Seasons of Bliss

by Ruth Glover

  “It’s this way,” Herkimer said, settling himself comfortably in the saddle and watching Quinn Archer closely to see what effect his explanation would have (Herkimer liked an appreciative audience). “It’s this way—you count their legs and divide by four.”

  Quinn Archer grinned enough so that Herkimer was satisfied and cast about in his mind for another such sally, in order to bring about the good cheer and enjoyment that, to Herkimer Pinkard, made life worth living.

  “This is the Bloom farm?” the stranger asked, nodding toward the buildings that had appeared in an opening in the bush. “A prosperous appearing place.”

  “If it don’t grow, Herbert can buy it. If it runs away, Herbert can replace it. If it lays down and dies—”

  Just what Herbert would do in such an instance, Quinn Archer never knew. A young woman had stepped from the shadow of the porch, to walk to the clothesline and pin up what seemed to be a damp tea towel. Young, shapely, her hair glowing vividly in the late afternoon sun, she caught the attention of both bachelors, who automatically dug their heels into the sides of their horses, hurrying them into a trot.

  Even the garrulous Herkimer found himself curiously silent, intent on the girl’s graceful passage. “Marriage is a great institution,” he said, finally, more thoughtful than anyone would have supposed him to be, “but I didn’t know, till now, that I was ready for an institution.”

  And now Quinn Archer gave the former wag the accolade he had wanted—he greeted Herkimer’s philosophy with a shout of laughter.

  “Good luck!” he called, his excellent mount already nearer the final goal than the accompanying plow horse carrying the big, bumbling form of Herkimer Pinkard.

  On this good-natured exchange they turned in at the gate, made their way to the farmyard, and were greeted by Herbert Bloom, who reached up to the stranger, shook his hand, and welcomed him.

  “Take the horses to the barn, Herk,” he suggested, “and you’ll earn yourself as good a supper as you’re liable to find hereabouts.”

  “Well, the price is right,” Herkimer said agreeably, took the reins to Quinn Archer’s horse, and did as directed. After all, everyone knew Lydia Bloom was an excellent cook and, moreover, there was variety, tasty variety, at the Bloom table. Herkimer was mighty weary of fried potatoes and onions, his recent experiment with change in his diet. What had seemed novel at first had quickly changed to surfeit.

  Herbert guided the new man through the kitchen door—the only entrance used by any home in the territories—and presented him to the ladies of the household.

  Because the Blooms were among the fortunate few to have an icehouse, there was roast beef for supper rather than the ubiquitous chicken, ordinarily the only fresh meat available on a farm home. Unless, of course, someone went out with the rifle and brought back a rabbit or two. Partridges, in season, were relished. But beef or venison—there was none of it, usually, in the warm months, aside from the little that might have been canned and put on the cellar shelves for later enjoyment.

  Tierney opened the oven door and rich beefy flavor filled the room; Quinn Archer was not too well-bred to sniff the air, nod, and smile engagingly. Herkimer, that poorly fed bachelor, when he came in, closed his eyes in pure bliss, and inhaled deeply and often.

  Lydia greeted the newcomer warmly. Quinn Archer, gentleman that he was, waited for her hand to be presented before offering to shake hands. Then it was a firm, brief grip, along with a small bow of the head, his hat held casually in his other hand; Lydia was impressed immediately. Tierney, a hired person, as he was, turned from the stove and nodded.

  “Tierney,” Lydia directed, “dip some warm water from the reservoir for this gentleman—”

  Quinn Archer found a nail among those beside the door, hung up his hat, and turned toward the washstand. Tall and well built, he bent gracefully enough over the low stand, washing his face as well as his hands.

  “It’s been a long ride,” he explained as he reached for the snowy towel, “and this is refreshing. Dinner [not supper!] smells enticing.”

  In spite of herself, Tierney found herself studying this man who, in just a couple of minutes, had proved himself to be a person of quality. This was no Ahab; this was no Herkimer.

  This was a man who felt perfectly at ease sitting up to the table, whether it was supper or dinner. He seemed comfortable with the bowing of the head for the blessing; he conducted himself well in the matter of the table service and of eating and drinking. He was, Tierney and the Blooms concluded, that rare find—a gentleman, even as Lydia had surmised right away.

  “I’m grateful to that friend of yours—Rob Dunbar—for looking me up,” Quinn Archer said, helping himself to the small, fresh carrots, “and giving me the opportunity to take this position.”

  Position!

  “You understood,” Herbert said uncertainly, “when he talked to you, that this job is for a hired man—”

  “Certainly. Entirely suitable, too. I need to work for a while, then look into getting a place of my own. I’m grateful.”

  “Well,” Herbert responded, ahemming, gratified with the response, “we’re happy to have you, I can tell you. Our other man left right at the busy season, I guess you’d have to say. Summer keeps us hopping if we’re to be ready for winter.”

  Quinn Archer explained that he had been raised on a farm in the States, then had become a teacher, only to become dissatisfied with that.

  “I need a place to call home, a place of my own. A place I can put something of myself into,” he explained, and they all understood. “The more I see of Bliss, the better I like it. The more I learn of it, the more I think I’ll be happy to settle in the area. The name alone is descriptive of everything I’d like to incorporate into my life.”

  “Well,” Herbert said reflectively, “it won’t come without a lot of hard work, some disappointment, and lots of prayer.”

  Thus spoke the man who had arrived with enough money to almost buy his way to ease. The felling of the trees, the grubbing of the stumps, the erection of the buildings—all, all had been accomplished with paid help. And still it had been almost more than Herbert Bloom could weather. How a man, alone, might accomplish all that was necessary to prove up his land, was almost too much to comprehend.

  But Quinn Archer was not the only man to make up his mind to do it. “I know you’re right,” he said. “But less equipped men have made it, and I will, too. I have my strength, a little money, and a lot of determination.”

  “And,” Herkimer interjected, “if you’ll just pass the homemade butter and the homemade jam, made by some woman of determination I’ll be bound, I’ll put them on this homemade bun and recover a little of my strength, and all without money and without price. For this one meal, at least,” he added, more seriously than jocularly.

  Herkimer could recall skimpy rabbit-stew suppers with bannock, huge bowls of oatmeal yellowed with brown sugar and cream and more bannock, and the recent fried potato binge and was well aware that, if he didn’t stir his stumps and get a garden underway, a long winter of such meals stretched ahead, and not too far off. In the middle of summer the specter of a Saskatchewan winter breathed on the back of sunburnt necks with a chilling reminder of tough days ahead, and little enough time to get ready for them.

  Lydia’s comfortable “Save room for saskatoon pie,” was music to the ears.

  Molly saw Parker Jones as he walked past, looking a little hot and already fatigued, with another mile to go. If Molly had been a vindictive person, she would have muttered “Serves him right!”

  As it was, along with a pang of what she supposed was jealousy—and wasn’t proud of it—she felt a certain anger.

  Beatrice Condon knew full well that Parker Jones had no rig of his own and no barn in which to keep a horse, had anyone loaned him one, and must walk everywhere he went. She had really done an unreasonable thing when she had asked him to call. If the situation had been desperate, with someone ill or dying, hurt or even lonely, Parker wou
ld have gone willingly, of course, and Molly—noting his devotion once again at the expense of his comfort—would have added her blessing.

  But Molly had been standing within hearing distance, following the morning’s service, and had listened in on Beatrice’s stumbled request of the pastor, with Vivian—guileless eyes and half smile at her shoulder—prodding her on.

  “Brother Jones,” Beatrice had begun tentatively, glancing again at Vivian’s face, “do you suppose . . . that is, we would like it if . . .”

  “What is it, Bea?” Parker had asked kindly, turning from shaking the hand of old Mrs. Finnery.

  “We’d like it . . . that is, Vivian, my niece . . .”

  Vivian’s face flushed ever so slightly, and she had interrupted smoothly, “I think Aunt Beatrice is trying to say that we’d appreciate the honor of your presence tomorrow evening at dinner.”

  “Dinner?” Parker Jones asked, obviously with his thoughts still engaged with Mrs. Finnery, and making the transition with difficulty. “Dinner . . . tomorrow?”

  “Supper, she means, of course,” Beatrice, a true bush pioneer, corrected. It may have been dinner back in England, but it was supper in the territories, and this she well knew. Ordinarily there was nothing “dinner-ish” about the evening meal, and everything “supper-ish.”

  “Supper,” she said again, adding, “we’ll try and eat at six. That way, you can stay and talk a while and still get home before dark. I think . . .”

  Beatrice paused, sounding dubious. Perhaps she knew her niece well by this time. And Vivian, at her aunt’s elbow, was looking very expectant and pleased.

  “I think Bly can work around that time. Yes, I think he could be counted on to join us by six,” Beatrice continued, thinking aloud. “Anyway, do say you’ll come,” she encouraged, apparently recognizing a moment’s hesitation in the pastor’s response. “You see, there are some matters . . . that is, a pastor’s advice would be appreciated. Perhaps a prayer . . .”

  “Of course, if I’m needed,” Parker Jones was quick to say.

  The strange thing about it all, Molly thought now, watching Parker trudge past, was that, at dinner following the sermon, eaten as usual at the Morrison table, Parker had made no mention of the invitation.

  Of course there was no need to, Molly reminded herself crossly. He had no obligation to her, Molly, for heaven’s sake! But still it rankled. Why couldn’t he talk naturally about it? Why did he avoid the subject of a pastoral call on neighbors who lived just beyond the Morrisons?

  And why, for goodness’ sake, didn’t he stop in for a cold drink of water!

  But no, Parker Jones, kicking up a trail of dust—it had been some days since rain—walked on past the Morrison place.

  Molly toyed with the mad idea of quickly hitching Kip to the buggy and whirling alongside the plodding pastor, sweetly offering a ride. But she curbed the impulse, which was, after all, only a passing one and not worthy of consideration.

  Molly resumed her work, wishing for a task that called for her full attention rather than the mindless churning that allowed for foolish and vain imaginations. On the other hand, it seemed good, after the week’s wash was completed, to sit and turn the crank to the “Improved Cedar Cylinder Churn,” containing two gallons of cream (but holding three, when necessary), its double dasher and crank locked into place, and guaranteed against leakage. The barrel, or cylinder, was made of white cedar, banded with galvanized iron hoops, and it sat on the table rather than on the floor in the manner of the old dash churn. Oh, the shoulder and arm aches that had caused!

  Molly’s thoughts turned, at last, from Parker Jones and his visit with the Condons, to the fascinating possibility of turning a churn with dog power. And not dogs only but goats or sheep. “A thirty-pound animal,” the catalog stated, “will do the churning; if you keep a dog, make him ‘work his passage.’”

  Or, if you had a really large barrel with as much as ten pounds of cream, a double-dog churn was available. The animal was led onto a treadmill (with a frame around it to keep it from abruptly deserting its post), encouraged to keep walking, and a device, made up of a balance wheel and a belt, turned the churn. In spite of the sketch in the catalog, Molly wasn’t exactly sure how this new-fangled contraption worked, but the idea was intriguing. She was, she thought, a modern woman, and forward looking; anything that would improve the quality of life, she was in favor of. But just thinking about old Jock’s reaction, should he be persuaded by some means to get onto the treadmill, brought a smile to Molly’s face. She could imagine the ancient animal simply lying down on the job, the cream going sour . . .

  “What’s so funny, Sis?” Cameron asked, passing through the kitchen.

  “Just thinking . . .”

  “That’s a dangerous habit to get into. By the way, where do you suppose Parker is off to in the middle of a hot afternoon? Poor guy, we should finish up that little barn we’ve been working on over at his place and see that he gets the use of a rig and a horse. Maybe just a horse would do; he can ride, can’t he?”

  “Well, of course he can ride. Can’t every man or boy?”

  “I dunno . . . not city fellers, sometimes. Still, he could learn, and it would save him a lot of walking. Yes, I’ll bring up the subject to Dad and see if we can’t do something. It would mean keeping him supplied with straw and hay and oats and whatever. It sure is a busy time to be taking on a job like that . . .”

  And musing on the workload and the tasks to be done, always pressing heavily from spring’s first blush to fall’s finally fading brilliance, Cameron went back to work.

  Parker Jones, plodding past the Morrison place, had stubbornly resisted the impulse to stop in. How simple, how restful, just to end this trek here! But no, his appointment was with the Condons. And hadn’t he spent yesterday, Sunday, here, with Molly and the family? And hadn’t he, once again, relaxed wonderfully in the friendly atmosphere?

  And hadn’t he said his good-byes, once again, struggling with his right to enjoy such fellowship, to even think of pursuing a closer relationship with Molly? With his own future so uncertain, how could he settle down to serious plans of marriage?

  Passing by, thinking on these things and his insecurities concerning his call, Parker Jones sighed deeply and strode on.

  His present perplexities had been triggered a few months ago by the sudden death of one of his parishioners. Subsequent revelations had caused Parker to feel that, as pastor, he had not been in touch with the problems of that home and the needs of that particular man. Crushed by what he felt was a failure on his part, Parker had been thrown into a spiral of questioning the effectiveness of his ministry, wondering about his original call, and full of uncertainties.

  Still, in response to needs like this one today, he faithfully carried on.

  There was no doubt about it, he concluded now—he needed a horse. Parker’s feet hurt! Knowing the reason why, he looked down sourly. It was these ridiculous “coin” toed shoes, so dubbed because the tip of the toe was shaped to fit nothing larger than a dime! The catalog offered a good three dozen different styles of dress shoes, and all with the long, tapered toe, for men as well as for women.

  Parker’s choices, when it came to ordering, had been such numbers as Hard Cash Jewel Toe; Cordovan Lace Opera Toe; Fine Needle Bals; Russian Colt Lace New Coin Toe; Fine Kangaroo Congress Needle Toe; Caska Calf Needle; Satin Oil Lace Razor Toe; and many more, all coin-, razor-, or needle-toed. His remaining options were Moose Hide Moccasins (smoke-tanned by the Indians); Shoe Pacs (made from an oil tanned pac); River Shoes (laced, with bellows tongue making them very warm and practically waterproof); Oil Grain Creole (guaranteed to be the best wearing shoe on earth for the money—$l.25); mining or lumbermen’s shoes, men’s extra heavy police shoes, or two-buckle plows.

  Pondering on the “Men’s Police Congress, made from selected satin calf stock, with heavy dongola tops and hub goring, with soles made extra heavy so as to be practical for hard wear,” his attention had been
drawn to the “Corn Cure Shoe.”

  Now there was a sensible shoe! “The chief feature of this shoe is the toe, as it runs extra wide, being almost the same width as it is across the ball of the foot, giving the toes abundance of room to lie in their natural shape without being cramped as they are in a too-narrow shoe. This shoe will create no corns but on the other hand will cure them.”

  The trouble with the corn cure shoe was that it gave the appearance of a paddle going out ahead of your foot. Parker Jones was certain he would feel like a duck, paddling along in the corn cure shoe. And as he had no corns to cure, Parker made the decision that was to cost him his comfort for as long as the “Men’s Plain Buff Lace” shoe, which was his choice, should last.

  Yes, pride had piped her alluring, entrancing tune; he had heeded her siren call and ordered the handsome but narrow pointed shoe; the prideful dance had turned into painful plodding, and he was paying the piper for sure. Parker Jones felt that, without a doubt, a corn was in the dreadful making.

  And what’s more, the Buff Lace shoe—which referred to laces rather than elastic sides or buttons—would be dusty and dirty beyond recognition when he arrived at the Condon home. He might as well paddle up to the door in the corn cure shoe, for all the fine impression he would make!

  Consequently, Parker Jones was not in the best of moods when he walked—limped—into the Condon yard. His spirits weren’t lifted any by the baying dogs that rushed to meet him, sniffing his feet and licking his hands as he attempted to dissuade them from their friendly overtures. Dirty of feet and wet of hand, he stepped up onto the split logs that formed the steps to the Condon house.

  “Oh, do come in, Reverend!”

  It was Vivian herself, cool and perfectly groomed, holding out her hand in welcome; if she had helped with Monday’s wash, she showed no sign of it now.

  Aware of the dog slobber on his hand, Parker Jones hesitated. How was it that this particular young woman made him feel so unsure of himself, so backwoodsy, so bucolic? What was wrong with him anyway? There was nothing belittling about being associated with the good people of the backwoods. These people, from all walks of life, including teachers and leading citizens of other places, felt no less of themselves because they had chosen to homestead. For the most part they were fine, upstanding, hardworking, even ambitious, people, and ordinarily Parker was proud to be associated with them, to encourage them in their struggle to populate and tame this land that was theirs by choice.