Seasons of Bliss

by Ruth Glover

  Quinn had made reference to Sunday’s announcement concerning the church’s responsibility where the sick widow woman was concerned. Immediately hands had gone up and a schedule of sorts worked out whereby the various households would leave their own work for a day to help Alice Hoy get ready for winter. In spring, soon after her husband’s death, volunteer help had plowed the Hoy fields and planted the grain and the vegetables; summer had seen the weeds chopped, the garden tended, and now the rampant growth was ready for picking and canning or storing in the cellar. Soon the grain would be ready for harvesting. All of it was necessary if Alice and the boys were to survive throughout the long winter months. And all of it was accomplished by the callused hands, the strong backs, the weary forms of concerned neighbors who were never quite sure when they themselves might need a helping hand.

  When Parker Jones made the announcement from the pulpit, calling for a concerted push to get the Hoy garden harvested, there had been a general nodding of heads, Herbert Bloom’s among them. The good people of Bliss would lay aside their own work, if need be, to assist the needy neighbor. If it wasn’t for Rob Dunbar looking after the chores each day, they all agreed, the situation would be hopeless indeed.

  If the widow weren’t so sickly—dying, perhaps—a husband would have been forthcoming immediately. Why, she had three bachelors living on her own section: Rob Dunbar, his brother, Allan, and Herkimer Pinkard. The Dunbar brothers were a little young, perhaps, and Herk a little . . . well, heads were shaken as Herkimer’s assets and liabilities were totted up, and all concluded that Herkimer was . . . Herkimer.

  “You know vat he said d’ udder day?” Gebhard Popkin reported when caught in the midst of such a discussion. “It was the day d’ skunk did his bizness ’roun’ our place, and Herk come by: ‘Vat kills a skunk is d’ publicity it gives itself.’ That’s vat he said!”

  “My land! What next?” someone offered, with more of the head shaking that seemed to affect all in general when Herkimer was mentioned. “Where’d he get such an idea?”

  “He said it vas dat American president—Lincoln—dat said it.”

  “Well, who knows enough about it to argue with him?” No one, it seemed.

  “It would take a saint to put up with that Herkimer Pinkard!” more than one woman was heard to mutter. And yet, when asked just what the problem was, they fell silent, with more muttering and very little substance. And the conclusion of all was that Herkimer was, after all, a fine man . . . in his way.

  But husband material for Alice Hoy? No one even suggested it. Alice was a gentle lady, Alice was refined, Alice was sick.

  “I went by the other day,” more than one Bliss homesteader or his wife reported, “and she could barely get to the door. All glassy-eyed, she was.”

  Other times she seemed quite normal, like herself, except that she had grown excessively thin, even frail, with blue veins showing in her temples and on the backs of her hands. Her white hands. For Alice spent more time on her sofa than at her tasks.

  So, “Yes, of course,” Lydia said now in response to Herbert’s reminder through Quinn, that tomorrow was their scheduled day to help at the Hoy place. “Tierney can be free whenever you can, Quinn. I wonder if Alice has cleaning materials or if the ladies take their own . . .” and Lydia was off and running, planning the next day’s activities.

  “Of course, Tierney,” she concluded, “after you whisk through the house—and no doubt it needs it, what with Alice being so sickly and all—the main thing is to get at the canning. Hopefully she can help; it’s a terrible task for one alone, as you know.”

  After the canning sessions in the Bloom household, Lydia felt confident that Tierney, by herself, could do the job, but the workload would be heavy, hot, and wearing to the extreme.

  “Quinn can pick and gather,” Lydia continued, “and you, Tierney—and hopefully Alice—can get the jars to boiling, the vegetables chopped and ready for the water bath. For heaven’s sake, Tierney, wear your coolest cotton! It’s going to be a scorcher. I’m sorry to do this to you, dear. It isn’t a day to anticipate, that’s for sure.”

  Anticipate? Tierney dreaded the experience, getting to know, to see, to watch, the woman Robbie would be marrying. Cleaning their home, putting up the vegetables that they would enjoy next winter, touching the items, the household equipment, that would be theirs.

  In bed that night, desperately in need of a da’s comfort and a mither’s loving arms, Tierney found them both in her heavenly Father.

  “Dear Father,” she wept into her pillow, “Ye’ve brought me sae far, sae verra far, from home, and I know Ye’ll no’ forsake me. Niver, niver! Help me tomorra, gi’ me grace for tomorra. In Jesus’ precious name . . .”

  Parker Jones looked up from the books spread before him on the dining table—his place of study—his attention caught by the sound of a rig.

  Usually, a rig passing by on the road was enough to call any member of a household to the window or to the barn door, simply to see who was passing by. It wasn’t because curiosity was so great; what was almost overwhelming at times, particularly during the winter season, was the loneliness. Shut into a small enclosure with only yourself for company or the well-known members of your family—so well-known, in fact, that there were no surprises remaining—a new face, a fresh train of thought, some outside interest, was enough to brighten the darkest and longest of days. There was life, after all, on planet Earth! The small satisfaction of a glimpse of another living, breathing, toiling human, with perhaps a wave, a smile, a halloo, gave encouragement and uplift that was often much needed.

  Even so, Parker Jones, during his sermon-building sessions, would not be roused and turned aside by a passing rig. But this one, on this particular day, had turned off the road, was pulling up to the house, was stopping.

  Reluctantly Parker turned from his notes, sighing at the interruption. It was, he supposed, someone bringing an offering—of baking, cooking, canning.

  And he was always grateful; such donations kept the proverbial wolf from the parsonage door. At times, for meals, the pickings were slim. Last night’s supper, for instance, was a pot of soup made from a jar of canned tomatoes—curdling when the milk was added, to Parker’s dismay and disgust but not changing the taste greatly—and a few great slabs of bread and butter. There was plenty of it, but sometimes the lack of variety in his diet was wearisome. When it became too hard to take, or when he was tired to death of his own cooking (or when he had burned his meager meal past redemption), he simply turned his coin-toed shoes in summer, his overshoes in winter, in the direction of the home of a parishioner. And local hospitality was such that he had never been turned away. The fare might be just as simple as his own, but it was shared with goodwill and friendliness, never apologies, and Parker went home blessed in spirit and tight of belt.

  Of course he was always welcome—almost as a son of the family—in the Morrison home. Here the fellowship of the dignified Angus and the gracious Mary were reminders that, outside of this remote corner of the world, life went on with civilized people engaged in everyday affairs and with no worries whatsoever about what the weather was doing to the crop. Angus and Mary had been among the first to settle in Bliss, but traces of a better life were clear, with touches of other days, other places, remembered niceties.

  And Molly—Parker admitted that Molly Morrison was the chief attraction. With her vivacious face, lively hair, and equally lively ways, yet knowing when to be gentle, when to be thoughtful, when to be quiet, she was a pearl among women, to Parker’s way of thinking. And to the thinking of others, for bachelors continually showed up at the Morrison home and, Parker noted, with some embarrassment for his own similar practice, always at mealtime. In spite of their persistence, Molly had remained heart-free until those vivid blue eyes of hers had turned seriously upon the new minister, and the independence that marked her ways gave place to a passion for Parker Jones that was only guessed at, except perhaps by Parker Jones.

  Even so,
there was a restraint about Molly, a cool exterior that belied the depth of feeling within, except when she chose to let it be glimpsed. And, since the arrival of Vivian Condon, Molly had been restrained indeed, cool indeed. Not cold, never cold. Quick to respond, to smile, to listen, but with something . . . something that Parker Jones was at a loss to explain but felt, instinctively, uncomfortably, that it was related to the arrival of Vivian Condon.

  Now, with a sense of dread, almost a premonition, Parker Jones rose, stretched himself, and went to the open door. Immediately he recognized the Condon horse and, hitched to it, the Condon buggy. But it was not Blystone or Beatrice holding the reins, looking expectantly toward the parsonage door.

  Stepping outside onto the stoop, closing the screen door behind him, Parker nodded to the driver of the rig—Vivian herself.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Condon,” he said, his heart sinking.

  Every time Vivian Condon appeared on the scene something dramatic happened, something that made him uneasy, almost guilty. And there was no reason, no reason whatsoever, to feel guilt! He had done nothing reprehensible, nothing to reproach himself for, not in the least. If Molly was disturbed by the other young woman’s presence—

  Parker Jones found himself on the verge of anger with Molly for—he could find no reason. He realized he was being unreasonable, and it pulled him up short, astonished that he should blame Molly Morrison for the tension he was feeling over Vivian’s effect upon him.

  But it was happening again: Vivian Condon had no more than driven into the yard and here he was, on the spot again, flustered again, at a loss again.

  “Good morning, Pastor!” Vivian’s expression was pleasant, her words ready, her smile smooth.

  Parker Jones stood indecisively on the porch, his hands in his pockets, his tie awry, his dark hair slightly mussed, and was not aware of the picture he made. Was not aware that his very air of reluctance was fuel for the fire of this woman’s interest.

  Vivian Condon was not accustomed to disinterest. But this, she figured shrewdly, was not disinterest; it was hesitation. And hesitation was a challenge, especially at a time in her life when she was cut off from her circle of friends and their round of pleasures.

  Only once in her lifetime had Vivian been thwarted: Ted Kingsley had wooed, and won, and flouted. Not so much brokenhearted as chagrined, Vivian had hastened to escape the pitying glances of her friends and had fled to her father’s brother and his wife in the heart of the bush. Here, she was not long in realizing, life was much different, much more serious.

  The occasional social times enjoyed by the people of Bliss were rare in the summertime, and when they occurred they were, to Vivian, so bucolic as to be heartily boring. The Sunday school picnic with its long tables of food that seemed to be the chief attraction—its children racing and leaping and yelling, its youth awkwardly flirting with members of the opposite sex, its men sitting in one group, talking, the women doing the same in another, the seeking of shade from the hot sun, the fanning of the face, the perspiration—was a trial for the city born and bred girl. The talk, of course, was mostly of crops and rain—too much or too little—cows freshening and chickens laying, garden stuff and canning. And it was so interspersed with mosquito-slapping and fly-shooing and featured refreshments as heavy as pie or as tasteless as pudding, that Vivian had great difficulty suffering the entire event without displaying her contempt of it all.

  Yes, Vivian, if she were to make it through the summer, needed diversion.

  She settled on the pastor: good-looking, educated, single. Parker Jones’s devotion to spiritual things—God, the congregation, sermons, visitation, not to mention the girl Molly—was so single-minded that it was almost a game to Vivian to try to distract him, turn him aside, set his thoughts ajumble—a challenge worthy of her attention!

  Sitting in a dusty buggy, impatient, Vivian could see the conflict in the eyes of the man on the parsonage porch, the pathetic parsonage’s excuse for a porch, which was made with split logs laid side by side for a floor and a small overhang of the eaves for a roof. Surely a man of refinement, of some education, could not settle for this forever. Vivian suspected that, even now, she could see the doubt in his eyes. It was a good beginning.

  “Parker Jones,” she caroled. “What are you doing inside on a fine day like this? How about taking a little time away from the books? I’m sure you’ll be much more effective for it.”

  Opening his mouth to respond fittingly, refusing her offer, Parker was checked when her voice, gaily importuning, continued.

  “We’ll all be better off for it—you, me, the congregation—if you just take time to clear your head a bit, get a new perspective. Catch a new vision, perhaps?”

  The last was in the form of a question, and Parker Jones found his armor pierced.

  A new vision. Was it so obvious, that even this outsider recognized his problem, understood the uncertainties gnawing at his spirit?

  Opening his mouth to speak, to say . . . what? Once more she was ahead of him.

  “I had in mind a run . . . well, a trot, to Prince Albert. Are you game?”

  “Not really,” he finally managed. “This is prayer meeting night, and I’m working on my talk.”

  “Work, work, work! Talk, talk, talk! Is that all you do? Take a look around—doesn’t the bush call, doesn’t the sky beckon?”

  In spite of himself, Parker’s gaze followed her sweeping hand. Summer was fast fleeting away; soon winter would be upon them, and buggy rides would be a thing of the past. And not available again until the far future, for the snow came early and stayed late; sometimes they had snow as early as September and as late as June.

  “Besides, I have something I want to talk to you about . . . something important.”

  In spite of himself Parker Jones was beguiled. After all, it was too nice to stay inside. The blue sky did indeed beckon, the birds’ sweet calls enticed, and the girl . . . the girl offered an hour or two away from the routine cares of the pastorate.

  “I’ll get my hat,” he said, turning to the house and missing the triumphant look that sprang into Vivian’s eyes.

  “I don’t think it can be as far as Prince Albert,” he said, climbing into the buggy and taking the reins she handed to him. “As I said, I have a service tonight. But we can take a spin for an hour or two.”

  Clip-clopping around Bliss—there was no need to hurry—Parker began to relax. The prayer meeting message he had been struggling over was put aside, his meager supper menu lost its importance; even Sunday’s sermon was forgotten for the moment.

  “Now see,” Vivian said archly as Parker Jones settled back, his hat tipped rakishly and his lean face, exposed to the merciless rays of the sun, showing to wonderful advantage, “you needed this—the afternoon off, the buggy ride, me, to help you get your priorities straight.”

  “I’m not sure I have my priorities straight,” Parker hedged, “but it won’t hurt, for once, to take some time off in the middle of the week. ‘Six days shalt thou labor’ is the commandment, and I work on the seventh day. There’s no reason to feel guilty over these couple of hours off.”

  “Of course not! I hate sermons that make me feel guilty. It’s so . . . old-fashioned, so archaic, to preach that way.

  “Tell me, Parker, about why you are in the ministry, and why in the world a young man would choose such a vocation anyway.” Vivian gazed earnestly at Parker Jones, giving him her full and rapt attention, an absorbed congregation of one.

  Now here was a topic that related to the ministry. Answering her, Parker had a small feeling of relief—see! the time wasn’t totally wasted, at all.

  “It’s hard to explain. Men and women who preach the gospel or go to the foreign field as a missionary refer to what they sense is a ‘call.’”

  “And do you have such a call? Did you hear a voice or something like that?”

  “No,” Parker Jones said rather haltingly, not a bit sure he could explain it and already struggling with this v
ery concept. “No voice. Just a growing conviction—”

  “But is that enough to build a lifetime on—a growing conviction?”

  “I thought so—”

  “What if the conviction, as you call it, stops growing?” she asked shrewdly.

  “I only know,” he said, rather too heavily for Vivian’s preference, “that I had it. It was like a gleam. It isn’t anything one can give up . . . easily.”

  “See what I have,” Vivian said abruptly, bringing out a slender box from under the seat and opening it. “Chocolates! Have one . . . have several, and see if the day doesn’t sweeten up a little for you.”

  The anticipated hour or two spun out into the remainder of the afternoon. Up one road and down another, across Bliss and into the neighboring district of Home Park, back again for a stop at the store in Bliss and a bottle of Wild Cherry Phosphate paid for out of the meager coins in Parker Jones’s pocket. Finally, they turned the buggy back toward the parsonage.

  “You said you had something important to talk to me about,” Parker Jones finally managed to interject into the flow of chatter.

  “It can wait,” Vivian said, tossing her head until her hair, loosened by the breezes, whipped across his shoulder, so close to hers. “After all, you need this time to unwind, I’m sure of it. Such a hardworking minister I never saw!”

  No mention of the fact that her association with ministers was limited to Easter and Christmas services. And so the “important” item was tabled for the time being.

  “You can come to dinner again soon,” Vivian said, “and that would be a fine time to talk about it.”

  Parker agreed; supper out was never refused.

  “Now see,” Vivian said, as they turned in at the parsonage driveway, “you’re home in good time for your prayer meeting—”

  “What—” Parker interrupted. There was a buggy in the yard, pulled up to the fence.

  A man sat on the edge of the porch, his head in his hands.

  Pulling the horse to a halt, Parker Jones handed the reins to Vivian and reached a foot for the ground, his eyes fixed with apprehension on the bowed figure, a picture of misery and despair.