Seasons of Bliss

by Ruth Glover

  “I think I need to wash—the dogs, you know,” Parker Jones said rather lamely, sure his grin was lopsided and uncertain.

  But Vivian seemed to find it endearing. And this disturbed Parker Jones even more. He felt at sea, unsure of himself and aware of forces at work over which he seemed to have no control, understanding them not a whit.

  Vivian directed him to the washstand, herself dipping warm water from the reservoir and handing him the soap, ever so capably, as if to say, “See what a homey, woodsy girl I am.”

  Beatrice turned from the stove, her face perspiring, her hair damp, and smiled her greeting. After all, it wasn’t the first time she had entertained the pastor. Every other time, however, it had been “potluck,” as he sat up to the family’s simple meal. Under the eyes of her husband’s niece, however, even the placid Beatrice was flustered.

  The Condon log-built house was the usual large kitchen/living room, with the remaining third of the structure divided into two small bedrooms. Such homes were not built randomly but with the express purpose in mind to heat them as easily as possible. Though some were larger than others, not really qualifying as cabins—which were ordinarily one room—still the pattern was the same. Dominating, and the first thing installed—the range for cooking and the heater for warmth.

  Now Vivian seated Pastor Parker Jones in a comfortable chair at the side of the heater where it reigned, summer and winter. There was no fire in the iron-bellied monster now, of course, but the range, out of necessity, was blazing hot at the other end of the room.

  The door to the outside was open, allowing some movement of cool air; fortunately the Condons had been able to afford a screen door. Fortunately—because the outside of the screen was almost black with the flies that were drawn by the cooking odors and that would have swarmed in, given a chance. In many a homesteader’s cabin, tea towels covered every morsel of food, at all times, against the invasion of flies that plagued all flesh, human and animal alike, from dawn to dark. The mosquitoes were almost as bad. And even after dark, whining around beds and cots and pallets, they made their obnoxious presence known. And felt.

  The northland was a land that offered much—but reluctantly. It was a place of great opposites: the biggest and clearest sky you ever saw and the shortest growing season—so green in the summer, so golden in the fall—void of any color whatsoever all winter long; so fragrant, so full of birdsong, yet so silent, so odorless aside from wood smoke about nine months of the year. So promising—so threatening.

  So the flies were held at bay at the Condon house, and those that made their way in whenever the door was opened for a moment were enticed to their death by the fly traps—sticky, twisting paper—that hung here and there from the ceiling. One had to learn to avert one’s gaze from the sight of dead and dying flies just above one’s head, though the desperate buzzing of the struggling insects, in a quiet room, was unsettling. Chances were better for a bear to come face-to-face with a housewife in the woods than a fly in that same woman’s home!

  “Now, Pastor, just be comfortable,” Beatrice said, fussily. “Sup . . . dinner is as good as ready, and we’ll sit up and eat as soon as Blystone comes in. We gave him strict instructions—”

  “I’m in no hurry, I’m sure,” Parker reassured, wishing the ordeal was over. What was it about the young woman Vivian that caused him to feel like such an inexperienced boy, all thumbs and big feet! And those feet, just now, in wretched, pointy shoes!

  Parker calmed himself and tried to think back to the days he was in Bible School, fulfilled and content. What good days they had been—learning, sharing, growing, filling pulpits round about the area, confirming the call in his spirit, eager to be out into the harvest field. What had happened along the way? Where had the eagerness gone, the satisfaction?

  Sorely troubled, Parker laid his concerns aside and greeted Bly Condon when he came in from the fields. Bly washed himself, dunked his dusty head in the basin, scattering water hither and thither as he shook his great shaggy head and reached for a towel, all to the tightened lips of Vivian and the nervous glances of his wife.

  Finally, shining of face and hands and dusty of garb and shoes, Bly, with total satisfaction, bellowed, “All right—come and get it!”

  Though he had said those same words each time Parker Jones had eaten at the Condon table, eliciting no more than a fond smile from his wife, she now looked apologetically at Vivian and twittered her way to the table.

  “Oh dear, yes, let’s sit up to the table. Come, Park . . . Pastor.”

  It seemed that Vivian’s presence and influence reached even to Beatrice’s regard for her friend Parker Jones, elevating him to the lonely rank of pastor.

  Pastor Jones was invited to bless the food, which he did with simplicity and grace. That at least hadn’t changed!

  Unfolding the serviette and placing it on his lap, Parker asked, “How’s the field work going, Bly?” Strangely, he found himself biting back an impulse to call his parishioner and friend “Brother Condon.”

  “Pretty good, Parker.” No nonsense from Blystone Condon, Vivian or no Vivian. But, at dessert time, Bly rather reluctantly gave up the fork he had retained, to be handed a clean one for the chocolate cake mounded with whipped cream that was placed before him. Bunch of nonsense! his expression seemed to say.

  Even Bly Condon was coming under the influence of the visitor. But was Vivian a visitor?

  Beatrice, over coffee and after a meaningful look from Vivian, broached the subject that had, apparently, been waiting in the wings for the appropriate moment.

  “Pastor, we need you to help us pray for . . . for something, er, important. Vivian here is seriously considering whether she should stay on in Bliss over the winter, maybe even making it her permanent home.”

  Here, with the Condons, in their small house? Locked in here all the winter long? Attending church every Sunday, in Bliss? Casting her strange spell over those she contacted—Bly and Beatrice, Parker Jones . . . ?

  “Well, Pastor?”

  It was Vivian who spoke, her large gray-blue eyes fixed soulfully on his, her delicate eyebrows raised, her rosy lips parted over her white, rather large, teeth, her expression curiously watchful.

  Parker Jones was aware that his mouth was open. His mind was working furiously—how to respond and be honest?

  “You see, Pastor,” those full, rosy lips were saying, and who could refute or deny the importance of what they said next: “This is the first time I’ve felt I was getting any spiritual food. I believe I could embrace everything that you preach, given an opportunity to stay, to hear, to learn, to respond.”

  I need you to go to the store this morning,” Lydia said as she and Tierney sat at breakfast, the menfolk already dispersed to outside work.

  Womenfolk got away from home very little—in summer the workload was too heavy and too unremitting, in winter travel was often impossible, and home fires had to be kept going at any cost. A trip to Bliss, anytime, was enjoyable, a real break in either the wearying round of work or the pressing loneliness. In distance it was about four miles from the Bloom place, and when she was feeling well, Lydia enjoyed the outing thoroughly. Lydia and Tierney had gone together on numerous occasions; Tierney had even taken the reins from the more-practiced Lydia a few times and was beginning to get a feel for driving the buggy.

  But go by herself? The very thought of it made Tierney uneasy. At home, in Binkiebrae, her family had never owned a horse. Her da had spent his life—as boy and man—on the sea, fishing, and her brother James had joined his father when he was fourteen years old. There was no horse, and they walked wherever they went, catching a ride to the nearby Aberdeen when a trip to the city became necessary.

  “We’re out of a lot of things,” Lydia continued, “not the least of which being new rubber rings for the jars. What we’ve canned so far—strawberries and rhubarb and saskatoons—isn’t a scratch on the canning we’ll do before the season is over. We’ll miss the pin cherries completely if w
e don’t get at it. They’re hanging thick and ripe along the edge of the pasture.”

  “Aye, I’ve seen ’em. And tasted them, too. Good!” Tierney responded, already having learned the importance of taking advantage of the local wild fruit and, having sampled some, caught the homesteader’s passion to preserve them for the winter season.

  “Did you notice—your last trip down into the cellar—if there’s any more of this chokecherry syrup left?” Lydia asked, pouring a generous supply over her pancakes, watching the purple-black concoction flow over and around the pancakes and down onto the white plate—a lovely sight to the critical and satisfied eyes of the canner.

  “This’s the next to last jar,” Tierney said, following her mistress’s example and helping herself to last year’s chokecherry syrup. “I’ve seen chokecherries all along the road—at least I think they’re chokecherries. I tasted ’em.” Tierney made a comical face. “Never again till they’re ripe!”

  Lydia was sympathetic. “I guess not. Now you know why they were named chokecherry. Leave them alone until they are almost pure black and getting soft; that’s when they’re best, and that’s when they’re full of juice. Syrup, from any berry, is simple to do—just boil the juice and pulp until it’s thick and bubbly—adding the right amount of sugar, of course—then put it in the jars, and it will keep indefinitely. It doesn’t last long around here, though.”

  “Ahab used to put chokecherry sauce over his fried potatoes. He called it fruit soup.”

  “High bush cranberries can be used the same way as chokecherries—they make wonderful sauce, sort of orange in color and simply delicious. We have to go to the river for them. Whatever fruit it is, it goes fast. That’s why we need plenty, and it certainly keeps us busy. No matter how hot the day, we have to fire up the range and keep something going into the jars—fruit, or vegetables, even meat.

  “Some families,” Lydia continued after pausing for a sip of coffee, “don’t can like they should; perhaps they don’t have the jars, maybe they can’t find the time, probably they don’t have the sugar. It’s pitiful to see them doling it out skimpily to the family, using it mostly when company comes. What a shame. I’ve eaten strawberries in homes where we’ve been for supper when the pinched faces of the little tykes just glowed to see a sauce dish of those sweet gems set before them.” Lydia sighed. “But—back to the jaunt to Bliss—do you feel comfortable going by yourself?”

  “By myself?” Tierney squeaked, her worst fears realized. “You aren’t going then?”

  “Kay Mudge is coming over to get me to help her cut out her new dress pattern. How I’ll manage that,” Lydia said ruefully, flexing her swollen fingers, “remains to be seen. Maybe I can just point out where to cut, and she can do it. Poor woman—never made a dress in her life before she came west. Too bad she can’t afford what the catalog offers—”

  “I know,” Tierney said, nodding, having studied the “wish book” diligently herself from time to time. “There’s a ‘handsome Persian Percale Wrapper in the verra latest style,’ at least that’s what the catalog says—with those big puff top sleeves and all gathered full as full can be—for ninety-eight cents. Why’s a simple dress called a wrapper, anyway?”

  “It’s just the term right now. It’s a morning dress, if you ask me, maybe nothing more than a housedress, though why anyone would want that ‘Watteau’ back is beyond me.”

  “Aye! What is’t?”

  “Just what the picture shows, I guess, though I’ve never seen it on any dresses around here—it’s just a long piece of goods that seems to hang down straight, from the neckline to the floor, rather like a train—silly, if you ask me. It must get in the way dreadfully. And yet so many of the wrappers have it. I hope Kay Mudge doesn’t want to incorporate that feature into her dress today. It’s going to be tricky enough without that.”

  “That Vivian Condon—I s’pose she’ll have it on her dresses. If she wears housedresses, that is.”

  The ladies spent a few minutes discussing Vivian Condon’s advent into the district and the fascination of her wardrobe.

  “She probably makes all our women feel like little brown wrens by comparison,” Lydia said. “We dress for practical reasons, I guess. Some of the ladies are wearing the Sunday clothes they brought with them when they came, two, three, even four years ago. And happy to be decently covered.”

  “But she—Vivian Condon—looks so lovely.” This from the little Scots lass with her best outfit still the travel “uniform” worn by all the domestics—a dark serge skirt and white shirtwaist. No wonder Tierney eagerly studied the catalog with its tempting array of goods. No wonder she admired the wardrobe of Vivian Condon.

  “Well,” Lydia said, referring again to Kay Mudge and the dress to be cut out and partially put together today, “this dress of Kay’s, of course, will be cut from flour sacks—the ones with the little roses all over it. But flour sacks mean a lot of piecing.” Lydia sighed, seeing her day slip away when there was this great urgency to work. “I can’t understand how Kay can take time out, this time of year, to sew!

  “It’s a good thing we put those cucumbers to set overnight,” she went on. “Kay and I can have some for lunch. These are the first ones, and though they are small yet, we got enough for a good meal along with some cold roast. Herbert will love them. Food from your own garden—it can’t be beat for satisfaction. He feels the same about his breakfast eggs—his own chickens, doing what they’re supposed to do. There’s a good feeling goes along with reaping the reward of your efforts.”

  Tierney was learning so much. It had been a whole new experience to take the tender young cucumbers, slice a quart of them, add a cup of vinegar, a cup of water, a cup of sugar, and a tablespoon of salt, and set them aside, to “marinate,” as Lydia said. The succulent treat was tantalizing to starved taste buds.

  “Soon as the sweet onions are big enough,” Lydia had said, directing Tierney in the process, “we’ll slice one or two and add them. That’s really special. When we eat these tomorrow,” she concluded with satisfaction, “we’ll have a quick pickle. More of a relish, I guess. Anyway, they’ll be fine, and they’ll satisfy our hunger for fresh stuff. My mouth fairly waters to think about it.”

  Finishing up her pancakes, Lydia suggested, “If you’ll mix up the bread before you go, my dear, it’ll probably be risen when Kay gets here, and I’ll have her do the punching down. I can get it in the pans and bake it, though you may be home by then. I know you love a slice of good, hot bread.”

  Lydia spoke fondly, as to a beloved daughter of the family. “If you’ll buy some Roger’s Golden Syrup—we’re completely out, I see—you can have a treat fit for a king: syrup and hot, crusty bread. It’s as good, maybe even better, than the quick cucumber pickles.”

  Tierney found her mouth watering. She had been in Bliss long enough to know that meals could be a horror or a celebration. “Especially in winter,” Lydia had told her. “Shut in as we are, mealtimes are high points, or they are if you have sufficient food. I guess even the oatmeal eaters look forward to mealtime . . . anything to break the monotony of a long, dark day. The family gathers together, sits up to the table, and solemnly—and often silently, especially if they’re specially hungry, maybe half-starved for certain things in their diet and they don’t recognize it—and it’s almost a ceremony. Nobody turns up their noses at meals, in the bush and, I assume, on the prairie. I’ve never heard a parent have to tell a child ‘Clean up your plate!’ It’s done willingly, even happily, I suppose, if it’s all you have.”

  “Well, I certainly have enjoyed my meals since I came to Bliss.” Tierney stated a fact; the food on the Bloom table was bountiful, though simple and somewhat limited as to variety. And with the garden coming on, the future—for mealtime—looked bright.

  Tierney’s thoughts turned again to the proposed trip to the store, and though she loved the satisfying feeling of doing the shopping, she felt more than a little nervous about making a trip by herself. What if s
he met another rig on the narrow road? What if the horse shied? What if she got in a tight corner and couldn’t turn the buggy when she was ready to come home? What if the horse wouldn’t obey her commands?

  Lydia seemed to recognize Tierney’s sense of unease.

  “I think,” she said now, “it might be a good idea to have Quinn go along. After all, you need him for the heavy things—we should get a couple bags of flour, and those are one hundred pounds each. And he needs you along to pick out the assortment of staples and so on that I’ve got listed. Herbert never was any good at that sort of thing; I doubt if Quinn Archer is either. How those poor bachelors—Herkimer, Allan, Robbie, and others—manage, I don’t know.” Lydia shook her gray head over the undeniable ineptness of men to shop properly.

  And so it was decided. Though Quinn was hard at work at a job Herbert had lined up for him, Herbert was too fond a husband to deny his wife her requests.

  “Ahem!” Herbert said, having received Lydia’s request through Tierney, and Quinn’s busy hands quieted as he turned from the roll of fencing wire he was untangling, “the missus needs you to take Tierney to town. I don’t suppose,” he added, twinkling, “you’ll mind a little break. And I don’t suppose you’ll object to the company. Eh? Eh?”

  “Not at all,” Quinn Archer said politely and went to his shack to clean up a little.

  With list and money carefully stowed in her handbag, Tierney climbed—an old hand at it by now—up into the buggy, always unsteady for a moment while the springs righted themselves. The seat, less than two feet wide, accommodated her trim hips and the almost equally narrow build of the hired man. For Quinn Archer, a manly figure, was broad of shoulder and slim of hips, with capable hands, and with a fine face under a neat head of hair.