by Janette Oke
SEVENTEEN
Winter and Christmas
Missie lifted the already heavy buckets and trudged forward a few paces. She dropped them with a thump and stooped again to gather buffalo chips from the near-frozen ground. The driving wind whipped her shawl, and she made an effort to wrap it more securely about her. Her fingers tingled from the cold. She chided herself for not having worn mittens.
At length the second pail was full. She hoisted her load and hiked slowly back to her sod house, the buckets thumping against her legs. She would need two more pails to complete the day’s supply. She dreaded the thought of going out once more. Her arms and back were aching, and she was now having to range farther and farther from the house in order to fill the pails.
As she neared the soddy she could hear little Nathan crying. She hurried her steps. Poor little fellow! How long had he been asking for his dinner?
Missie set down her load, then scrubbed her hands thoroughly at the basin in the corner. The cold water increased the tingling feeling, and she rubbed them vigorously with the rough towel in an effort to restore the proper circulation. At last there was feeling in her fingers again. Casting her shawl aside, she hurried to her baby, crooning words of love to him even before she reached his bed.
Somehow she had managed two long weeks of living in the crowded soddy. Nathan was a big part of the reason she was able to function at all. The wee baby brought life and meaning to Missie’s world, such as it was.
The air was growing colder now and the wind more harsh. Willie’s eyes, full of concern, often watched the sky. A winter storm of sleet and snow could sweep in upon them long before he and his farmhands were ready for it. Missie worried about her dwindling fuel supply, but she said nothing to Willie. No need to give him further worries. Surely a woman should be able to shoulder the task of keeping the fire going. Still, she didn’t know how she would manage it once the snow covered the ground. Frets about that and other matters related to simply surviving nagged constantly in the back of her mind.
She changed Nathan, fed him, and held him close for several minutes before returning him to his bed.
Missie checked the coffeepot on her small stove. The fullsized stove she had brought from “back home” at her mama’s insistence remained packed in its crate. It was too big for the little sod house. Missie pushed the kettle toward the center so the water would boil. Willie might soon be in, and he would be chilled to the bone. But it was Henry’s voice Missie heard first, just outside the door.
“Still think thet we can’t put it off any longer—no matter what else needs to be done. Snow could come anytime.”
“Yeah,” Willie agreed, “yer right. Shouldn’ta let it go this long. We’ll plan on first thing in the mornin’. We’ll use two wagons an’ all the hands.”
“Ya think they’ll mind?”
“I’m boss, ain’t I?”
“Sure ya are.”
Missie could sense the grin in Henry’s voice.
“But I reckon they might think they was hired on to punch cows—not pick up chips.”
“We’ll see,” Willie said as the two men ducked through the door.
Oh, Missie thought, if only this means what I hope it means.
The next morning, soon after breakfast, two wagons and five men set out to gather chips for the winter fires. All day long they shuttled back and forth. They heaped the cook’s supply beside the cook shack but favored Missie with more consideration. Her pile was stored in a sod shed just behind the house. This would save her the struggle of breaking frozen chips out of the snow.
Missie nearly cried with relief as she watched the shed fill up. Gathering chips would have been an increasingly difficult task with the coming of the winter snows. Thank you, God, her heart whispered. “And thank you, Willie—and all of you,” she would say to each of them as she was able. Missie felt light with her gratefulness. She groped for a way to express her deep appreciation. At the same time she reached for her large coffeepot and filled it to the brim. She’d at least have steaming coffee waiting to warm the men on their next trip in.
The next day the men continued hauling, and even the next—piling the overflow beside the shed. To Missie it looked like the supply would last forever. It did to some of the hands, also, if their mutters and scowls were any indication. But Willie declared he wanted to be absolutely sure his wife had plenty on hand for warm fires throughout the coming winter.
Missie’s days became easier after the chips had been gathered. But her time was also more difficult to fill with activity. The little room needed very little attention. Missie made attempts at sweeping the floor, made up the bed, prepared the meals, and washed the dishes. Of course, she often had to make a trip to the spring when she ran out of water, which Willie hauled for her before leaving for his daily duties. Beyond that, there wasn’t much to fill her hours.
She decided to knit socks for Henry—then continued to knit a pair for each of the ranch hands. She would have them ready for Christmas. After the socks were finished and Missie’s idle hands lay useless in her lap once again, she decided to make each of the men heavy woolen mittens for the winter days ahead. She hesitated—not sure if cowboys would scorn such things as woolen mittens, but eventually she proceeded anyway.
Missie did not know the men well. The tall, lean, hardfaced one with the large nose was Clem. The shorter tobaccospitting one was Sandy. Missie was a bit more familiar with Cookie—the cook, of course. He was a quiet but pleasant man whose sharp eyes seemingly missed nothing. His face was plain until lit with a smile—which occurred whenever he saw Missie or her small son. Cookie suffered with a bad limp, the reason he was content to cook rather than ride the range with the other men. A bad fall while breaking a horse was his explanation for the faulty hip and leg. Missie was glad he was around, for though they rarely conversed, his occasional nod and grin brightened her day a bit.
The baby’s laundry was Missie’s most trying task. The water had to be hauled from the spring below the house. Though Willie filled the two available pails before he left in the morning, it wasn’t nearly enough for Missie to do the job. The little stove was too small to hold a tub or a boiler, so Missie had to heat the water kettle by kettle. By the time she had the next kettleful hot, the first one had cooled. Having been raised to wash clothes in hot water, she found her patience sorely tested.
The first winter storm attacked with fury. Driving wind whipped the cutting sleet, smashing it against the small windows, swirling it around each corner of the sod house. The snow stacked in drifts and buried any obstacle in its pathway. Missie prayed that their little soddy would be able to withstand the storm’s anger.
Willie insisted on being out with the men and animals, and Missie felt it was only sensible for him to be in. All hands rode throughout the day to insure that the three hundred cattle now wearing the Hanging W brand were not lost in the storm.
They returned late in the afternoon, having hazed the cattle into a box-canyon, which they hoped would offer some protection from the worst of the weather.
Still, Willie fretted and paced, ducking down to watch the driving snow through the small pane of window glass.
The storm had lost some of its fury by the next afternoon, and Henry and Sandy rode out to check the stock. They were able to report back that all were accounted for. Willie relaxed again.
The snow did not melt away, and Missie realized that winter was not about to retreat. The spring soon froze, and Missie was forced to melt snow for their water supply. It was a tedious task, particularly on washdays. She didn’t care for the taste of snow water, either, but gradually adjusted to it.
Missie found her life to be uneventful, repetitious, boring. The deep drifts all about the little sod house blocked her view of even those empty frost-painted hills. The tasks of bringing in fuel for her fire and melting enough snow to keep water in the house provided Missie with nothing except work.
How glad Missie was for Nathan. As he became aware of what was happening arou
nd him and his smile greeted Missie when she looked over at him in his bed, her days took on some meaning and purpose. She talked to him constantly. Without him, the dark walls of the tiny soddy would have been a prison during those long, empty wintry days.
“Thank you, Father,” Missie prayed often. “Thank you for our son. And help me to be cheerful and patient and to make a happy home for Willie,” she added.
As Missie hung the baby’s laundry from the lines strung across their one room, she suddenly realized that only a few days remained until Christmas.
She ducked under a line of hanging diapers and made her way to another homemade calendar clipped on the wall. It was true. There were only four days until Christmas.
She looked about her. Christmas? Here? She shook her head quickly to blink away threatening tears and scolded herself. But the aching feeling within her was not to be shaken off so easily. What could she possibly do to make this soddy ready for Christmas?
That evening as she and Willie sat at their small table to eat their stew and biscuits, Missie brought up the subject.
“Did you realize that in just four days it’s Christmas?”
“Christmas?” Willie said, looking surprised. “Christmas already? Boy, how time does fly!”
Missie felt a sharp retort forming on her tongue, but she refused to voice it.
“Christmas!” Willie repeated. “I can hardly believe it.”
He finished the biscuit. “Guess I can’t provide ya with a turkey. Will a roast of venison do?”
“I think so. Maybe Cookie can tell me how to fix it.”
“Be kinda hard havin’ Christmas alone, won’t it?” Willie’s eyes searched her face carefully.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Missie said. “Why don’t we have the hands in?”
“In here?”
“Why not?”
Willie stared at the lines of hanging baby things. “Not much room.”
“I know, but we could make do.”
“They could come two at a time, I guess.”
“That wouldn’t be Christmas.”
“How’ll ya do it, then?”
“I’ll set the food out on the table and the stove, and we’ll just help ourselves and sit wherever we fit—on the stools, on the bed—wherever. I think there’s one more stool in the bunkhouse—and Cookie has one in the cook shack.”
Willie laughed. “You’ve got yer heart set on it, ain’t ya?”
Missie lowered her head but made no comment.
“Okay,” said Willie, “invite the men.”
“Would you invite them, please, Willie? I... I don’t see them much.”
“Sure, I’ll invite ’em. Fer what time?”
“Let’s make it one o’clock.”
Willie nodded. “An’ I’ll git ya thet venison roast.”
“Maybe Cookie could do the roast in his stove. Then I can have mine free for other things.”
Willie nodded again. “I’ll talk to’im.”
Cookie agreed to do the roast, and when the day arrived, Missie got busy on the remainder of the meal. She didn’t have much to work with, but what she lacked in ingredients, she made up for with ingenuity. She had been hoarding some of her mother’s preserves for just such a time as this. She opened them now and used some of the fruit to fill tart shells. She prepared some of the last canned carrots and beans from home to go with the roast venison. The only potatoes left were a few precious ones that she had kept, hoping to plant them in the spring. They looked sorry and neglected, but Missie still prayed they might have the germ of life left in them. She refused to use any of them now, although the thought of potatoes with the meal made her mouth water. Instead, she baked a big batch of fluffy biscuits and set out her last jar of honey to go with them.
When the men arrived, Cookie proudly carrying his roast of venison, Missie was ready for them.
“Before we eat,” Willie said, “I’ve somethin’ else to bring in. We don’t have much room, iffen ya noticed”—this brought a guffaw from the men—“so I left it in the other shed.”
He soon returned carrying a scrub bush, held upright in a small pail. On its tiny branches hung little bows made from Missie’s scraps of yarn.
“Didn’t rightly seem like Christmas without a tree,” he said apologetically. The men whooped, and Missie wept.
When the commotion had died down, Willie moved with some difficulty to the middle of the room and led them in prayer: “Father, we have much to thank you fer. Fer the goodsmellin’ food of which we are about to partake. Fer the warmth of this little room in which we are to share it. Fer friends who are here with us an’ those who are far away. Fer the memories of other Christmases spent with those we love. Fer Nathan Isaiah, our healthy son. And most of all, dear God, fer my wife, who has blessed us all by givin’ us this Christmas. We are reminded thet all of these blessin’s are extras. Yer special gift to us on this day was yer Son. We accept thet gift with our thanks. Amen.”
As the menfolk devoured the tasty and plentiful food, Missie sat quietly. She tried to keep her thoughts from wander-ing to her parents’ home. What would it be like if she could be there right now? In a house big enough to serve a whole family in comfort, with fresh butter, mashed potatoes, turkey, baked squash, and apple pie topped with whipped cream.
She looked at her plate filled with sliced venison and gravy, canned carrots with no garnish, canned yellow beans, and a biscuit with no butter. But she reminded herself that many days during the last year she had partaken of even simpler fare. This was a rather sumptuous feast by comparison. The men obviously felt it was such. And when it came time for the tarts and coffee, they licked their lips in anticipation. Missie picked her way across the room to check on Nathan. One could barely move without tripping over feet, but the close proximity just made it easier for laughing together.
“Son,” she whispered to the baby, “you’re not going to remember one thing about this, but I want you to get in on it anyway. Your very first Christmas, and I don’t even have anything to give you—but a kiss and laughter with friends.” She took him in her arms.
After the meal Missie summoned all her courage and presented each of the men with a pair of socks and woolen mittens. She was unprepared for their deep appreciation. She soon realized that it may have been their first Christmas gift since they were small boys at home.
Cookie shifted his position to “git outta the smoke from the blasted fire—it’s makin’ my eyes water.”
Clem swallowed over and over, his Adam’s apple lurching up and down.
Missie prayed that none of them would feel embarrassed at having nothing to give in return.
After the men had expressed their thanks as best as they could, Missie began timidly, “Now I want to say thank you for your gift to me.”
Five pairs of eyes—six, counting Nathan’s—swung to her face.
“I want to thank you,” she said shyly, “for working so faithfully for my husband, for making his load—and thus mine—easier, for not demanding things that we can’t provide.” She hesitated, then added, smiling, “But most of all, I want to thank you for the good supply of chips you didn’t fuss about hauling. I’ve been thankful over and over for those chips.”
Missie couldn’t suppress a giggle. Though the expressions of the men acknowledged her sincere thankfulness, they also saw the humor in it and gladly chuckled with her.
Though unaware of it at that moment, Missie had just made some friends for life. Not one of those men sitting round her tiny soddy would have denied her anything that was in their power to provide. There she sat, just a little scrap of a girlwoman, youthful and pretty, her cheeks glowing with health, her eyes sparkling near tears, her trim figure clothed attractively in a bright calico, the tiny fair-skinned, chubby-cheeked Nathan contentedly in her arms studying her face.
That picture was their Christmas gift, one they would remember all their lives.
Later Henry brought in his guitar, and they sang Christmas
carols together. Cookie just sat and listened. Sandy whistled a few lines now and then. But Clem, to Missie’s surprise, seemed to know most of the traditional carols by heart.
It was hard to break up the little gathering. Several times Missie added more chips to her fire. Little Nathan made the rounds from one pair of arms to another. Even the toughlooking Clem took a turn holding the baby.
At last Missie put the coffeepot back on and boiled a fresh pot. She was glad she had made enough tarts for each of them to have another one with their coffee.
The men lingered over their tarts and coffee but finally took their leave, tramping their way through the snow back to the bunkhouse.
Missie hummed softly as she washed the dishes. There had been no point trying to find room to wash them earlier. Willie put on his hat and coat and left for the barn to check the horses, Missie assumed.
Missie had finished the dishes and was feeding Nathan when Willie returned, bearing a box. Missie was astonished, and he answered her unasked question.
“I did my Christmas shopping ’fore we left Tettsford.” He set his box on the table and began to unpack it.
“’Fraid my gift don’t seem too fittin’ like in these surroundin’s. I was sorta seein’ it in our real house when I bought it, I guess. Anyway, I thought thet I’d show it to ya, an’ then we can sorta pack it off again.” Willie lifted from the box the most beautiful fruit bowl Missie had ever seen.
She gasped, “Willie! It’s beautiful.”
Willie looked very relieved when he saw the bowl had brought her pleasure. He set it gently on the table.
“I’ll let ya git a better look at it when yer done with Nathan. Then I’ll pack it on back—out of yer way.”
“Oh no,” Missie protested. “Just leave it here. Please.”
She laid the baby on the bed and went to the table to pick up the bowl. “It’s lovely,” she said, her fingers caressing it. “Thank you, Willie.”
She reached up to kiss him. “And I don’t want you to pack it away. It’ll be a reminder... and a promise. I... I need it here. Don’t you see?”