Hattie Big Sky

by Kirby Larson

  Karl slowed the wagon.

  “Home sweet home!” Perilee chirped. “We’ll help you get your things inside, sugar. But we can’t stay. It’s getting dark. We need to get on home.”

  “Home sweet home,” I croaked. This cockeyed, slapped-together nine-foot by twelve-foot claim shack…my home.

  “Ach, Schnee,” Karl muttered as he swung open the door. “Snow.”

  “Oh, dear.” Perilee stamped snow off her shoes. “No one plugged the keyhole.”

  Even in the gloom, I could see an icy slash of white that the wind had forced through the keyhole and across the cabin floor. It was as if Nature herself had drawn a line to keep me out. I fought back the urge to throw myself on Perilee’s mercy and beg to go home with them.

  Mattie slipped her tiny hand in mine. “You can sweep that up, boil it, and make coffee,” she said.

  Perilee smiled proudly. “Out of the mouths of babes.”

  “I sure can.” I cleared the tears out of my throat. “Thank goodness I packed a broom.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Perilee patted my arm. “I know it don’t look like much. Claim shacks never do. After you get proved up, you can work on a proper house.”

  “Do you…” Would it be bad manners to ask Perilee if she lived in such a shack? “I mean, have you? Proved up?”

  “Sugar, I’m an old-timer!” Perilee laughed. “I have a cozy house now. But everyone started out like this. Or worse.” She shifted Fern to her other hip. “My folks had a soddy—you know, a house built from bricks of sod. It was warm in the winter and cool in the summer, but oh, the bugs! And dirt. Dirt everywhere.” She took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped at Fern’s drippy nose. “Trust me, this is a castle compared to a sod house.”

  Chase burst in through the door, a blast of cold air on his heels. “Here, Miz Brooks. I fetched you some water. For washing and such tonight.” He set the bucket on the stove.

  “Why, thank you, Chase.” I was surprised by his kind act.

  “Your well’s right out there.” He pointed. “You’ll need to fetch more in the morning.”

  “Das ist das last.” Karl brought in the last of my boxes.

  “Right,” said Perilee. She turned to me. “We’ve got to go, hon.”

  Mr. Whiskers complained from his carrying case. He didn’t seem any too pleased with our accommodations, either.

  “I’d leave him inside for a few days,” advised Perilee.

  “He’s a pretty tough old puss,” I said. “He can handle the cold.”

  “No, dear.” Perilee patted my arm. “Because of the mice.”

  I shuddered. “In the house?”

  “Chester was none too neat. And the house has been vacant awhile, and—”

  I held up my hand. “No more ands.”

  Perilee hooted with laughter. “Sugar, you are a stitch.” She handed me a lamp and my small box of books. Karl passed over a covered dish, wrapped in a towel, and one of the strudels.

  “Get the fire lit,” said Perilee. “And you can heat this up for your supper.”

  “You’ve done too much!” I protested, but Perilee covered her ears. “At least, let me repay you.” I reached for one of the bags of coffee beans. “Please. In trade.”

  Her hands hovered in the air for a moment. Then she took the coffee. “I’d say the family resemblance goes beyond looks.” She reached out to wrap me in another hug. This time I didn’t back away.

  With a jingle of the harness, they were off. I watched until they were a speck on the horizon.

  “Yee-oww.” Mr. Whiskers sounded pretty insulted at this step down in his living arrangements. The shack—oh, it was a shack, no poetry of home and hearth allowed—was a flimsy cage, keeping me in and very little else out. The essentials appeared to be present: stove, coffeepot, bread pans, skillet, and such, plus a few rough and splintery shelves for storage.

  I collapsed in a nerve-worn heap on the floor. I imagined my first letter home. I told you, Aunt Ivy would say as she snapped it under Uncle Holt’s nose. Nothing good would come of this Montana mania. She’s living worse than our hogs.

  I wanted nothing better than to lose myself in a good long cry. But the floor, in addition to being dirty, was cold. “Dear God,” I cried out. “What should I do?” I leaned my forehead on my upraised knees. A tear trickled onto my woolen traveling skirt. Then something happened. I heard an answer to my prayer.

  Pick yourself up, Hattie Inez Brooks, said a voice in my head. And get a fire lit before you freeze what’s left of your brains.

  The message stunned me into action. I brushed myself off, lit a lamp, and began to make some sense of my new home. The broom got put to good use as I tried not to think about what the little hard pellets in the growing dust pile meant. A low growl rolled up from the back of Mr. Whiskers’ throat. He crouched in front of the stove, tail twitching wickedly. Suddenly the tail stopped and his right paw flew out. There was a tiny squeak, almost fairy-like, and then Mr. Whiskers ran into the far corner. I could hear him crunching away.

  I drew a shaky breath. “All right, then.” I fumbled for matches to light the fire. “You’ve got your supper, Mr. Whiskers. I’d best get mine.”

  A chipped enamelware pail by the stove held a fat collection of juniper kindling. I loaded the stove with twigs. Soon the juniper crackled fragrantly.

  On the ride out, Perilee had explained that homestead fires were fed with dried buffalo chips. “The buffalo are gone,” she’d said, “but thank goodness for their calling cards.” I slipped on the work gloves that had been a gift from Charlie’s mother and reached into an old lard bucket filled with dark objects. I swallowed my pride and tossed them quickly in the stove. Soon the little shack was tolerable; that is to say, as long as I kept moving, my innards would not freeze solid.

  I’d followed Mattie’s advice and scooped the top layer of intruding snow into the coffeepot, now heating on the stove. To the back of the range, I set the dish of Perilee’s stew to warm. Since Aunt Ivy had been reluctant to trade in her wood cookstove, I was well versed in how to use one, at least for cooking; baking was beyond me. I rounded up some cutlery and found the table, which had been buried under a stack of dime novels and Shakespeare’s plays. Uncle Chester and I shared one Wright trait: we loved our books.

  Now that I was thawed out a bit and the little shack lit up by my trusty kerosene lamp, I could see that every shelf and surface was covered with books, newspapers, and old magazines. What Uncle Chester had lacked in niceties—Aunt Ivy would be horrified to find not one doily in the entire room—he’d made up for in reading materials. Under a goodly pile of the Dakota Farmer, Popular Magazine, and Saturday Evening Post magazines, I found a serviceable empty wooden crate that was recruited as a bookcase.

  An old rag, lukewarm water, and elbow grease soon brought a sheen to the table. I set out an enamelware plate and a tin fork and spoon. “Just like the Vanderbilts!” I told Mr. Whiskers. He’d bellied up to the stove to warm himself after his first course. There was no proper chair, but an upturned empty lard bucket suited me fine. I wondered if this had been Uncle Chester’s favorite perch as well.

  By the time my supper was hot, Uncle Chester’s house—my house—was on its way to being cozy. I poured myself a mug of coffee and Mr. Whiskers a saucer of tinned milk. “Here’s to our new home,” I toasted.

  Thinking of the Almighty’s earlier guidance, I bowed my head. “Thank you, Lord, for Uncle Chester. May he rest peacefully in your care. Thank you for Perilee, who provided this good supper, and for keeping me safe thus far. Mr. Whiskers thanks you for the mouse. Amen.”

  I dug in, spoon clinking against the plate. The stew tasted of sage and carrots and hope. The flavor lingered on my tongue long after the plate was empty. I let Mr. Whiskers lick it clean while I sliced Perilee’s strudel. It was even more delicious than it smelled. I shook my head thinking of Perilee’s trouble trying to trade in town. People were gosh-darned thickheaded sometimes.

  A rhyth
mic rasping told me Mr. Whiskers was sound asleep. It’d been a long day. I dipped a few ladles of warm water from the stove’s reservoir into the largest enamel bowl, then dropped in a bar of soap and rolled it into a lather. I quickly washed up my few dishes, then ladled clean water over each item to rinse off the suds. The dishes rested briefly on a clean flour-sack towel while I dug another out of my things. Never let it be said I let my dishes air dry! When everything was set to rights, I turned to making ready my bed.

  Because of the tight quarters—the whole house would have fit in Aunt Ivy’s parlor—the bed had been hinged to the wall. I pulled the bed down. Uncle Chester’s bed linens were fit for rags and barely that. I briskly made it up using the one set of sheets I’d brought. Within minutes of my banking the fire, the inside temperature took a huge step down the ladder. “Hope we don’t turn into icicles,” I said to Mr. Whiskers. He jumped up on the bed.

  I pulled off my skirt and blouse and yanked on a flannel nightgown, singing at the top of my lungs to keep warm. “Onward Christian soldiers, marching off to war!” Bellowing and marching in place, I blew out the lamp and hopped into bed. After a few minutes, I hopped right back out. I added several layers of clothes, a hat, and two pairs of socks. Finally, with Mr. Whiskers curled at my feet, I warmed up enough to fall asleep.

  I woke, bleary-eyed and hungry. And cold.

  I started out of bed, then snagged the quilt to wrap around my shoulders. “Brrr!” I bounded across the cold floor to the stove. “I could chisel out the air in here and use it for ice in my lemonade next summer!”

  “Meow.” Mr. Whiskers scrabbled his way under my blankets and made a nest for himself in my bed.

  “Don’t get any ideas.” I blew on last night’s embers in the stove. “I’ve got to fold that up so there’s room to move.” I jumping-jacked to the chip barrel and tossed a handful onto the embers. “Let’s get something warm inside us. Quick!” I grabbed the coffeepot. Then I remembered: the water was outside, the very cold outside. I began to bundle up. “Lesson number one: bring in a bucket of water each night for coffee in the morning.”

  Mr. Whiskers purred his agreement.

  Any cowboy passing by at that moment might have fallen off his horse had he seen me step out the front door. Dressed in every stitch of clothing I could find, I suspect I looked like Mattie’s rag doll, shuffling my way down the icy steps and across the snowy yard to the well.

  The inside of my nose stung as I breathed in the icicled air. My eyes watered so much I could barely see the pump handle. To stay warm, I jiggled from one foot to the other. It was too cold to think. All the jiggling was reminding me of something else rather important.

  I’d run out to the necessary the night before, right before bed. It had seemed a long way then, and it was even longer now—and certainly no warmer. I’d gotten awfully spoiled at Aunt Ivy and Uncle Holt’s with their indoor plumbing. One more thing to get used to in Montana. I quickly used the facility, slipped off my mittens to grab a piece of the Monkey Ward catalog to dry off, and hiked up my underthings.

  I hurried back to the well and began to pump. It took a significant amount of muscle—how had Chase with his little eight-year-old arms managed?—but soon I had a bucketful. That hot cup of coffee was one step closer!

  I tried to let go of the pump handle…and couldn’t. My naked hands, damp with the morning air, were firmly connected to the metal.

  “Ouch!” My gyrations made my freezing hands raw and sore. And I was still stuck. Now my feet were tingling and itching with the cold, too. I imagined them puffed up and black inside my boots. My teeth chattered hard enough in my head to loosen each and every one.

  I was probably going to be the first homesteader ever to die from extreme stupidity. An image of my skeleton being discovered come spring spurred me into action. I began to tug and twist with renewed fervor.

  “Hey there, Miz Hattie,” a young voice called out. “Whatcha doing?” Into view rode Chase. He was astride one of the horses from Karl’s wagon team and leading a large, boxy horse and a brown cow with white spots.

  “Oh, hello, Chase.” If I hadn’t been stuck to the pump handle, I would’ve thrown myself down the well rather than bear this humiliation. “I seem to be in a pickle.”

  He slipped off his horse and tethered him to the well bracing. “Mama keeps an old mitten tied to the handle,” he said. “In the winter.”

  “Yes, well, that’s a wonderful idea, but…” The sentence hardly needed finishing.

  Chase ran inside and fetched the small bit of water left in the stove reservoir. He poured it slowly over my hands.

  “Oh!” The sudden warmth sent shooting pains into every knuckle and joint. My hands slipped free, and I tucked them under my arms. “That hurts.”

  Chase picked up the bucket and took my arm. “Come on inside, Miz Hattie. You better get warmed up.”

  I fell against my lard can chair, a frozen, useless lump, while this eight-year-old boy bustled around my shack. He stoked the fire, put coffee on, fed Mr. Whiskers a saucer of tinned milk, and fetched me another pail of water to fill the reservoir.

  “Have you had breakfast?” I asked him, a mug of coffee finally cradled in my hands.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, I haven’t. Can you eat a second?” Not bothering to wait for an answer, I flipped open the pamphlet Mr. Hanson had tucked in with my purchases. Put out by the Royal Baking Powder Company, “Best War Time Recipes” was packed with ways to cook to save flour, eggs, and such, what with the war on. I measured two coffee mugs of buckwheat flour into a bowl, stirred in four spoonfuls of Royal Baking Powder—the only kind Aunt Ivy ever used—and half a spoonful of salt.

  “Could you please reach two tins of milk from that shelf there?” Chase handed them to me, and I added the milk slowly to the flour mix, as the recipe said.

  I licked my fingers and touched them to the greased frying pan heating up on the stove. Sssss. “It’s sizzling all right!” I stuck my stinging fingers in my mouth. One thing I could make was flapjacks. Soon a stack rose on each of our plates, and we ate.

  Warm, full, and humbled, I pushed back my plate. “So your mama ties a mitten to the pump handle,” I said. “Anything else I should know before I do some other foolish thing?” Somehow, I didn’t feel such a failure talking with Chase this way. I prayed he didn’t tell Karl and Perilee what a featherbrain their new neighbor was.

  Chase relished his role as teacher and, for the next hour, showed me this trick and that of homestead life. “Use the juniper sparingly,” he said after peeking in my kindling barrel. “It’s hard to come by.” When we’d finished my hearth and home lesson, he took me out to the barn and helped me get Violet and Plug settled.

  “Do you know how to milk a cow?” he asked.

  “That’s one thing I do know how to do,” I said. One of my stays had been with a second cousin dairy farmer.

  “Violet’s kind of cranky.” Chase patted the cow’s broad flank. “Watch out for her tail.”

  “Will do.”

  “Chester gave us her calf. I named her Fawn ’cause she looks like a baby deer I saw once, over to Glendive.”

  “That’s a wonderful name.” I gave Violet a pat, though more tentative than Chase’s.

  Chase gave me a few more instructions about Plug. “He’s a good old range horse and can practically take care of himself,” he said. “I better head on back, Miz Hattie, or Mama will fret.”

  I walked him back out to the yard, where’d he left his horse.

  “How can I thank you?” I was so touched by how easily he and his family had taken me under their wing.

  “You can give me a boost up.” He lifted up his foot.

  I cupped my hands, he stepped into them, and up he went. “Tell your mama hello from me.”

  “I will.” Chase wheeled his horse around. “Thanks for breakfast, Miz Hattie!”

  And with that, my eight-year-old knight in shining armor rode off.

  I went
straight into the house, rummaged through my things, found an old mitten, and went back out and tied it to the pump handle.

  That night my prayers were full of thanks. “For Chase and Perilee and for lessons learned,” I said. “But Lord, if you could help me not learn every lesson the hard way, I’d sure appreciate it. Amen.”

  Mr. Whiskers meowed his amen to that, too.

  CHAPTER 5

  February 5, 1918

  Three miles north and west of Vida, Montana

  Dear Uncle Holt,

  You asked me to tell you more about my everyday doings. Such a life of glamour, you cannot imagine! Water must be fetched first thing each morning, and my breakfast is just a hope until I have fed and watered Plug and Violet. This is not such an easy task when the snowdrifts are piled high as a Chicago skyscraper! Now it is not so bad: Mr. Whiskers and I have beat a path to the barn. But the first day—it was over an hour before I had paddled my way through the snow. Sometimes I feel as if this Montana winter is Goliath and I am David. I only hope my ending is as victorious as his!

  After I milk Violet, I must also clean out the barn each day. You would think the cold weather might put a damper on the smells. Not so. Plug is self-sufficient; after a handful of oats, he is turned out to find his own grub. Thank goodness for such a smart range horse.

  I am eternally grateful for your old work boots. I know you worried that they would be too big, but they are a perfect fit after I’ve wrapped my stockinged feet in newspapers. If I didn’t do this, I don’t think I’d have any toes left come spring.

  Your niece,

  Hattie Inez Brooks

  After I finished my letter to Uncle Holt, I added a postscript to Charlie’s:

  I read this in the Wolf Point Herald. I do not know the author, but it may give you and your comrades a laugh: “My Tuesdays are meatless, my Wednesdays are wheatless, I’m getting more eatless each day; my house it is heatless, my bed it is sheetless—they’ve gone to the Y.M.C.A. The barroom is treatless, my coffee is sweetless, each day I grow poorer and wiser. My stockings are feetless, my trousers are seatless, Jeroosh, how I hate the d——n Kaiser.” Though our sacrifices at home are small compared to yours, we make them with a sense of humor!