Spirit Pouch

by Vaterlaus, Stanford

  “So, how many bricks have we made so far?”

  “None,” Jack answers. “We started making bricks two days ago, but the clot molder did not like the consistency of the clay. Mr. Roworth said to add more sand. That would have been easy, but we had to haul the sand from the streambed. So this is the first batch of the season.” Jack looks at me and smiles, “So let’s get started.”

  “What do I do first?”

  “Go over to the molding table,” Jack points toward the east, “and bring back as many buckets as you can carry. Then your job will be to fill the buckets with tempered clay and carry them back to the molding table. Every time you take a full bucket, bring back the empty ones.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I can do that.” I walk to the edge of the pit and lift my foot out, making a slurping, sucking sound as it escapes the clammy clutches of the clay. I wipe as much gooey paste off my feet and hands as possible and set out for the molding table. In a moment I see two laborers, bent over and busy. One has a hammer and is pounding on a small wooden box.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “I’m looking for buckets. We are about ready to bring over some tempered clay to the molding table.” I try to sound official, using the new terminology I have just learned. I think that I look official enough, with mud pasted up to my elbows and halfway up my legs. I guess it works because both men look up from their work.

  “Hi, Jared,” William says with a smile. “The buckets are right over there.” He points to the other side of a large, solid looking, wooden table, where about thirty metal buckets sit upside down in stacks. “We are almost done with these extra brick molds, so your timing is perfect.”

  I pick up ten buckets and head back to the pit. When I get back to the tempering pit, Jack has already started digging a second pit.

  “I want you to start filling those buckets,” he says. “And as you fill them, check the mixture. No rocks and no unmixed clods go into the buckets.”

  It is not long before I have ten buckets filled with tempered clay. I pick up two and carry them to the molding table. The bucket handles dig into my hands, and my shoulders ache from the weight.

  “Where do you want these?” I ask, relieved to set the buckets down for a moment. I rub my hands where the metal handles of the buckets have pressed what seems like permanent grooves into my fingers.

  “Set them next to the table,” William answers. “I’ll tell Lewis that he has clay. He’s the clot molder. Bruce, our brick molder, and Lewis work together.”

  I set the buckets down. “I’ll have more in a few minutes,” I inform him. I pick up some more empty buckets and head back to the pit.

  I return to the molding table ten minutes later with two more full buckets and this time Lewis is there. I watch him lift a glob of tempered clay from the bucket and shape it into a soft brick, then hand it over to Bruce. Bruce rolls it in sand and dashes it into one of the wooden molds that have been sanded inside to keep the clay from sticking. He presses the clay into the mold with his hands and a little bit squishes out of the top. With a flat stick that has been soaking in a bucket of water, he scrapes off the excess, returning it to Lewis.

  “Don’t stand there gawking, boy,” Bruce snaps. “We are going to need a lot more pug clay, and we’re going to need it soon.” I jump as I realize that Bruce is yelling at me. I feel like yelling back, but I realize that he is right. I am gawking, and they will need more clay, soon. Probably sooner than we can get the next pit ready.

  I haul more filled buckets until my arms ache, but I don’t stop. When full buckets are emptied, I fill more. It is a welcome relief to stand in the pit and fill buckets, but it is actually no less work than hauling them to the molding table.

  By mid morning I have hauled all the tempered clay over to the molding table and Lewis has almost thirty full buckets waiting for him. Jack has the second pit filled with chopped clay, sand, and water and both of us jump in and knead the mixture with our hands and feet, crunching up clods and tossing out stones and rocks.

  Lunchtime comes and goes quickly. I am grateful for Elizabeth’s meat and homemade bread. Then we are back at work. By five thirty I am exhausted.

  “We slop molded nine hundred bricks today, men,” Mr. Roworth announces as we line up to receive our wages. “Good job!”

  “Will we see you tomorrow, Jared?” Mr. Roworth asks as he drops my dollar and fifty cents into my hand.

  I look at William and then we both say ‘yes’ in unison.

  Chapter Six

  Jenkins Mining Supplies

  The westerly breeze blows cool against my wet pant legs as we walk four blocks to Lawrence Street. At quitting time I had washed the clay from my arms and legs, and from the bottom edge of my rolled up jeans, leaving them wet. I am used to the bone-dry air of Arizona that will suck the water out of just about anything in twenty minutes. Here in Colorado my pants just get cold. William assures me that they will dry eventually.

  William suggests that we walk into Central City to buy me some boots. I think that is a great idea. By the time we reach Main Street I know we are in Central City. Wagons lumber down the hard packed dirt street and park along the walkway near the buildings with their last delivery for the day, while horse-drawn carriages roll smartly down the center of the street, their passengers dressed in ruffles and freshly pressed overcoats. An occasional horse and rider pass with a clip clop of hooves on the dusty road.

  As we turn the corner onto what William says is Eureka Street, we pass by the open doors of the Central City Saloon.

  [19] Shouts of laughter and vocal music spill through the doorway. The lights are dim inside and I can not make out who is singing, but the music is alluring, and the explosive outbreaks of laughter remind me of the locker room outbursts that accompany a crude joke.

  “Come on, Jared,” William says nervously. “A place like that can get pretty wild on Friday night. And Mr. Jenkins’ store won’t be open much longer.”

  My eyes pull away from the laughter and loud voices of the saloon, and focus westward on Eureka Street. A pharmacy is just ahead on my right and the next sign reads, “Masonic Temple.” But as I absorb the whole street I am sure that somehow they have combined Old Tucson with nineteenth century London. Wagons, carriages and people line the streets. Everyone seems to be going somewhere important. Young boys dressed in high-water pants and suspenders scurry past us darting in and around the pedestrians, and then into a small shop with their packages bundled up for delivery. The wooden sidewalk rings hollow as men leave their stores for the evening and head quickly along the street, some entering the saloon and some passing it quickly by.

  As we approach the general store I stop and watch a man pull a small bag out of his pocket and pour part of its contents into a tiny scale. The store owner balances the contents with three small weights. The man secures the bag in his pocket, then picks up a sack of grain and walks briskly out to his wagon.

  “Jared,” William calls.

  I run and catch up to him in front of the pharmacy. We walk past the Masonic Temple and the Daily Miner’s Register

  [20] about a half block and then cross to the other side of the street where a horse and wagon are parked next to the wooden sidewalk.

  On a sign that hangs high above the sidewalk from the front side of the wooden building are the words, “Jenkins Mining Supplies.”

  [21] William pushes open the door and I follow him inside.

  My eyes adjust quickly to the change from outdoor light to the dim light that filters through the store front windows.

  At first glance the store looks like a hardware store. Not the huge warehouse big-box type, but more like the corner neighborhood hardware store.

  “Hello, boys,” a man calls out from across the store. He is wearing a long to-the-knees apron that at one time in its life used to be white, and he is holding a shovel. The man next to him seems to be interested in the shovel, but they have paused to look at us when we enter.

  “Hi, Mr. Jenkins,” Wil
liam returns his greeting.

  “Let’s see, you’re Henry Cottle’s boy, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  "Hey! That's …" I am about to say, 'That's my mother's maiden name,' but Mr. Jenkins is still talking and William is not listening to me.

  “Do you still live up there in Dogtown?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll be with you boys in a couple of minutes after I finish helping Mr. Harvey." He turns back to the man who is now holding the shovel, and after a moment Mr. Jenkins walks over to the shelves along one wall and lifts two metal buckets down where Mr. Harvey can see them.

  My eyes wander away from Mr. Jenkins and scout the shelves, scanning each article as it comes into view. There are all sorts of tools like picks, shovels, axes, saws, and what I guess is some sort of wood plane. There are buckets, screen filters, wooden boxes, hats, coats, and several kinds of lanterns.

  William has strayed over to a small counter and I drift over next to him. He is eying a five-inch hunting knife and seems to be testing it in his hand for fit and balance.

  “Hey, I thought we were going to the boot store,” I whisper. “This looks like hardware … for mining,” I add skeptically.

  “It is a store for mining supplies,” William says. His eyes flicker up to meet mine for less than one second and then settle back on the hunting knife. “Mr. Jenkins makes boots, too. Didn’t you see the lasts

  [22] on the shelf over there?”

  “No,” I say, wondering just exactly what a ‘last’ is. I glance around the store one more time and can not help thinking that boots would be the last thing I would expect to find in a mining store, and that I would probably find those lasts in the last place I look. However, I do not even know what a last is, so why am I even looking?

  My eyes fall upon an interesting piece of carved wood that has two hooks in it, one at each end. It reminds me of an unstrung compound bow, but I know it can’t be that.

  “Hey, William,” I call as I pick up the shaped wood. “What is this?”

  William turns to look. “Oh,” he says setting the knife down and walking over to me. “That is a water yoke.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s a water yoke. You put it across your shoulders and hang a bucket of water on each end, like this.” William lifted the yoke and set it across my shoulders. The wood on one shoulder curved to go behind my neck, then curved back again to rest upon my other shoulder.

  “Hey, that’s not bad,” I smile.

  “Yeah, mostly they are designed for small boys. It’s usually the younger boys who get the chore of hauling water.”

  “Yeah, and one of these might help an older boy carry pug clay,” I laugh. I set the water yoke down and pick up another tool. This one is also wooden, but considerably smaller than the water yoke, and it is “Y” shaped.

  “What is this?” I ask holding up the tool so William can see it.

  “Oh, that is a divining rod,” he answers in a tone that implies that I can probably find something more worthy to look at.

  “For finding water?” I chuckle and roll my eyes.

  “Yes, but out of desperation a lot of men will buy one to help them find gold.”

  I laugh, and as I put it back on the shelf I spot some cool-looking gangster hats that I am sure any member of the Mafia would be proud to sport as part of his wardrobe. I pick one up and gently snug it onto my head. I just need a mirror, I think.

  “What can I help you boys with today?” Mr. Jenkins says as he waves goodbye to Mr. Harvey.

  Skip the mirror, I think as I quickly slide the hat from my head and float it back onto the shelf to wait for the Mafia. I look at William and then back at Mr. Jenkins. I am about to say, “Shoes,” when William answers.

  “Boots. Jared, here, needs a pair of boots. He kind of lost his … I guess.”

  Mr. Jenkins looks at me and his eyes bounce like a basketball down to my bare feet and then back up. “Okay,” he says finally. “Do you need regular boots or mining boots?”

  I am going to ask what the difference is, and which one is better and how much each costs. After all, this is an important purchase. But William answers for me, again.

  “Regular,” he says.

  “High top, or low top?”

  “Low,” William replies.

  Mr. Jenkins looks at me. “I’ll be right back,” he says in a business-like tone.

  “How do you know what I want?” I whisper to William as I watch Mr. Jenkins walk across the store and pull a large box off an upper shelf.

  “I don’t know what you want, but mining boots are heavier and thicker, and high top boots rub on your legs. Besides, they both cost more. I have the low top regular boots, see.” He lifts his pant legs and shows off his own boots. They are nothing fancy. Plain leather that appear to have been oiled for waterproofing. They are about the size of a high-top tennis shoe and dark brown in color. I can tell that no amount of shoe polish is going to shine those boots up. But hey, other than looks, they seem like pretty good boots, and way better than no shoes at all!

  Mr. Jenkins returns with a large roll of leather which he flops down onto the floor in front of me. “Step onto the edge of the leather please, Jared.”

  I step onto the leather with both feet and Mr. Jenkins draws an outline of my feet onto the leather with pencil.

  “Okay, that’s all I need, boys,” he says tapping my foot. I step off the leather. Looking at William, Mr. Jenkins says very business like but with genuine concern, “Can I also sell you a warm coat today?”

  William laughs, “No, not today. Your coats do look warm, though.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s April, you know. Summer is almost here. I’ll bet that I would out grow a new coat by next winter.”

  “You are right about that. You are growing like a weed. How about your pa? Does he need anything?”

  William looks like he is about to answer when Mr. Jenkins continues, “Has he read the news?”

  “No,” William answers politely. “What is the news today?”

  “Lots of important information about the war,” he says somewhat vaguely.

  I look up pretty quickly. Now this sounds familiar. Finally something is making a little bit of sense. “You mean the war with Iraq?”

  [23] I ask, wanting to show William that I know something about current events. After all, what good is Social Studies class if all those current events reports don’t teach a guy something?

  I get that look again, like I am speaking Hebrew. But really it must have been Arabic, Kurdish or Assyrian. It does not really matter. They just did not understand what I said.

  “North and South, boy,” Mr. Jenkins wrinkles up his face in irritation.

  Now I really am confused. Does he mean North and South Israel, North and South Korea or the No-Fly Zone over Iraq?

  “The war is over,” William says squinting his disbelief.

  “Yes, yes, of course. But you’ve got to keep up on current events. The paper says that they are still finding plantation owners who want to keep their slaves! Your pa will want to read this!”

  Holy Cow! I think. Never mind Williams’s dad! I want to read this!

  William smiles uneasily, “I know he will want to read it, but we better ask him first. You know how Pa is.”

  “Okay,” Mr. Jenkins says slowly as he scratches some numbers on a piece of brown paper. “That will be four dollars and twenty-five cents for the boots.”

  “Four twenty-five!” I say, astounded. I am expecting fifty dollars or even eighty.

  “These are quality boots, son,” Mr. Jenkins huffs in a defensive tone. “You won’t find better made boots even in Denver.”

  “They are expensive,” William says. “Everything in Central City is expensive. Pa says it is because we live in a gold-mining town. Even food is twice as much as anywhere else. But, Mr. Jenkins makes very good boots.”

  “I didn’t mean that they are
too expensive,” I stammer. “I … I just …” I wasn’t sure what I meant. This whole thing … the war … the prices … It did not make sense.

  “Apology accepted,” Mr. Jenkins says.

  “Jared, I can help you pay for the boots,” William says reaching into his pocket. “You pay your dollar fifty. I’ll pay the rest, that is if you promise not to tell Pa. You can pay me back when you earn more tomorrow.”

  I nod my head in agreement, and quickly retrieve the dollar and fifty cents that I had earned today. After all, I think, what else will I need it for? A ticket home? A ticket back to reality? A ticket back to sanity?

  William places two dollars and seventy-five cents next to my portion on the wooden counter. I hardly hear Mr. Jenkins say, “Your boots will be ready tomorrow afternoon,” because my eyes have drifted to the counter top where sits a small stack of Daily Miner’s Registry newspapers. It does not even occur to me what a tiny newspaper it is. Nothing like the Arizona Daily Star that we have in Tucson. The Registry has just one sheet, printed on both sides and folded in half to display the headline at the top, directly below the newspaper’s own name. The headline reads, “Southern Slavery Lives On,” but I do not read the article. Instead, my eyes are attracted to the date, and fix themselves as though by epoxy to the smaller print which reads, “Friday, April 20, 1866.” I turn to tell Mr. Jenkins that the date is wrong, but William interrupts me.

  “We’ll be here,” William says, tugging on my shirt sleeve. “Oh, I almost forgot. Do you have a couple of old rags that Jared could wrap his feet with until tomorrow?”

  Mr. Jenkins reaches under the counter and pulls out an old worn out apron and hands it to me. I turn and follow William. I vaguely remember thanking Mr. Jenkins politely for the rags and then walking out of the store.

  The year is 1866! I think as I gaze up Eureka Street. In an odd way it all starts to make sense. We are in 1866. That is why there are no phones, no televisions, no cars, no buses, and no electric lights! That is why boots cost four dollars and twenty-five cents and not eighty dollars! That is why the news is about the war between the North and South and not about the war with Iraq!