All in a Day's Work
Soon as we had breakfast on Saturday, he hauled in that concrete-heavy mound on our deck that keeps the deck umbrella from taking off in a high wind. Down he went with it, to drill a heavy lug into it, then he cut off the screw-head. He loaded it, along with a large toolbox, an electric drill, a squeeze-tube of cement, and a few other items into the car trunk. To that I added a bag of old newspapers to help start the daily fires in the cast-iron stove, and a box of chocolates, along with a pint of fresh raspberries.
Then we pulled on warm jackets for us and the dogs, and went off to our winter-white ravine for our daily walk. It was still, and beautiful. A calming place, a return to source, to the sanity of everpresent nature. A few chick-a-dees flitted about, along with a companion nuthatch. Far milder than Friday it was, and a few squirrels, black, red and also grey ones, ran about frenetically, gathering for the dark months ahead. We're still wearing our hiking boots, and will obviously have to haul out our snow boots because we're starting to glide about on the snow and ice, especially over stones and tree roots.
Right after our ravine walk we drove over to the Canadian Tire Store on 10th Line, where my husband picked up ten feet of heavy chain. Then off we went to our daughter's country abode. The snow thrower that she had agreed to let her father buy for her had been delivered on Friday evening. It's a real work horse and should help her clear the snow she'll be anticipating this winter - in the absence of plowing usually supplied by one or the other of her two neighbours who, until her partner left in the fall, were happy to oblige. She won't ask them to continue because neither has offered to. She wants to be self-sufficient, and now she will be.
She was out at the side of the house when we arrived, where the shed housing the chopped wood is kept, and in the process of transferring cords of wood from the shed to the house where she was stacking it in the little room under the back stairs for use throughout these cold days. She's been at it for a few hours, as evidenced by the neatly growing stack inside the little room with its low-beamed ceiling upon which she's already struck her head a few times in her hurry to get it all over with. Chunks of bark are littered on the stairs and on the floor of the back foyer.
Our granddaughter, alerted to our arrival by the barking collective, runs out of the house in her new boots, just now flinging her winter jacket on as she runs. The dogs, left inside the house, raise the pitch and continue to bark frantically. We get hugs, give hugs, and Angie runs back to the front door and lets the horde out. And out they stream, large and small alike, onto the snowy lawn, circling like a flock of birds up, over, around and around in their joy at release. They turn their attention to us, insisting on being noticed, getting ears rubbed, the tiny ones wanting to be picked up and cuddled.
My husband begins hauling out the prepared stand, the tool chest, the chain, the drill, and sets to work in the unsecured garage. He wasn't thrilled at the thought that the newly-delivered snowblower could be an easy target for a thief, and planned to secure it as much as possible against that likelihood. So he gets to work, and our daughter resumes her work carting the cordage into the house. I take our little dog into the house; our other, older one dislikes joining the noisy horde, and prefers to sleep this nuisance of an interregnum in her daily routine off in the car, cuddled into one of her soft beds, knowing that my husband is working just outside.
Things soon quiet down nicely, with all the smaller dogs back in the house, the three large ones still outside, loping about in the snow, throwing themselves at one another, wrestling one another to the ground to the accompaniment of joyful snarling. Angelyne takes the raspberries from me and washes them, then carefully places half into a small bowl and proceeds to spoon them into her mouth. She and her mother both love raspberries, and she has saved half for her mother.
She suddenly reminds herself that she hasn't yet had lunch. Before I realize what's happening, she has placed a small saucepan on the stove, half-full with water. I watch her extract a small plastic measuring cup from a kitchen cupboard, and carefully measure out dry macaroni. She sets it on the counter beside the stove, then takes a small plate and puts a cheese grater on it. Out of the refrigerator she withdraws a large piece of cheese from which she cuts a portion, then proceeds to grate the cheese into the plate. She keeps walking over to the stove to check on the state of the water set to boil. She washes those items she is finished with, dries them and replaces them in the cupboard where they belong.
When the water boils, in goes the macaroni, and she stirs it slowly from time to time. I have offered to help, and from my mouth streams a constant measure of advice and admonishment. To the former she responds with an "it's okay, Bub, I can manage" and to the latter she says "I know, Bub, I know". Mom, she tells me patiently, has told her all of that, Mom has taught her how to do this, Mom trusts her. I'm as close to mouth agape as I've ever been with this child.
When she is satisfied that the pasta has cooked to the right degree, she removes the pot from the stove, shuts the element, tops the pot with its lid, and slowly lets the water drain off. She takes a jar out of the refrigerator and reads its ingredients to me; a pasta sauce consisting mostly of tomato, cheese, spinach. I coo approvingly, and she ladles spoonsful of it onto the mound of pasta she had piled into a bowl. When it is a uniform consistency of pasta and sauce she sprinkles the cheese over all, asks if I'd like to try it, goes off to ask her mother if she would like some, then retires with it to have her lunch. How is it that I never suspected this child was capable of doing all of this in such a deliberate, methodical and calm manner? I feel at turns delighted and trepidatious.
I wander off downstairs to see how her mother is coming along with her stacking, and a passel of dogs follows me. Once in the good-sized family room downstairs I cross over toward the side where the door, now closed, leads to the small storage room under the stairs, and close the door against the curious dogs at my heels. My daughter is still stacking, and looking up the stairs I see others of the large containers full of wood and begin to haul them down. Hearing what I'm about, she begins to shout at me to leave off, to stop, and I tell her forget it, I'm not yet that frail that I cannot pick up something of a moderate weight.
Meanwhile, her daughter, having washed up her dishes, has gone back out to the garage to watch her grandfather, in the process nibbling at a chocolate bar she has helped herself to, post-lunch. I watch her skipping toward the garage opening, and tell her mother how amazed I am at her child's competence in the kitchen. Yes, well, says my daughter somewhat defensively, I'm a single mother, and it isn't always easy to do everything myself. No, I say to her, it's great that she can do those things. You couldn't, I said, and I certainly couldn't at that age. In fact, I said, I wasn't able to do that even when I was 18, and recently married.
Later, I sit on a sofa watching out the picture window as my husband, our daughter, our granddaughter, are all busy out of doors. All of the dogs are now inside, and from time to time one or another of them will get antsy and howls to be let out. Beside me the Australian Shepherd is sprawled over the fat arm of the sofa, and the Chihuahua sidles up beside it. The Aussie begins to lick the tiny dog's face, ears, and stomach. The grey cat sits sphinxlike observing. I have our toy Poodle on my lap, and note that, uncharacteristically, he does nothing when he sees a small grey rabbit haul itself cautiously out from under an opposite sofa, then slowly hop over to its enclosure and cage. This is a Noah's Ark, to be sure. Yet the house is neat as a pin, the carpeting is clean, and I know the energy it must take to make it so.
Finally, some hours after our arrival, my husband's tasks are completed, our daughter is finished hauling wood as the store room is now fully stacked, and we take our leave. She's told us that she has found Marijuana seeds, joints and dried plants in the small room where the water softener is, and she's put everything together, in a box, along with his other belongings, which he is welcome to pick up at any time.
posted by Pieface @ Monday, November 21, 2005
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