Mine was different, big enough for a double bed, 'cause I still had hopes. But sort of modernistic, I guess you would call it now. I wanted to capture the ocean, but I couldn't get it right. I was trying to copy the seashore with a sandy gray, the sun with a bright yellow circle, and the different blues of the sky and the sea with broad bands of varied and pale violets, but it was defeating me.
The sky and the water looked different, depending on the weather. I particularly wanted to capture the sea as I'd seen it the first days after I arrived. The contrast in the weather--one day was brilliantly appealing, sunny and warm, and the next was foggy cold and windy--stunned me into a love for the sea that I've never lost, though I came to dread the many endless days of thick fog through the next long, lonely winter.
The boys had picked me up in the late afternoon from the train in Seaside, so that by the time we arrived at the cabin I'd seen only little glimpses of the ocean. The sun was low in the sky when I got my first full view of the shore.
We were carting my belongings down the path to the cabin. I stopped and looked at the ocean. In front of me was all blue and green water, moving and foamy, stretching 'til it met the faraway sky, which was a different blue, with clouds reflecting the colors of water and sky.
In the center, just off shore, were three big rocks. The one in the middle was the biggest. The boys had told me about what they could see from the cabin windows. To Willie I said, "Haystack Rock? Is that it?"
"Of course," he said. "There's nothing around here like it." I threw my stuff on the floor, didn't even take a look around. Right then and there I challenged Willie and Zack to a race to the waves. They won. They were stronger and running through dry sand is hard.
Once I got on the wet, firm sand, I sprinted barefoot for the shallow water and ran splashing past the boys. The water rolled in to greet me, all foamy. I turned and ran down through the surf towards Haystack. It looked so close, but the distance was deceptive. Before long I was out of breath and little closer.
The boys caught up with me and we strolled through the shallow water, with me splashing it into a fine spray with my toes. It was cold, not like river water at home in the summer. When the sun started to set on the horizon, my brothers turned me around to walk up to a drier spot to sit on the sand and watch the sunset.
"Just look, Sophie!" Willie said, happy to have someone from home to show this off to, "Ain't it beautiful?"
The sun was a round, red blaze sinking into dazzling blue water, casting up a pink and pale blue sky before, above, and all around us.
"Ummm, Ummmm." was all I could say. So quickly, before I could absorb the glory, it was over. The sun flattened out like a stepped-on rubber ball, then slipped into the ocean.
"Couldn't you almost hear it sizzle?" whispered Zack as we stood silently in the twilight. He surprised me. Zack was not known for his sensitive nature. I couldn't resist the urge to tease him a bit.
"Why, Zack, I think you've got a poet's soul. Willie, did you hear what he said?"
"Ah-h-h, Soph," Willie kidded, using his childhood name for me, "leave the poor guy alone. A night like this would turn anyone's head, even a tough heart like Zack." Zack was glaring at both of us, saying nothing.
Poor Zack, he so seldom opened up like that, and we crushed him. As the now-oldest boy, no one ever let him forget that he had to see things clearly, with no romantic haze. We could be as silly as we wanted, but he must maintain a toughness, be a "real man". I hadn't learned yet that a real man could be both tough and tender.
We strolled home, getting to the cabin just as dark set in.
I went to bed early, bone tired from the ride and the play on the beach. Hours later I woke up. There were no windows in my room and it was dark and stuffy. I laid for a few minutes with the blankets thrown back, shaking the warm nightclothes away from my body, trying to whip up a cool breeze. The longer I laid there the heavier the air seemed. I could hear the boys in the next room, one of them snoring loudly, fairly shaking the front room window, the other breathing heavy in the close room. At first it was funny listening to them competing with the noisy ocean but I couldn't go back to sleep. They jangled my nerves until I finally got up and found my old robe in the dark. I felt my way through the curtain into the lighter front room.
Moonlight was forcing its way through the dirty window. The air was fresher in the larger room, but not much. Outside had to be better, and away from the snoring.
The night was warm and unusually dry. Willie had said it hadn't rained for days. The grass was sandy and dry under my bare feet. Away from the protection of the cabin, a fresh wind brushed my face and blew my hair against my neck.
Trees and beach alike were patterned in moon shadows bouncing off some dark clouds above. The moon was full and white. It lit the way easily. I walked to the lip of the little hill overlooking the beach, sat down carefully and gave myself up to the warm beauty of the night.
I was admiring the silhouette of Haystack and watching the waves breaking on the low tide when I noticed something I'd not seen in the daytime, white fire on the waves. As they broke and ran down the beach the foam shimmered. I held my breath as diamonds of fire sparkled on each wave.
On my far right I could see a faint twinkle of light from the ocean. At first I thought it was coming from a ship, then I realized it was from a rock out in the water. A lighthouse sitting on a rock in the sea, its light blinking in a steady rhythm.
I sat for a while soaking up the romantic atmosphere, feeling lonelier by the minute. It was a night made for love. A full moon, tide out, fresh warm air, running waves of fire shimmering on the dark sea, with only the single man-made light sparkling in the dark. I longed for a strong arm to pull me close, a bristly cheek to brush against my neck, tender hands and lips to share this moonlit night with. But try as I did, I couldn't conjure up a vision of anyone special I wanted with me.
Opening my eyes I took in the scene around me once more, sighed, and let my practical nature take over. It was long after midnight, I should be in bed. I'd left the cabin door open, and the fresh air had calmed the boys' dreams so that the cabin was peacefully quiet and cool. Sleep came easily.
Waking early the next morning I dressed quickly, went to the front room window and saw water, a wide, white beach of waves running far down both ways from the window. And rocks, huge rocks. Haystack was the biggest of all. In the distance to the right was the one with the lighthouse on it. They were scattered all up and down the coast just a little ways out from the surf, like dark guardians of the ocean. We had a grand view from that cabin.
I rushed through breakfast with the boys, packed their lunch buckets, and waved them off to work. As soon as they were gone I threw a light jacket and a scarf on and went out to a wonderful, sunny morning.
The tide was partially out. As soon as I got down the bank, I took off my shoes and left them there with my socks stuffed in. Who was going to steal them? Following the same route as the day before, I was determined to get to the big rock. It didn't seem as far away as before, probably because I was rested. The early morning beach was strewn with what I soon learned were sand dollars, round, white shells about three inches across, with an interesting design of five narrow ovals, finger-like markings spread from a base like sunrays. I put them in my pockets, along with lots of small, orange fan-shaped shells, and some other kinds, --'til my jacket pockets were full. I couldn't swing my arms for fear I'd crack the shells.
The ocean looked like a big turquoise cake with creamy white frosting spilling over the edge. The sky was flat with no color, clear, bright, no clouds whatsoever. From a distance, Haystack Rock shimmered green in the sun. Closer up I saw it was covered in a thick, dark green moss and a tough grass that grew out of cracks in the side of the rock. The base of the rock intrigued me most. I'd never seen a tide pool, or so many seagulls, or the little sandpipers.
They were so cute. I miss 'em. They hopped and pecked at the blue mussels and ivory barnacles that covered the rocks o
f the tide pools.
The gulls squawked at me, and each other, and at the sandpipers, making a big show of protecting their rocks. They flapped away when I got too close. They'd settle down again on the rocks just a little farther away, screaming at me. I laughed, but the sandpipers took them seriously, skittering away across the sand, and then coming back when the gulls moved away. The little birds moved in a group but the gulls were more solitary, each bird for himself.
Some rocks close up beside Haystack, smaller but still big, reminded me of giant thumbs pointing towards the sky, a "thumbs up" position that further cheered me to the delights of the morning. I spent a couple of hours just looking at the tide pools full of little bitty crabs and swimmy things that dashed away when I tried to touch them. And anemones, squishy, purple, soft things that squeezed shut when I put my fingers on their sticky edges. The farm never had anything like this.
I was like a kid, wondering how everything worked and why the barnacles were so rough and hard while other things acted like animals when I touched them. I didn't know the names of things at first, of course, but the guys all told me the details over the time I was there. Men love to tell you everything they know.
But the sun was blinding white and despite the light breeze, the sleep I'd missed the night before caught up with me. I needed to go home before I fell asleep on the beach. The walk back was slow because I kept stooping to pick up gray and black feathers and more shells, and to look at the glass-like globs that were all over the beach. They juggled when I poked them with a black feather; I was afraid to touch anything that looked like it might be alive. Later the boys laughed at me being afraid of dead jellyfish.
By the time we went to bed that night the wind was really blowing through the trees, but it was hot and sleepless inside again. After getting the boys off to work in the morning I went back to bed and didn't get down to the beach until late. The tide was high, way in, and the wind was tearing down the beach. Even with one of Zack's heavy jackets on, the long walk towards Elk Creek up the other way, away from Haystack towards where the lighthouse light had shone, was cold, windy, and miserable. Shells were scarce and the wind threw sand in my face--it stung--so I had to keep my head down. I finally got to the creek, running fresh into the ocean, and happily turned to go home.
The wind pushed me back to the warm cabin. I added wood to the stove, and from my snug harbor watched the gulls flying into the wind and ocean tumbling onto the sand. I got out my quilt bag and played with cloth, fingering the pieces I had and comparing them with what I saw out the window.
To transfer all the moods and shades of the sea to simple cloth seemed about impossible. How to show the feeling of differences in the fogs? Dark, gray sky and water through a light fog was different from when the fog rolled in so thick that everything was gone, nothing but gray, coldness everywhere. I hated the thick fog, it closed me in. I felt trapped, shut off from the world. But the light fog, it's beautiful swirling in and around the trees, a thick layer of gray lace tangling lightly with the branches. Lovely too, because it would soon be gone, bringing, at least light, and sometimes, the precious sun.
There was hope in the light, despair in the thickness. I knew I'd have to make the back of my quilt a solid gray to represent the fog. "The Beach in Winter" I called it.
But the frontpiece was giving me fits. Until near spring when I remembered what Willie had said about David painting Haystack Rock.
That was it!
I'd put Haystack in the middle on a background of bright blue. The rock would be reddish brown, like it is sometimes when the evening sunset turns the sky red. Surrounding the big center square would be yellow suns, embroidered all the way 'round. The border would be a pale blue, quilted to look like waves.
I started with the Rock, as it was the central, most important piece, drawing its shape on a pad I had left from school and kept in my quilt bag. The Rock was in clear view from the front window, except when hidden by fog. I spent hours trying to copy it.
I couldn't get it. The harder I tried the worse it looked. I'd make it too big for anything else to be around it. I couldn't get how it looked with the whole of the sea and sky surrounding it. I spent many hours by the window sketching it in different weathers. Finally I put it away and went back to work on the boys' quilts.
7. What Are You Doing Here?
Along about the end of March the weather started clearing. It was still rainy and foggy most of the time, but the long winter was finally coming to an end.
After I learned that David was married, I wasn't at the window so often. For the first three days or so I hid in my bedroom when I saw him leave the beach below, and only came out when I was sure he'd had time to pass. But finally I could stand it no longer, I missed his smile too much.
If my romantic dreams couldn't come true I could at least be friendly. The poor man, I thought, stuck in the house with a sick wife, probably a whiney invalid. Perhaps our daily exchange was as important to his life as it was to mine--in a different way of course. By that time, David had assumed such saintly proportions that I couldn't conceive of him being unfaithful to his wife, however much a trial she was to him.
On the fourth day, I had gone into my bedroom as usual, but after a few minutes I spread the curtain cautiously and looked across the room out the window. David had just come in view and he was looking directly at the cabin. His face had a searching, troubled look and his shoulders were slumped.
I couldn't bear to see him like that. I came out and walked over to the window.
As soon as I appeared his whole appearance changed. His shoulders went back, his step was lighter and his face lit up in a big smile.
I was exhilarated and terrified. His hold on me was total, and I knew it. And we'd never even spoken a word. As he passed he stopped and said, "I missed you." Then he went on. I couldn't hear the words but I knew what he had said.
The rest of the day was a haze. I tried to sew, and couldn't. His words kept repeating in my brain, "I missed you. I missed you. I missed you." I had imaginary conversations with him where I went out the door and took his hands in mine and looking deep into his eyes said, I missed you, too.
Come away with me, he pleaded.
But your wife?
What wife? I have no wife.
But, the woman on the beach?
Oh, that was my sister who was ill and here for the sea air. She is gone now, so come and live with me in my beautiful house.
Gladly, I answered.
Thus I easily dismissed the wife. She didn't exist for David and me. Still I had sense enough to try to cool my behavior. I seldom stood at the window anymore. When he came by, I would be busy sweeping or kneading bread, or at the stove. He would get a nod or a slight wave but I kept my face busy, paying attention to the work I was doing. He must not know how completely he had me, how I lived each day to see him, a man I didn't even know.
'Round about the end of March, first of April, I started working outside on the garden. I would wait till David was home again and then go out. I cleared a large area of ground, pulling out ferns and salal, and roots. You wouldn't believe the roots. That ground had never been dug. Lucky it was so sandy. Still it was a hard job. It took a couple more days than I thought it would to get it done, and the main reason I got it done even then was because Willie and Zack each put in some time before dinner. They pounded those roots and chopped 'em till the whole patch was a fine mash. The sweat was just 'a flying! They turned it all over for me. By the end of April I had the garden put to some vegetables plus some dirt spaded up by the front door and around the cabin for flowers. It was inevitable that working near the path so often I would meet David.
I'd wondered at him never knocking on my door and introducing himself, as a neighbor might, or why he didn't just chance by when I was working on the garden. I, well... I don't think he was any more anxious to meet the real me than I was him. Dreams were a lot easier to deal with than reality, and too, David thought I was the wife of one of
the boys.
On the first day of May I got up early. Spring was in the air and the morning was warm. I had a couple of rose bushes I'd bought the week before at the general store in town, red climbers, and I knew when I got up that this was the day to plant them.
David went by, at six as usual. I had my morning coffee and then, thinking I had plenty of time, went to the woodshed for the roses and spade. When I came back around to the front, David was coming up the path.
There was nothing to do but to act like it was a normal thing to see him there. To bolt into the house would have looked foolish. Standing there with the spade in one hand and a rosebush in the other, I said, "Morning!"
He stopped, startled. He'd been looking at the tiny yellow flowers by the path and hadn't seen me.
At my greeting he looked up, then came straight towards me, that big grin spreading on his face.
"Why, good morning to you." His voice was big for a small man, and didn't sound in the least "unmanly". His hand was outstretched. I leaned my shovel against the cabin and put my hand into his, as natural as anything.
Young folks do it now but it wasn't something girls did then. I'd expected artistic hands with long narrow fingers but the hand in mine was compact, a worker's hand without calluses. It was a pleasant experience, but I was fearful for a second that he would say, "Come away with me." He didn't. He proceeded to talk like we were having a normal conversation.
I was shy being face-to-face with him so suddenly. He was almost a stranger. But he didn't act like one. He let go of my hand, and just as natural as if he were continuing a conversation we'd started a while ago, asked, "Planting the roses?"
I came out of my stupor enough to answer, "Why, yes," while my thoughts ran around searching for something smart to say. Nothing came.
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