Spirit Pouch (12 page)

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?”
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“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.
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  “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.  Without 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.
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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.

I am just recovering from my temporary astonishment, having concluded in my own mind that I have heard incorrectly, and I am wishing that I had not said anything at all. 
If Henry wants to read from the book of Zechariah, who am I to interrupt?

Henry looks directly at me, and I kind of look at the floor.  “Sorry,” I apologize.  “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s okay,” Henry says sincerely.  “Perhaps you haven’t heard of the book of Mosiah?”

“I … ah …”  I want to tell him that I am a Mormon and that I have actually read the entire Book of Mormon more than three times already.  I also want to say, “By the way, how did you hear about the Book of Mormon?” but Henry continues.

“Well, my family has heard me tell about this book a couple of dozen times, I’m sure …”

“Or more,” Annie says, rolling her eyes and huffing a little.

“… so I will be brief,” Henry continues.  “The Book of Mosiah is part of a larger book of ancient scripture called The Book of Mormon.  Each book in The Book of Mormon was written by a prophet of God, and is named after that prophet.  Mosiah was one of those prophets and was also king over the land of Zarahemla.”  Henry pauses for just a moment.  “So, with that introduction, Elizabeth, would you read a paragraph
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and then pass the book to the next person?  We left off right here,” he points with his finger as he hands her the book.

Elizabeth takes the book and begins reading, “And it came to pass that King Mosiah granted that sixteen of their strong men might go up to the land of Lehi-Nephi, to inquire concerning their brethren.”
[35]

Elizabeth reads on. 
I know this story,
I smile to myself as images of ancient prophets form in my mind. 
It is when Ammon meets King Limhi.  He teaches the king and his people the gospel of Jesus Christ,
I remember. 
It is also part of the story of wicked King Noah and the sacrifices of the prophet Abinidi who cries repentance unto the king and who is eventually put to death by fire.
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  It is the story of the faith and courage of Alma the priest of King Noah,
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who believes the words of Abinidi and leads many of King Noah’s people to the waters of baptism.
  I have heard these stories many times in seminary class and in priesthood quorum lessons.  They seem to be part of me.  They are part of what I believe. 
They are true!
I want to stand up and tell everyone in the cabin how I feel, but the Spirit is strong in the room and I know that I should sit quietly and not interrupt.

When George finally hands the book to William, Henry stands and asks William to offer the family prayer.  William prays for safety and health and that we might have the courage to follow Jesus Christ.  I privately pray quiet thanks for families, for prophets and for the witness of the Holy Ghost.

Everyone says, “Amen,” and in a moment Elizabeth hands me a stack of blankets for my bed.  I make my bed on the floor and crawl in.  My feet are sore.  My arms and shoulders are sore.  I wonder if I will be able to sleep, but it feels good to close my eyes.

Chapter Seven

New Boots

Saturday

Like
an old television set, it takes my mind a few moments to warm up.  Gradually I become aware of my surroundings. A cooking pan rings metallically from the kitchen, and my mind puzzles over a new but familiar aroma that seems to fill the house.

Oatmeal,
I decide with enthusiasm. 
Oatmeal is a good thing.  Better than grits, anyway.
  My eyes open and I crawl reluctantly out from under my blankets.  I wince the first time I put weight on my stiff, sore shoulder muscles.  As I rub my shoulders to lessen the pain I think,
I’ll be okay.  I’ve had muscles more sore than these from running cross country workouts.
  Six to ten miles a day during practice can make a guy sore for a few days.  Being sore is a good feeling, in a sadistic sort of way, knowing that my muscles will be stronger because of the workout.

I fold my blankets and then pull the table out away from the wall just as Annie comes into the room with a stack of bowls.

We have mush for breakfast with milk and a slice of homemade bread.  For a split second the thought flashes through my mind. 
Of course it is homemade in 1866.  Even bread from the store would be homemade by someone.

William pulls me outside as I stuff the last bite of bread into my mouth.  “We need to hurry,” he explains.  “We’ve got a lot to do before leaving for work and we don’t want to be late again.”  William points to a stump of wood next to the house.  “There is the axe, and you can chop five logs into lengths about this long.”  William holds up two hands and I estimate the distance to be about two feet.  Don’t make them longer or they won’t fit into the stove.”

I nod.

“Remember, we need some cut for Sunday, also.”

“Okay,” I say heading for the axe.  “What wood do I chop?”

“Over by the corral,” William points.  “We hauled it here from the next valley over by wagon last week.”

I just shake my head as I grab the axe and head for the small pile of  logs. 
That valley is probably as bald as this one from over harvesting lumber!

It feels strange chopping wood while not wearing any shoes. 
This can’t be a very safe thing to do,
I think. 
I may have to relinquish my Totin’ Chip
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after this!

I do not chop my toe off, though, and while I finish chopping the last log, Tom finishes milking Spot.  William and Tom carry the cut logs over to the cabin and stack them in a neat pile ready to use.

Elizabeth kisses us both goodbye and hands us a lunch tied up in a small bundle as William and I hurry out the door.

“Are we going to hitch a ride like we did yesterday?” I ask William as we reach the road.

“What do you mean?” he looks at me puzzled.

“’Hitch a ride’ is sort of like … ah … hitching a wagon, I guess, only instead of hooking up a wagon, you are hooking up your ride on someone else’s wagon,” I try to explain. Instantly I can tell that my explanation is really lame.  “It is slang,” I say shrugging my shoulders.  “It just means to get a free ride with someone who is going your way.  Where I come from, if you hitch a ride with someone, it is called hitch hiking.  People do it all the time.”

William looks at me like the summer heat has affected my brain and he just smiles and shakes his head.  “Yeah,” he says.  “We’re going to hitch a ride, if we can.”

It takes us a while to hitch a ride, but even so we arrive at the brickyard a few minutes early.

“You ready to work, today, Jared?” Mr. Roworth asks as he checks me in.  “I see you still have no boots.”

“I ordered my boots, sir,” I reply.  “They will be ready today.  And even without boots, I worked really hard for you yesterday.”

“Yes you did.  That’s why I’m letting you work for me today with no boots.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say.  “But I think I should be paid two dollars an hour like some of the other guys.” 
How could he say no?
I think. 
I have never been paid so little, even for mowing lawns in the heat of the Arizona summer!

Mr. Roworth laughs.  “You are a hard worker, boy, but not that hard.  No one gets paid that much!”

I am ready to walk away.  It is bad working for so little when I know I am worth more. But to be laughed at besides is hard to take.  I am about to give him a piece of my mind, or cry.  One or the other.  I know crying would not be a good thing.  Then he really would laugh, and so would everyone else.

I take a deep breath.  “I …”

“Look, son,” Mr. Roworth says seriously, “I can pay you two dollars a day, and that is all.  And you better work hard.”

I am confused. 
Didn’t I ask for two dollars an
 
… an
 
…  Holy cow!  I did ask for two dollars an hour!
I realize with embarrassing horror. 
No wonder he laughed.
  “Yes, sir,” I say.  “Thank you, sir.”

“You will be working as the Off-bearer
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, today.  Go with William.  He will show you.”

“Good job,” William smiles as soon as we are out of earshot of Mr. Roworth.  That was clever asking for two dollars an hour.  When I heard that, I thought that you had gone crazy on me.  But it worked.  He gave you a raise.  Congratulations!”

“Thanks.  I … ah …”  I am going to explain that where I came from we get paid by the hour, and in a brickyard I would probably get paid ten or twelve dollars per hour, but I do not get the chance.

“What was that thing you did with Annie?” William asks.  “Give me five, or something?”

I hold out my hand, palm up.  “Give me five,” I say.  William slaps my hand with his and we both laugh.

“So, what is an off-barrel?” I ask, trying to change the subject from how cleverly dumb I am.

“Not barrel,” he answers, smiling.  “An Off-bearer.  That’s the guy who takes the mold off the bricks and moves the bricks to a place to dry.  It’s going to be a lot of work.”

William is right.  It is a lot of work and I have never been so glad to see five o’clock roll around.  It is sort of the same feeling that I get when the bell rings to let us out of Old Mrs. Harris’ English Lit. class.  I am really happy to get two dollars pay for my work, too.

“Jared, you’re a good worker,” Mr. Roworth says as he hands me two dollars.  “Someday you will stand in front of my building and you will proudly say, ‘I helped make that building.’”

“Yes, sir,” I say politely, but truthfully I hope that I will not be around long enough to do that.

“And do you know why bricks are something to be proud of?” he asks, speaking more to all the men, and not to just me.

“Because they don’t burn,” I answer, feeling like I am back in school.

“That’s right,” he turns back to me.  “They are fireproof.  When you construct a building out of brick, it becomes fireproof, too.”

“I hope you never have to test your bricks against a real fire,” I say solemnly.

A general murmur ripples through the group of men.  Jack, standing next to me, nods, “Amen,” and several others do the same.

As soon as William receives his two dollars pay we head for Mr. Jenkins’ Mining Supply store.  We walk north on Roworth Street, then Spring Street and turn onto Main Street.  The clock on the right, across the street from the Bookstore
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says 5:20.  I check my watch.  It says almost 5:25.

Holy cow!
I think.  I nudge William who is busy looking through the wavy glass storefront window of the General Store.  “We have to get going!  Doesn’t Mr. Jenkins close at about 5:30?”

“Yeah, you’re right.”  William glances up at the clock on Main Street.  “Come on.”

“We can come back if you want,” I say apologetically.  “I just don’t want to miss picking up my boots.”  I dig today’s pay out of my pocket and hand it to William as we round the corner to Eureka Street.

“Well, how are you boys today?” Mr. Jenkins smiles as we enter his store.

“A little tired,” William replies, taking a deep breath.  “We just got through working at the brickyard.”

“I see,” he nods.  “William Roworth
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really works you boys hard, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, sir, he does,” William agrees.  “But thank you for staying open for us.  Jared is looking forward to those new boots, I think.”

“I sure am,” I say quickly.  “I’ve never had such sore feet!” 
Except one time when the tops of my feet got sunburned while at the lake waterskiing,
I think.  But I am not going to try to explain all that.

“Well, your feet will be feeling better soon,” Mr. Jenkins says while reaching down behind the counter.  He lifts up a new pair of brown leather boots and sets them gently down in front of me.

“I make the best boots this side of Denver,” he brags.  Tipping one boot on its side he points to the sole, “I put extra thick leather on the bottom to protect your foot from rocks.”  His hand slides over the top of the toe.  “I put soft leather on top for comfort, and I’m throwing in the leather ties at no charge.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say politely.

He points to a small bench.  “Sit down.  We’ll try them on.”

I unwrap the shreds of cloth from around my feet.  Retrieving my dirty and extremely worn socks from my pocket, I pull them on.  Mr. Jenkins slips the first boot onto my right foot. 
It actually fits!
  I let him slip the left one on, too.

Mr. Jenkins watches as I stand up and walk a little.  “These feel great,” I say.  “I’m going to love having boots again.”  Into my mind flash visions of pioneers. 
Some of the pioneers had no shoes as they crossed the plains, pushing hand carts, or walking beside oxen pulling wagons.  They probably had shoes to begin with, but they probably wore out quickly.  I’m not sure that I could have been a pioneer.

I think my feet begin to actually feel the pain that the pioneers felt as they walked, but I am spared any real agony when William says, “Thanks again, Mr. Jenkins,” and my mind whirls back to 1866.

“I’m going to like them, Mr. Jenkins.  Thank you.”

“You boys come any time,” he says as William pulls me out of the store.

“Come on,” William urges.

“What’s your rush?” I ask.  But I think,
There’s no Mutual, no school work.  What could be so urgent?

“Mom’s going to worry about us,” William answers.  “She always does.  Not only that, but we have chores to do.”

Huh?
I think. 
What chores? Elizabeth won’t even let me do the dishes.

“We have to haul water, again,” William goes on.  “Only today is Saturday, so we have to get a lot more.”

More?  More than yesterday?”

“Besides, I want to stop by the parlor and get some ice cream,” William says with some guilt in his voice.

“Ice-cream?” I say, doubtfully.  “That will take up your whole day’s pay and maybe more!”

“It
is
twice as much here in Central City than it is in Denver,” William admits, “but even so, ten cents is hardly my whole day’s pay.  Besides, I’m buying yours, too, so let’s go.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

William pushes open a wooden door that says, ‘Parlor’ across the front and I follow him into a small store that has two tables and a few chairs along the wall.

“What will it be this week?” a smiling, older gentleman asks from behind a polished wooden counter that serves as a table and bar.

I glance at William, “This week?” 
I thought maybe he would have said, ‘this evening,’ or ‘today.’

“Yeah, I come here on Fridays, usually,” William confesses in a quiet whisper.  To the man behind the counter he says, “Two ice-creams with strawberries, please.”

Five minutes later I find out why William displayed addictive tendencies toward Central City ice cream.  It is cold, sweet, and other than a few icy lumps, is smooth and refreshing.  Fifteen minutes later we leave the parlor totally refreshed.

This is pretty nice,
I think as I walk toward home in my new boots and the flavor of vanilla and strawberries still on my tongue.  I really do not mind the walk, either.  My feet feel good.  I do not even really mind that we have a few chores to look forward to when we get home.

Elizabeth meets us as we open the front door to the log cabin and step inside.  “I’m glad to see you boys made it home.  You are a little late.  She looks at William with that mother’s stare that means ‘you better have a good reason.’

“Yes, Mother,” William says quietly.  “We stopped in Central City to pick up Jared’s new boots.  We had to walk from there all the way home because by then it was already too late to hitch a ride.”