Winter Is Not Forever (23 page)
This time for sure there were too many of us for the light buggy, and we still didn’t have snow so we couldn’t take the sleigh. Taking the rather cumbersome wagon meant we had to leave early so Matilda could be there to make the final preparations. When the crowd began to arrive, we were ready.
I noticed Mitch as soon as he came in the door. He had been at our house a few times over the past weeks—to visit Mary, he said. Uncle Charlie and Grandpa would just smile and wink at that. Mary always seemed pleased to see him. I knew she was praying for him and hoping that he was ready to show some interest in church again. Tonight he was dressed all up in a brand-new suit that I figured he must have purchased with his harvest money. He looked pretty good, too. For a moment I wished I hadn’t ordered that tractor. I could have done with a new suit myself.
Matilda started the evening with some “mixers” just to get folks moving about and talking to one another. Harvest had kept everyone too busy for visiting.
After spending a half hour or more playing the games, Matilda went on to her program. Several of the school children sang songs or recited pieces. Some of them were good, some not so good. But we all clapped anyway, and some of the young fellas lined up across the back of the room, whistling shrilly.
I found it awfully hard on the ears, and then I remembered times when my friends and I had done the same thing because it seemed like the thing to do. Now it just seemed loud.
The last item on the program surprised me; Matilda sang. I had no idea that she had such a voice. In fact, I could hardly believe it as I listened to her. To think such a full, melodious sound was coming out of such a little frame was almost unbelievable. I guess that others felt that way too; the room was totally quiet. Even the babies seemed to stop their restless stirring, and when it was over there was thunderous applause and more shrill whistles. People kept crying “Encore! Encore!” until finally a flushed Matilda sang us another. But she wouldn’t sing a third number though, no matter how we coaxed.
When the refreshments were served, several neighborhood women gave Matilda and Mary a hand. They had all brought sandwiches and pastries from their own kitchens.
We all assured Matilda that her evening was a complete success as we bundled up against the cold and started off for home. It was a bright night with a full moon, and the horses had no trouble at all seeing where they were going.
Once again I was on the front seat driving with one girl on each side of me. Grandpa and Uncle Charlie had crawled up on the back seat and bundled themselves into heavy quilts. The cold made Uncle Charlie’s arthritis act up, so Mary had made sure that we had lots of blankets along.
At first the ride was rather quiet, with only an occasional comment followed by some laughter. A shooting star caused some oohs and aahs from the girls. Mary told Matilda she had a lovely voice and begged her to sing the song again. Matilda began to sing, softly at first, and then Mary joined in, and the beautiful sound drifted out over the moon-drenched countryside. It was a well-known hymn, and by the time they got to the second verse I could hear Grandpa humming along with them. Then he stopped humming and began to sing, and then Uncle Charlie joined in, softly, shyly.
Matilda gave me a little poke, and I sang, too—a bit hesitantly at first, and then much more bravely. Soon we were all singing, full voice. We finished the song and went on to another one and then another and another. As soon as we had completed one, someone would lead out in another.
All the way home we sang. I had never had an experience like it in all my life. Somehow in the singing we had drawn closer together against the coldness and the darkness of the world around us. It all seemed so natural, so right.
For the first time I was sorry to see our farm come into view. I could have gone on and on just driving and singing and being close to those I cared about. Just as we pulled up to the house a star fell, streaking its way downward, then burned out and was gone—and the spell was broken.
Sarah came to visit. It had been a long time since she had spent time with us at the farm, and we had missed her.
“Oh no!” said Uncle Charlie in mock horror. “What am I gonna do with
two
bosses in the kitchen?” Mary and Sarah both laughed.
I came home from town midafternoon to find Mary and Sarah elbow-deep in flour as they rolled and cut sugar cookies. Uncle Charlie sat in his favorite chair by the window working a crossword puzzle, but every now and then he would steal a peek at the activity. I knew that he was enjoying their fun almost as much as they were.
“What would you like us to make for you, Uncle Josh?” Sarah called. Without hesitation I answered, “A tractor.” It had seemed like the tractor was taking an interminable time to come.
Sarah laughed at my response but Mary gave me a sympathetic smile.
“I don’t know how to make a tractor,” Sarah giggled.
“That’s too bad,” I said shaking my head. “If you could make me one I could cancel my order.”
Uncle Charlie’s head lifted from the crossword. “No word?”
I shook my head in disappointment.
“I thought you didn’t need a tractor ’til spring,” Sarah offered as she patched up the leg on a cookie dog.
“I don’t.”
“Then why are you so apatient?”
She tipped her head to the side and sucked some cookie dough off a finger as she waited for my answer. I waited too. I wasn’t sure how to answer her. At last I had to smile.
“I’m ‘apatient,’ “ I said honestly, borrowing her word, “because I
want
it so much, not because I need it so much.”
“Oh!” nodded Sarah. She could understand that.
She thought for a moment and then her face brightened. “Then I know,” she said matter-of-factly. “Pray. Pray an’ ask Jesus to help you wait. Before I had my birthday one time I was apatient an’ Mamma told me to pray, an’ I did, an’ Jesus helped me wait.”
It sounded so simple. Maybe it was simple. I ran a hand over Sarah’s curly head. “Maybe I’ll do that,” I said huskily.
She seemed perfectly satisfied that the matter had been taken care of and could be dropped.
“Would you like a horse?” she asked.
“I’ve already got a horse,” I informed her.
She giggled again. “Well, this one don’t need hay, or oats, or anything,” and she handed me a slightly damaged horse with crooked legs.
I ate the horse in two bites.
“Mamma don’t let me do that,” said Sarah seriously, her eyes big. “She says I might choke and throw up.”
I wanted to tell Sarah that such talk wasn’t very ladylike and then I was reminded by a little glance from Mary that I had provoked the whole thing.
“I shouldn’t have done it, either,” I admitted. “I promise not to do it again.”
I gave Sarah another pat, grinned sheepishly at Mary and went on up to my room.
The question of where Sarah should sleep at our house hadn’t really been solved. I offered to sleep on the cot, but Grandpa refused. He didn’t say so, but I think it had something to do with him having gotten two boarders for our extra bedrooms. Uncle Charlie said he would, but it was hard enough for him to get a decent night’s sleep in his own bed.
Grandpa ended up on the cot that first night. He looked awfully tired the next morning.
We talked again about letting Sarah take the cot. The idea didn’t seem like a good one—not that the cot wouldn’t fit Sarah better than it had Grandpa, but simply because she would be kept awake so late. Sarah would never go to sleep as long as there was stirring in the kitchen, yet none of the rest of us were ready for bed at seven-thirty.
Mary finally worked it all out. “Move the cot into my room,” she suggested. “There’s plenty of room; Sarah can go to bed at the proper time and the rest of us can keep our own beds.”
“That’s awfully kind of you, Mary,” Grandpa started to protest, “but you shouldn’t have—”
“Nonsense,” she said. “I love her company and you know it.”
So the cot was moved into Mary’s room and Sarah was tucked in for the night. It was a much better arrangement. After Sarah had returned home the next day, I offered to move the cot out, but Mary wouldn’t hear of it.
“Just leave it there,” she said. “It’s not in my way, and it will be all ready for the next time she comes.”
The snow came softly at first, then heavier and heavier until there was a deep ground cover. I didn’t like the idea of tiny Matilda heading off for school across the open field. It was already knee deep and there would be no path.
“Take Chester,” I urged her.
“I’ll be fine,” she insisted. “A little snow won’t hurt me. The walk does me good. Besides, there’ll be worse storms before the winter is over. I might as well get used to it.”
I stopped arguing, but I will admit I cast a glance out the window now and then until she passed out of sight, just to be sure that she would make it to the schoolhouse.
Storm followed storm, and we settled into another winter. Soon we all had adjusted to it, and I no longer fretted when Matilda left for school, her high boots clearing a way through the drifts and her arms full of textbooks.
Shortly before Christmas the tractor finally arrived. The station master sent out word to us with one of our neigbors. Mr. Smith seemed to be quite pleased to have been chosen to bear the news. There weren’t too many tractors in our part.
I rushed off to town to pick it up and it looked like the whole town was there to watch me take delivery.
I had thought from reading the manuals that a tractor would be easy enough to handle. But we had a real time getting it fired up, and by the time the blacksmith came to give me a hand, my face was red and my fuse short.
Then I had to back the big monster up in order to get it turned around. That seemed to be harder than backing a horse and buggy. We had to start it twice more, because I kept killing the engine. I finally did get it heading the right direction, with all eyes of the townsfolk upon me. But then, not wanting to hog all the road, I got a little too close to the edge of the roadway. Those big steel wheels just seemed to pull me right on down into the ditch, and the tractor stalled again. When the helpful blacksmith and I did get it started, I wasn’t sure how I was going to get myself out of there. But to my amazement, those same steel wheels that took me down so unexpectedly also took me back out, and I was off down the road heading home.
It was a cold ride. The thing moved along at a crawl, and it was made all of steel, so there was nothing warm about it—at least not back where I was sitting.
By the time I got it home, I sure was glad to pull it up beside the granary and climb on down. It wasn’t nearly as easy to handle as a team, I can tell you that, and it took me most of the afternoon to get the chill out of my bones.
I did some thinking about that tractor that I hadn’t done before. Getting the tractor was fine, but I hadn’t thought much of where to go from there. I could tell just by looking that the farm machinery we had used behind the horses wouldn’t work behind that tractor. We’d probably need to replace nearly all the equipment we owned.
I wrote Willie a long letter that night, the first one in a while. I’d had a few letters from him, and I knew he was just as busy there in South Africa as I was back home.
He was pretty excited about his new life. Oh, he still missed Camellia terribly—and his family and friends, too, I guess, but he sure was excited about getting into the work he had been trained to do. God had given him a deep love for the black Africans he was reaching out to. They were so friendly and open, he said, and he knew he was going to love being a missionary among them.
I had already told him about Grandpa’s wild idea of moving two women into our house. I had even written later, admitting that it really wasn’t as bad as I had expected. But I hadn’t told him about the community social or our good harvest or the new tractor.
I told him, too, that Mrs. Foggelson was really doing well since she had reestablished her faith. Not that she was running around town preaching or singing on the street corner or anything like that, but she was growing in a quiet, maturing way.
I miss you, Willie,
I wrote,
and I’ll be glad to see you again. Four years, after all, is a long, long time. God’s blessing on your
work; my warmest regards. Your best friend, Josh.
