Place Called Bliss, A

by Ruth Glover

  It takes a real man to beat the bush,” the hardware man told Angus as he helped him accumulate what he would need to get started, “and Bliss is in the bush. Not little bitty trees and willows, you know, but real trees, big trees. It’ll be chop, chop forever to get your land cleared. First, a place for a cabin, then a barn, then a garden spot . . . a spot for the cattle . . . finally fields—”

  Angus broke into the discouraging litany; obviously the man had come as a homesteader, been defeated by the work or the isolation or both, and settled for clerking in “civilization.”

  “And you know,” the man continued grimly while Angus studied files, saws, spikes, and more, “you’ll be a squatter. Ain’t got no land office here.”

  “Yes, but it won’t be for long,” Angus answered cheerfully, knowing that the established settlers in the Prince Albert area and the Carrot River Valley were demanding such an office. “I think we’ll be safe in our choice. There doesn’t seem to be a big rush out Bliss way.”

  “Oh, there’s one or two brave souls out there. Maybe you should find a place and settle down here in town over winter. Ever think of a winter in the bush, mister?”

  “Yes, and that’s why I’m asking you to help me purchase the things that we’ll need to be under cover, and quickly. Now what can you tell me about these stoves?”

  Thus appealed to, the clerk fell to with a will. “Well, now,” he said, “all our stoves are Sunshines. Depends on how big your place will be—”

  “One room, to start,” Angus supplied.

  “Well, then, you’ll want one that will not only give the heat you need, but that you can cook on, too. So here you have your Merit Sunshine model, your Star Sunshine, your Northern Sunshine—though it’s freighted in from the south—and your Glad Sunshine. All of them, of course, are for wood rather than coal.”

  “The prices—?”

  “Well, now, take this Merit Sunshine. It has your cut top plates with heavy, deep edges; it has your heavy rim covers and centers. It has your heavy grate and firebox lining; your dumping and shaking grates are the finest. It has your nickel knobs and hinge pins; it has your tin-lined oven door, and your oven—” the salesman swung open the oven door, “is, as you see, nearly square, with your broad rack.”

  “And the price?” Angus asked patiently.

  “Well, now, you’re talking size here. This’n has a firebox seventeen by nineteen by eleven, as opposed to your nineteen by twenty-one by twelve. And you’re talking weight: two hundred sixty-five pounds as opposed to two hundred ninety-five pounds.”

  “And the price of this seventeen by nineteen by eleven, two-hundred-sixty-five pound model?” Angus pursued.

  “Forgot to mention the length of the firebox: sixteen inches, as opposed to the twenty-inch firebox in this here Star Sunshine. And that’s the length you need for wood; t’other is more suitable for coal. Which, of course, we don’t have here to speak of as yet. Course, you can get your True Sunshine here with a firebox of twenty-four inches. Take some time, though. Months, in fact.”

  “This Star Sunshine with the twenty-inch firebox looks fine. How much is it?”

  “Well, now, with your top oven plate inlaid with non-conducting plaster composition, your nickel teapot stand, your towel rod, your portable outside oven shelf and your extended rear shelf—”

  “Aren’t those standard features?”

  “—and your large capacity reservoir—”

  “How much?”

  The man looked grieved, as if he hadn’t been allowed to do his job decently. With no one else in the store and business slow simply because of the limited demand, it was obviously a source of entertainment as well as a selling job.

  With a sigh, “Twelve dollars and sixty cents,” he said. “But,” he added immediately, “that’s with your twenty-inch firebox. Now with your twenty-four-inch—”

  “I’ll take it,” Angus said, and couldn’t help adding, “Wrap it up.”

  The man looked thoughtful, put a hand to his head and scratched it, “Well, now—”

  Angus, hiding his grin, waved a hand, and said, “I’ll take it, as is.”

  “Well, now,” the clerk said, regaining his composure and moving ahead with renewed fervor, “along with this stove you can get your set of stove furnishings at a bargain price. See here, twenty-one items, or actually twenty-three if you consider there are two black dripping pans and two tin bread pans.”

  “We have numerous kitchen items with us, have been using them on the trail. What’s this?” A curious Angus pointed toward the stack of twenty-one items, or twenty-three. . . .

  “Well, now, that’s your flat-handled skimmer. And this here’s your cast iron spider—”

  “I’ll let my wife look at this selection, I think,” Angus said firmly. “We have a teakettle, a coffeepot, bread pans—” Angus was pointing to recognizable items.

  “But do you have a fire shovel? Tin dipper? And here’s your Common Square Bread Tin, as opposed to your—”

  “I think, if you don’t mind, Mr.—”

  “Bone. Marley Bone.”

  “Angus Morrison.” And the two men, sparring partners in a pleasant half-hour conversation, shook hands.

  “I certainly know where to come for good sound advice about equipment,” Angus said feelingly, and Marley Bone looked properly modest.

  “Well, now,” he said, “about your equipment for your stove. You’ll need your lid lifter, your poker, your asbestos stove mat. Then there’s your damper at six cents, and your chimney thimble—”

  “Chimney thimble?”

  “Use it where your pipe goes through to the floor above, safeguards against fire from an overheated stove. You have your common thimble as opposed to your adjustable thimble, which has your lip here with openings to allow for the conducting of heat to the above floor.”

  “We’ll be lucky to have one floor, let alone two,” Angus reminded Marley Bone, who was in full spate again, and enjoying it.

  Deflected but not discouraged, Mr. Bone said, “Right,” and turned smoothly to copper boilers, butter churns, milk pails, milk skimmers, and more.

  Just as smoothly, having caught on to the game and enjoying it as thoroughly as Marley Bone, Angus interjected, “I’ll just leave all that to my wife, Mr. Bone,” and reminded himself to warn Mary about the experience ahead of her. “Now if you’ll just instruct me concerning hardware—”

  It was all the encouragement Marley Bone needed. With the alacrity of a ballet dancer he turned—physically and mentally—toward hatchets, adze-eye bell-face nail hammers, froes, chisels, and much more.

  At a question from Angus the man happily pointed out the nails, common nails as opposed to fence, shingle, and flooring nails; nails by the keg as opposed to nails by the pound. This led quite naturally, it seemed, to a carpenter’s square, slide rule, plumb bob, level, planes—your bench plane or your bull-nose rabbet plane. . . .

  “I think exhilaration drove him outright crazy,” Angus reported to Mary later on, “when he got into the whiffletree section.”

  “Whiffletree?” Mary asked faintly.

  “Whiffletree tongues, whiffletree hooks, whiffletree ferrules, whiffletree plates, whiffletree tips . . .”

  “I hope you used good sense, Angus,” Mary said anxiously. “Whiffletree tips?”

  “The common,” Angus reported solemnly, “as opposed to your silverplated or your closed end, core malleable.”

  “My goodness! How in the world do they get such items away back here?”

  “Away up here. And by freighter, or by riverboat. Believe me, when you need a whiffletree tip you’ll be glad you don’t have to send clear to Fort Carlton, or back east or wherever for it.”

  “I suppose so. And here I was worrying about needles and thread and mousetraps. They say mice are a terrible scourge here, Angus!” Mary, faced with the prospects of a mouse in her future, was more intimidated than when informed that bears roamed the country occasionally.

  “Don�
��t worry,” Angus reassured his wife. “Most of what he spouted was for his sake as much as mine. If I ever saw a man put heart and soul into his work, it’s Marley Bone.”

  Later, over supper with the LeGares, Pierre broke into hearty laughter upon hearing of Angus’s experience.

  “I should have warned you,” he said. “But perhaps it was more fun this way. Yes, he’s a disgruntled homesteader, yet he’s bent on stayin’. What’s more, he’s in the market for a wife. He keeps writin’ letters—they go out with the freight, so I know—to any prospect he hears about. So far no one’s showed up. But I wouldn’t rule it out. We have more than one mail-order bride in the area.”

  Being between runs, or so he said, Pierre LeGare had offered to go with the Morrisons on their initial trip out to Bliss to locate a homestead. Angus was overwhelmed by such kindness and generosity in someone he scarcely knew but wasn’t hard to persuade. His three carts he had managed more or less by himself on the trek across country. The oxen, obviously broken to it, had tucked their heads below the tail end of the cart just ahead and plodded stolidly on, with very little trouble, leaving Angus free to lead the front cart and Mary to drive the horse and buggy. Now, as planned, Angus sold off two of the oxen, much in demand, and retained the strongest and best for his own use, as well as the horse for riding and pulling the buggy.

  While Cammie and Molly played quietly with a kitten (which Sadie—after hearing Mary’s shuddering comments concerning mice—promised they could take with them), Pierre located an old envelope that had been opened and saved, and, with a nub of a pencil, settled Angus and Mary down to specific talk about their cabin.

  “First off—what size?” he questioned, and answered, “one room, I suppose. Easiest to put up, easiest to heat.”

  Angus and Mary nodded agreement.

  “We’ll cut logs twenty-one feet long for the sides, and seventeen feet for the ends. How’s that sound?”

  Nods.

  “That will give you a room measuring fourteen by eighteen feet inside. Still noddin’?” He raised his black eyes to his new friends, was reassured by their nods, and continued.

  “I figure we’ll need fifty logs. We’ll cut ’em, trim ’em, and tote ’em on our shoulders to the site. We’ll clear off a place, then fit and notch our base logs, and the foundation should be done in a day.”

  Mary and Angus looked amazed. And relieved. Obviously the task, which they knew was a big one, was shrinking, with Pierre’s help, to manageable size.

  “We’ll only trim ’em enough so that they fit as snug as possible. Got to get this shack on up before freeze-up, for several reasons—shelter, of course, but also so’s the ground won’t freeze and buckle. Also, we want to take time, before ever startin’, to dig a cellar. A cellar is a must, friend. Only way to keep your food stuff from freezin’ solid; also gives you some space for storage. You’ll be more cramped than you can imagine in that one room.

  “Once the walls is up, Mary and the children can do the chinkin’—just mud or clay, dependin’ on what we can find. Any moss around would be helpful. When it dries you should be as snug as a bug in a rug. But first—”

  Pierre went on to explain about the gable ends. Unless, he said, they’d settle for a slant, or shed-type roof. At Mary’s indecision, Sadie spoke up, quietly but firmly. “Give ’em a decent roof, Pierre. No mud fallin’ through. It’ll take longer, but the livin’ will be so much better.” And Mary looked relieved and grateful.

  “Well, buy a faroe if you don’t have one,” Pierre instructed. “We’ll have to make shingles. Slow us up some.” When he saw Mary’s worried face, he continued heartily, “No matter. I have a feelin’ snow is goin’ to hold off. Plenty time. One window be enough?”

  “Two,” Sadie said firmly, and at Mary’s nod Pierre docilely pencilled in two windows.

  “Better buy double panes—that is, storm windows—if you can afford ’em.”

  A brisk fall morning saw the Morrison carts ready to roll. With reluctance Mary embraced her new friend but was able to mount the buggy with a rising feeling of excitement. With a slap of the reins she turned the horse to follow the carts. As arranged, Pierre would bring back the two extra oxen with the empty carts, and their new owners would take possession. “You’d do well to sell that last cart,” he advised Angus, “and get you a wagon as soon as you can. With bobs in place of wheels you’ll have transportation winter as well as summer.”

  With the children vying over the privilege of carrying the cat, which they had named Patches, and a basket of food at her feet that Sadie had prepared for the day’s meals, Mary felt as if she were once again embarking on a tossing sea for some distant port. But this was a wilderness of living green and not a sea of water. Remembering the horrors of that other navigation, Mary breathed a prayer and set her sails—and her horse’s ears—facing directly into the small opening that led to . . . what? For mice and misery she was prepared, for hard work and hardship, for lonely days, anxious hours, and wrenching homesickness. But there would be sunsets too glorious to describe, fulfillment too satisfying to be expressed, and freedom past anything known or experienced. And there was her newfound Friend to see her through both good and bad. Mary squared her shoulders, lifted her face into the wind’s nip, called a strong “Giddap!” to the horse, and set her sights and her heart on Bliss.

  With wee Margaret, often called Margo, fully recovered, life in the Galloway household returned to normal. Sophia, greatly relieved over her daughter’s improved health, became a hostess of some note, constantly giving and attending “at homes” and joining several organizations devoted to doing good to the poor and downtrodden. Hugh’s business enterprises prospered, and he was more and more involved with them and spent less and less time at home.

  Margaret’s world was small. There were daily visits to Sophia and Hugh—if his schedule permitted—but mostly her days and months and years were spent in the upstairs nursery in happy association with Kezzie . . . Nanny . . . Granny.

  The Galloways made their first trip back to Scotland when Margo was five years old.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t ask Kezzie to make the trip,” Sophia ventured to Hugh as plans were being laid, still resisting the unseen bonds that existed between Kezzie and Margo and suspecting they were those of love rather than dependency alone.

  “Are you prepared to take charge of the child yourself?” Hugh asked pointedly.

  Sophia hesitated, reluctant to admit that she was not, and just as reluctantly, eventually advised Kezzie that her presence on the trip would be needed and to please prepare herself as well as Margaret for the voyage and a stay of three months or more.

  “I thought she’d be more pleased about it,” Sophia said to her husband in a somewhat injured tone.

  “Well, think of it, my dear. Mary, her only child, isn’t there, and all her own siblings are dead. Other than a few friends, there’s little or no reason for her being happy about that long trip. Maybe,” Hugh said so quietly that Sophia barely heard, “she has bad memories of the trip over.”

  “As we all do,” Sophia agreed, adding, “but we, of course, have the blessing of our child, while Mary—”

  “Yes—Mary,” Hugh repeated simply. “Mary, and Angus.”

  “Do you ever think of making a trip to the Territories, Hugh?” Sophia asked. “Wouldn’t you like to visit Angus someday . . . see how he’s doing?”

  “I’d like it very much,” Hugh answered warmly, or as warmly as Hugh Galloway ever allowed himself to speak. “We’ve had a letter or two, of course, and Kezzie keeps us up-to-date on what’s going on, and it all sounds as if they are prospering. After much hard work, of course. But go see them? No, not, at least, until the railroad goes through.”

  “Surely Kezzie will want to go then. Perhaps live with them. She’s getting old and bent, Hugh—”

  “Kezzie has a home with me as long as she wishes it,” Hugh said firmly. Sophia sighed; Kezzie, to Sophia, was such a mixed blessing. A veritable tower of
strength at all times, and totally dependable, yet there was something. . . . Never able to put her vague unrest about Kezzie into words that Hugh would accept or understand, Sophia sighed again.

  Hugh, his face in his newspaper, heard, raised an enigmatic but unseen eyebrow, and said no more on the subject.

  Margo’s clearest memories of her early years were of that trip to the land of her parents’ birth. Perhaps it was the general air of excitement and the hustle and bustle of disembarking on Scottish soil, being met by members of the staff of Heatherstone, the fawning over by one and all as they commented on her black and curly hair, her dark eyes, her impish smile, her lovely clothes. But more likely it was due to the encounters with her cousin Wallace, already in his teen years but childish to a marked degree, and spoiled. True, he was neglected in some ways, his mother being dead and his father absent most of the time. Wallace spent most of the year in school in Edinburgh but had come home for the special occasion of his uncle’s visit from America. He showed little interest in most of the gifts Sophia had painstakingly selected for him but received with a chortle of satisfaction the bow and arrows that were fashioned, supposedly, in the manner of those of the American Indians. The small scar that was to remain on Margo’s upper arm all of her life was forever a reminder of Heatherstone, Scotland, and Wallace’s tormenting ways.

  Margo was always to remember, too, the trip from the ship to Kirkcudbright. Though Scotland was no longer considered home by Kezzie—with Mary and Angus and the children and Mr. Hugh all in America—she obviously retained a deep love for her homeland and described it to Margo with feeling.

  “Look now, lassie,” she was to repeat time and again, especially as they approached familiar territory. And Margo would look and, often, remember.