flicker of a candle in the wind. It was time to close off the upstairs and move into the dining room, close to the warmth of the wood stove. I took one lingering look at the brilliant sky and the sweeping fields, then regretfully headed downstairs to protect ourselves from the cold.

  I closed the heavy, panelled fir door between the kitchen and the front hall, and slid shut the big double doors that separated the living room from the dining room. Bridget helped me roll up blankets and stuff the cracks under the doors. We were now barricaded against “The Cold Part,” as we called the rest of the house.

  While Bridget unhooked the screen windows from the inside, I lifted them down from the outside and carried them to the barn. Then I lugged the heavy storm windows from the barn, one by one, and fit them to the outside frames of the two kitchen windows, and the four bay windows in the dining room, while Bridget latched them from the inside.

  I would not have been able to do this alone. In fact, Bridget was proving to be helpful in many ways. Remembering my great-aunt’s words, I had assigned her a small list of chores. It was her job to keep the kindling box filled, and she never came into the back kitchen without an armload of twigs from the deadfall under the windbreak.

  Now she helped me make the bed in the dining room with clean sheets and arranged her clothes meticulously in one of the sideboard’s drawers. She was humming as she worked. She sounded like a happy, normal child. If only that were true.

  After the hatches were battened down, I decided that we needed a treat. I searched through my cookbook and found the recipe for spice cake that Mary Margaret had made for George’s birthday, judging by the ancient crusted stains on the page. I read the recipe several times. Surely even I could manage this one.

  In a large yellow ceramic bowl with a white interior, I creamed together one cup of butter and one and one-half cups of sugar with a wooden spoon, then vigorously beat in three eggs.

  In the metal flour sifter, I placed three cups of flour, one teaspoon each of cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and baking powder; and one-half teaspoon of baking soda. I alternated the dry ingredients with the wet — one-half cup of milk mixed with one-half cup of hot water.

  Turning to the instructions, I read: Do not stir the cake; always beat thoroughly, bringing the batter up from the bottom of the bowl at every stroke. A consistent upward motion tends to improve the texture considerably.

  I added one cup of chopped walnuts and one cup of raisins, then poured the batter into a rectangular pan. Let the mixture come well up to the corners and sides of the pan, leaving a slight depression in the center. When baked, the cake will be perfectly flat.

  After testing the temperature by holding my hand inside for a count of twenty, I slipped the cake into the oven. Within minutes a wonderful fragrance filled the room.

  I was glad that our November trip would take place the next day, since our cupboards were almost bare, aside from baking ingredients. Today we had eaten oatmeal with raisins and evaporated milk for breakfast; crackers with peanut butter and dried apricots for lunch; and for dinner I was planning to make yet another tuna casserole. Shades of Mrs. Sampson, I thought with a shudder.

  Now that it was cold enough to keep our frozen food in a cooler on the back steps, I would buy real meat instead of processed or canned. And I was looking forward to splurging on fresh fruit. We had finished the last oranges a week ago. I was missing avocados, tomatoes, and bananas — but they were expensive and wouldn’t keep long.

  While the cake was baking, Bridget sat quietly in the rocking chair beside the stove, tying a piece of red triangular fabric on Fizzy’s head like a tiny babushka. He didn’t even open his eyes. He was sleek and fat, and I didn’t feed him anything except the odd bowl of milk. He had eliminated the mice in the basement.

  Suddenly, we heard a warning bark from the yard. Riley was doing his job. From the kitchen window, I saw Colin McKay’s green truck. Smoothing my unruly hair with one hand, I ran outside and hushed Riley. Immediately, he lay down on the steps, head on his paws.

  Colin stepped out of the truck and came toward me. He wore a dark-blue quilted vest, which made his big shoulders look even bigger. His eyes, I couldn’t help noticing, were the exact colour of pine needles. I guess I wasn’t used to being around people, because I felt oddly shy.

  “I thought I’d drop in, see if you needed anything,” he said. He didn’t smile. As he glanced around the yard, I hoped that he had seen my big pile of neatly chopped kindling beside the back door.

  “I do
n’t think so, thanks. Would you like to come in for coffee?”

  He followed me into the house. Bridget had disappeared, but through the crack in the dining room door I saw the sole of one small shoe under the bed.

  “My cake!” I wrapped a dishtowel around my hand and snatched open the oven door, expecting to see a cloud of smoke. Instead, I drew out a cake that was perfectly done, golden brown on top and flat as a board. My chest swelled with pride. I set it on the counter with a flourish.

  Colin pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table, his long legs extended to one side. I measured coffee grounds into the percolator self-consciously, and placed it on the hot stove while he watched.

  “Are you ready for winter?” he asked.

  People kept asking me that question. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do, other than make sure I had enough firewood, and I had a veritable mountain of that. “I’m ready,” I said confidently. “I closed off the upstairs and put on the storm windows.”

  “Since you don’t have a generator, you can’t plug in your truck. Do you know how to start the truck if it gets too cold?”

  The kid who sold me the truck had explained why there was an extension cord hanging out of the hood. Apparently vehicles in this climate had something called a block heater, which was plugged in every night so the electricity could keep the engine warm. Obviously that worked only if you had power.

  “I thought if I kept the truck in the barn, it would be warm enough to start.” I had laboriously cleared a space in the barn and backed the truck inside, closing and latching the big double doors.

  “That will help, but I’d better show you how to start the truck, just in case.”

  We pulled on our winter jackets and went outside. I felt reassured when Colin stopped at his truck to fetch a propane tank like the one I used on my barbecue back in Arizona. Maybe this wouldn’t be so complicated after all.

  He opened the metal toolbox in the back of his truck and fished out a device that looked like the hand-held spray attachment on a shower. At one end was a nozzle, and at the other end was a six-foot orange rubber cord. A metal tap connected the two pieces.

  “This is called a Tiger Torch. Now all you need is a piece of pipe.”

  We pulled open the barn doors and Colin set down the propane tank near the truck. After poking around in the debris, he found a piece of blackened stovepipe with a curved end. “This will work.”

  He placed the pipe flat on the floor, with the curved end facing upward underneath the truck. Then he screwed one end of the orange rubber hose into the propane tank, and held the Tiger Torch in one hand.

  “I’m turning on the propane now,” he said, cranking open the valve on the top of the tank. “You don’t want too much, just enough to create a nice warm flow.”

  I heard the hiss as the propane began to emerge. “Now I’m going to light the propane. There’s an igniter right here. Press this little red button.”

  He handed me the torch and I felt a slight shock when our fingers touched. The propane ignited with a poom! and a blue flame shot out the end of the torch.

  Colin laid the torch on the floor so that the flame was inside the end of the pipe. I could hear the soft hum of the burning propane.

  “The hot air will flow through the pipe, and come out underneath the truck and warm up your engine block. It should take about twenty minutes.”

  After he turned everything off, I went through the steps, concentrating fiercely, while he watched. But he wasn’t finished yet. “One last thing. Keep the battery inside the house until you need it.”

  “Inside the house!”

  “Yeah, it needs to be warm, too. Leave it in the back kitchen and put it in the truck just before you light the propane. When you get home, bring it inside.”

  Colin opened the hood of the truck, undid the clamp that held the battery in place and disconnected the two red and yellow cables. He lifted out the battery and handed it to me. I almost dropped it: the thing must have weighed twenty pounds.

  “Now let’s see you put it back.”

  I heaved it into place, reconnected the cables, and bolted the clamp shut.

  “I think you’ve got the hang of it.” Not exactly high praise, but what did I expect?

  When we came back into the warm kitchen, the coffee had finished perking and the cake had cooled. I poured the coffee and cut a generous slice of cake.

  “I’m afraid I can’t make any icing because I’m out of supplies. We’re going into town tomorrow. I’ve been counting the days,” I told him as I drizzled the last of the maple syrup over the warm cake, praying that the cake tasted as good as it looked.

  “Why don’t you go into town more often?” Colin pulled his thick brows together.

  “We can’t afford it. Gas is so expensive up here.” Surely he of all people knew how little money I had. Maybe he thought I had some other source of income.

  He was still frowning when I handed him his plate. I put another smaller piece of cake on a plate for Bridget, then walked into the other room and slid it under the bed.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Without saying another word, Colin got to his feet and strode past me, holding his plate in one hand. In one swift motion, he also disappeared under the bed, his long legs and his cowboy boots sticking out behind.

  I held my breath, waiting for the howl of protest. I should have told him about Bridget’s problem, I thought wretchedly. Now she would have one of her full-blown hysterical fits.

  Then I heard Colin speaking in a low voice. It was gentle and soothing, as if he were taming a wild animal. “Your mother sure makes good cake,” he said. Silence. Was Bridget gathering her energy for an explosion? I tiptoed closer to the door.

  “I love syrup on my cake, don’t you?”

  More silence, with only the scraping sound of forks on plates.

  “Do you think your mother would give me another piece if I asked her nicely? Would you like one, too?”

  Another hush. Then Colin emerged, scrambling out somewhat awkwardly and rising to his feet, holding two empty plates. He winked at me.

  I cut two more pieces — another large one for Colin and a much smaller one for Bridget. I wouldn’t usually allow her to eat two pieces, but I wasn’t going to break whatever magic spell he had cast over her.

  Back under the bed Colin wriggled. All I could see were the well-scuffed soles of his boots. I heard his deep voice chatting about the weather, then about his orchids, about Fizzy, about a cat he had once owned called Cowboy, and then finally saying goodbye. “Nice chatting with you, Bridget!”

  Still not a peep from her. But no sobbing or screaming, either.

  October 31, 1924

  I have never lived in a wooden house before, and I must say, despite the temperature outside, they are surprisingly warm. Stone houses in the old country are always so damp and chilly. But I was wrong to assume that the kitchen stove and the fireplace would be sufficient to heat the whole house. George installed a monstrous furnace in the cellar with hot air pipes leading to every room. I have ordered flue covers for the holes, shaped like tin dinner plates, pale blue with a floral pattern.

  We are so fortunate to be surrounded by an unlimited supply of firewood, unlike the “sod-busters” to the south. Those who can afford it hire a six-man woodcutting team, but George and I will cut our own. “Many a mickle makes a muckle,” George says, quoting the old Scots saying, “and we must save our pennies where we can.”

  George is so fearful that I will harm myself with the axe that he has given me a long list of instructions. I must hold the stick of wood by the edge so I won’t take off my thumb. I must carry the axe over my shoulder with the blade side away from my head. I must never take a full swing without checking that there’s room above and behind.

  Today we worked in the wild wood behind the house, and got out ten trees. George chopped them down, and I belimbed them with my little two-headed axe before the horses “snaked” them to the woodpile. We cut th
em into lengths with the crosscut saw, one of us at each end. George then split the larger pieces with an axe while I chopped the kindling. It is quite pleasurable to feel the bite of the axe and hear the wood crack. At all times we are bathed in the wonderful fragrance of fresh-cut wood.

  It is essential to have a sufficient quantity of fuel. Last winter, after a week-long blizzard, our local Mountie rode out to check on a few isolated homesteads. The snow was so deep that he didn’t know where he was until his horse’s hoof struck a stovepipe sticking out of a snowdrift. He dug down to the cabin, and found a frozen body inside.

  The poor settler had run out of firewood, so he burned every piece of furniture before crawling into his bunk and writing a farewell letter to his mother. Then he wrapped himself in his bedroll, clutched his Bible to his chest, and surrendered to his fate.

  Days remaining: 279.

  15

  November

  At two o’clock in the morning, the old mechanical alarm clock went off with an ear-splitting brrring! I vaulted out of bed, shuddering as my body hit the cold air, thankful that I was wearing my flannel nightie and cotton socks so that my feet wouldn’t freeze while I stood on the icy kitchen linoleum. Bridget murmured and turned over in her sleep.

  Since the fire wouldn’t last all night, I needed the alarm to wake me. I limped into the chilly kitchen and lifted the stove lid to find only a few glowing embers. I stuffed the firebox with three logs, watched to see the flames lick at the edges, and limped back to bed, crawling gratefully under the heavy pile of quilts. I had read that freezing Russian peasants piled kitchen chairs on top of their blankets, hoping the weight would give the illusion of warmth. Now I understood why.

  I was limping because I had twisted my ankle the previous day. Coming back from the barn with an armful of wood, I lost my balance on the frosty grass and fell. I hadn’t known until then that frost makes grass slippery, as if coated with cooking grease.