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| Author: |
doris ray |
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Thursday, October 18 2007 @ 05:00 PM EDT |
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Margaret climbed the weathered rungs of the nailed-on ladder, which led up the side of the old barn to the loft above the calf-feeding pen. It was 1947 and she was ten years of age—nearly two years older than her brother—and it wasn’t fair that Joey got to do important jobs on the farm, along with Dad, while she had to help Mom with the boring indoor chores.
Margaret wondered if Joey thought he was a big-shot, just because Dad had him drive the horses while they hauled a sling-load of hay from out of the wagon and up the pole ramp, to where it would dangle from a pulley attached to the inside of the barn roof.
Dad would holler “Whoa!”
This was Joey’s cue to halt the horses and get them to back up and slacken the towrope. The hay would then be lowered on top of the mound that already covered the barn floor. Dad had to crawl through all that new loose hay to unfasten the rope sling, before stringing it back in the wagon, all ready for the next load. He and Joey were just now heading back to the field.
Margaret’s job, and she was looking forward to it, was to tamp down the lovely-smelling clover and alfalfa by leaping and tumbling into it over and over again from one of the lofts that were accessible by rickety ladders on both sides of the haymow. The north loft was the one across the hay from where she now stood poised for her first dive. It provided the roof over the horse stanchions and the cow stable.
Leaping and romping in fresh hay was pure bliss, Margaret decided happily. Almost as much fun as doing the same thing in winter in the snow. But it had been more fun when Joey wasn’t needed to drive the team of horses in the field. The siblings had tunneled huge caves in the piles of hay and played games such as hide and seek.
When they heard the clank of the wagon and the squeak of the harness, which signaled that the horses were approaching, they had gleefully destroyed the evidence. Dad did not want any holes in his haystack. But there was no longer any chance of that, Margaret thought despondently. She could not play hide and seek all by herself.
After the mound of new hay was sufficiently tromped, Margaret lay back on its warm prickly mattress and peered at the sky through the tiny holes in the shingles of the barn roof. The barn and the nearby log cabin had been built in 1910 by some people who had long since moved away. The buildings were so old they were slowly falling apart.
Margaret recalled visiting with the last family that had lived on the place. The father had been proud of the new house he’d built out of planed lumber with sawdust for insulation. It had three bedrooms with a combination living room and kitchen. As she often did, Margaret fantasized that Susie, the daughter that was her own age, had stayed behind to be her sister. It would have been pure bliss, Margaret thought sleepily, to have had a sister.
It had been two years since Dad had moved his family up from the Coast to reside on the partly cleared quarter section in the Cariboo Region of the BC Interior. He loved having a piece of land to work on, even though he couldn’t make a living from it and had to labor in the sawmills to pay the bills. Mom couldn’t help much because she was sick a lot, but Margaret and Joey were available on weekends and during the long summer break from school. That’s when Dad needed their help the most—during haying season. The team of horses, Paddy and Peggy, had been busy all summer. First they had to pull Dad around and around in the fields on the mowing machine to cut the hay. After that they towed the big rake which gathered it all up into loose rows.
One outdoor job that Margaret hated was stacking the rows of hay up into haycocks, using a pitchfork. Joey didn’t have to do that because earlier in the summer he had stuck a fork right through his foot. He had screamed and screamed and it had bled a lot, but at least he didn’t have to slave in the hot sun making the haycocks just right so Dad wouldn’t complain. They had to be rounded on top so the rain couldn’t get in and rot the hay. The only good part was when Mom would come out with a pitcher of lemonade and some Melting Moments cookies.
Margaret’s dream was to have a saddle pony to ride the two miles to school just like the big kids did who lived a further two miles down the road. Once, when Margaret was eight and Joey wasn’t in school yet, Joanne the oldest girl had pulled her up to ride behind her in the saddle. It had been pure bliss even though they arrived at the school barn behind everyone else because Joanne made her horse walk every step of the way. She was afraid that Margaret would fall off if they trotted or galloped. Margaret was too shy to tell Joanne she had ridden Peggy bareback a few times and was not afraid of falling. Peggy was way higher up from the ground than Joanne’s little pony.
Despite all of Margaret’s pleadings she and Joey continued to walk the distance to school because Dad believed saddle horses were dangerous, besides being a big expense. He could not bring himself to trust any horse other than the stodgy old team that he loved. On Saturdays when Mom and Dad had to buy groceries and stock up on sacks of grain and feed for the chickens and pigs, the horses were their means of transportation. Margaret had spent many a boring hour gazing at the big harnessed rear-ends of Paddy and Peggy as they ambled slowly down the dirt road toward town, pulling the family sleigh in winter and a big-wheeled wagon anytime after the snow had gone. Peggy was the oldest, a gray mare with a huge potbelly, while Paddy was a tall brown gelding with a black mane and tail. Town consisted of a general store with post office and a feed shed. Further down the road were the community hall and the school.
Sometimes Margaret and Joey were allowed to go there and play on the school swings while Mom and Dad spent their time shopping and visiting with the other customers. That is, when Mom was well. Lately she was in bed more often than not.
Most people in the Cariboo still used horses for transportation but occasionally there was a car that shared the road. Joanne’s dad owned a red Chevy pickup that spooked poor old Peggy every time they met. Margaret and Joey would laugh themselves silly at Peggy’s futile attempts to break and run. She was solidly hitched to Paddy who was heavier and very calm—to the point of being nearly comatose at times. He was that way whenever Margaret and Joey wanted to ride him. If he was not in his harness Paddy didn’t believe he should move at all.
There were a few times when Margaret and Joey were required to ride Peggy into town to replenish the family’s supply of groceries. Margaret always looked forward to these infrequent expeditions. She didn’t really mind that Mr. White would laugh heartily as they rode up. The storekeeper liked to refer to their pot-bellied, swaybacked steed as “the horse built for two.”
To compensate for his joke Mr. White would give them each a free piece of candy. He would load their twin grain sacks with whatever was on Mom’s list, making sure that the weight was evenly distributed before tying them together and carrying them outside to sling across Peggy’s ample shoulders. As the oldest child, Margaret’s position was up there behind the groceries and Joey’s was behind her. On the way home she would pretend she was Gene Autry and sing “Back in The Saddle Again” in her loudest voice. Joey, who seldom agreed with her about anything, would break in with “Happy Trails to You”, which was a Roy Roger’s song.
The problem with Peggy was that unbeknown to Dad, every so often she would bolt, causing her human cargo to fall to the ground. With her big belly and Margaret and Joey’s short legs, there was no way they could hang on. The last time she had done this was while they were on the way home with a full load of groceries. Joey later blamed Margaret’s singing for Peggy’s transgression but that wasn’t so. Peggy had a vivid imagination and would sometimes shy at unusual shadow configurations cast by familiar stumps and trees. Margaret had clutched desperately at the grocery sacks even as they hit the clay-hard ground, with her on top and her brother alongside. Despite Mr. White’s best knots, the sacks had fallen apart.
Dented cans and crushed boxes of crackers and cereal littered the road and the ditches. Joey ran ahead to catch the silly old mare, while Margaret attempted to patch up the evidence that could lead to Peggy’s being put out to pasture for good. Dad would never again allow them on her back if he learned what had happened and riding old Peggy was better than not being allowed to ride at all.
In the end Margaret had to tell a lie. She made Joey promise to back her up in a tale that would completely exonerate Peggy. She explained to Dad that the dented cans and damaged boxes were all Mr. White’s fault. The storekeeper had not tied the sacks together properly. They were ambling down the road ever so slowly when the knots had loosened, causing the grocery sacks to tumble to the ground. Dad fell for the story. In a huff he accosted Mr. White, who apologized and knocked a big discount off their grocery bill. Margaret’s conscience had bothered her for awhile after that.
A breeze wafted through the open areas of the barn causing the temperature to drop a few degrees. Margaret snuggled in between the layers of sun-warmed hay and fell asleep. She dreamed that she and a pretty blonde girl named Sarah were flying through the air on a pair of winged palomino ponies. They were having a wonderful time joking and laughing as they sailed over the barn, the chicken house and the log cabin. Sarah was especially interested in the old cabin. She was a bit distressed by its tumbledown state.
“Maybe someday your dad will fix it up,” she suggested. “It’s small but its warm and cozy.”
As they were approaching the house with its smoke-spewing chimney, Margaret noticed Mom out in the garden with a shovel. “She must be feeling better than she did this morning," she confided to Sarah. “She’s digging up potatoes for supper.”
“I know all about potatoes,” Sarah answered with a grin. “My dad had me hoeing weeds in the potato patch for days on end.” She appeared contemplative: “The garden was somewhere near where the chicken house is now,” she said finally.
Margaret had no idea what her new friend was talking about but she really didn’t care. She was having too much fun. ”Is it all right if I talk to Mom?” Margaret asked.
“You can try,” replied her blonde companion.
The horses lowered their wings and descended ever so slowly without being reined or directed in any way, until they were just above the garden fence. Margaret took a deep breath and yelled “Hi Mom!” in her loudest voice. Sarah flinched and raised her hands up to cover her ears, but Mom failed to notice or respond. She must have suddenly gone deaf, Margaret surmised. Or perhaps she was in another dimension, like those people on the radio show that she and Joey had listened to the other night?
”You’re pretty close to the truth,” Sarah stated as if she knew exactly what was going on in Margaret’s mind. “But it’s not your mom. It’s you and I who are in another dimension. You fell asleep and your dream is what brought us together.”
From what Margaret would remember later about the other dimension, it was pure bliss. She and Sarah soared through the air for what seemed like hours on their winged ponies, stopping every now and then to inspect places of interest on the farm. Margaret wanted to see if the huckleberries along the edge of the lower field were ripe. They were, and the girls’ teeth and tongues were soon an unsightly shade of blue. Margaret was wearing her oldest jeans and a plaid shirt but Sarah wore a dress, an old-fashioned pinafore that displayed some stains rather quickly. Last year Margaret had been in big trouble when she’d worn a school blouse in the huckleberry patch. But Sarah didn’t seem to be worried at all.
As they flew back over the barn Margaret could see the tiny figures of Dad and Joey sitting on top of another big wagonload of hay. Paddy and Peggy looked tired. Their heads hung down almost to their knees. Margaret knew she must wake up from her lovely dream even though she didn’t want to. Sarah was like the sister she’d always dreamed of having.
“Don’t worry, we’ll see one another again, very soon,” the blond girl promised. “When you are awake look up at the hayloft. The north loft.”
Margaret opened her eyes and reluctantly allowed the real world to envelope her consciousness. She could hear Paddy snort, which was his way of complaining; and then the shrill shriek of a wagon wheel as its metal rim ground across a rock that was just outside the stable door. Suddenly she heard the flapping sound of wings from somewhere up in the north loft. A large white bird swooped down and flew over Margaret’s head before exiting through the open back side of the barn. A snow white feather spiraled down through the air and landed just where Margaret was lying.
Before going to bed that night Margaret put the feather under her pillow, hoping it would bring her back to the other dimension with Sarah. It didn’t work. Mom’s energy had been all used up preparing a delicious meal of roast chicken, salad and mashed potatoes. She went to bed right after supper. Margaret heated the big pot full of water on the wood cook stove to wash and scald all the dirty dishes. After that she and Joey took turns cranking the handle on the butter churn until the cream finally became lumpy. It was Margaret’s job to strain out the lumps and compress them into a blob of lovely yellow butter. Then she had to wash and scald the churn. She was so tired that she fell into a deep sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow and did not dream at all.
Next morning she wrapped the feather in tissue paper and stored it in her special box along with Grandma’s rhinestone earrings and a beaded necklace that a nice old Indian lady had given her. Mom was still not feeling well so Margaret was busy all that day. She picked the fattest peas from the long rows in the garden and shelled them until her thumb tips were green and sore. She also picked a row of butter beans, which had somehow managed to escape the night-time frosts. Every hour or so Joey would holler at her in his high, smart alecky voice that they were between wagon loads and it was time for Margaret to tamp the hay.
Joey was her brother and Margaret knew she was supposed to like him but his attitude was beginning to get on her nerves. She fervently wished that Sarah lived in the same dimension and that Ellen—her best friend at school—had not moved to the Coast. The three girls would have had so much fun. Margaret reminded herself to write a letter to Ellen. Maybe she would write about Sarah and the strange coincidence of the white bird.
Margaret never saw the white bird again and try as she might she could not dream her way back into Sarah’s dimension. Months later when she had nothing better to do and it was snowing outside, she told Joey the whole story. Her brother was actually interested. He had spotted the white bird in the barn several times over the summer. It had appeared to be nesting in the north loft, although it was late in the season.
Joey had been curious and one day climbed up there to look for the eggs. “There’s too much junk stored up there to find anything,” he complained to Margaret. “There’s pieces of harness, bridles, even an old side saddle. And boxes and boxes of smelly magazines and books.”
Margaret’s passion was to read and she was forever bringing home library books from school. If there was any daylight at all coming through her bedroom window she would read until it was gone. But in winter it got dark way too early. Dad blew the kerosene lamps out at 8:30 so everyone went to bed right after the chickens did. Margaret vowed that as soon as it was spring she would investigate the boxes in the north loft. She’d read everything in the house including Dad’s boring farm magazines.
It was a sunny afternoon in May when Margaret finally made her way through the nearly empty haymow and climbed the ladder to the north loft. Joey had been right. There was so much stuff stored up there, especially in the dark corners. Dad hadn’t been any help either. His empty feed and grain sacks were everywhere. But the boxes of musty-smelling magazines were not hard to locate. Margaret didn’t find any books but she was enthralled when she saw Life Magazines and Saturday Evening Posts dating as far back as when the last war began in 1939. Best of all she discovered a stack of movie magazines filled with photographs of Hollywood actors and actresses.
She stepped in and around the debris to where she had spotted the white bird flapping its wings the previous summer. She looked for a nest but couldn’t see one. Then, sticking up amongst some coiled remnants of rope, leather and twine, Margaret noticed a snow white feather. It was even bigger and more beautiful than the one she had at home. Something else was caught up in the pile of dusty old farm supplies: a varnished wooden box that was slightly longer than the palm and fingers of her hand. It fit easily into Margaret’s jacket pocket, along with the feather.
Later Margaret examined the box in the solitary confines of her bedroom.It appeared to be handcrafted and very old. “To My Daughter” was carved into the bottom and a flower decorated the top. Small ornate hinges had been set in on one side, with a matching clasp on the other. Margaret held her breath while she undid the clasp. The box was lined with dark red silk and reposing upon it was a tiny porcelain doll. It was exquisitely painted and glazed with red lips, blue eyes, and yellow hair. The doll wore a pinafore similar to the one Sarah had stained with huckleberry juice. Margaret was ecstatic. She was positive she would dream about Sarah that very night.
She placed the box in the top right hand drawer of her dresser. That’s where she kept her other precious things including the latest feather. After that, every once in awhile, Margaret would notice a faint golden glow emanating from the drawer. It disappeared when she opened it. It must be her imagination, she decided. Mom used to tell her she had a good imagination.
It wasn’t until three years later, on December 14, 1951, that fourteen-year-old Margaret finally dreamed of Sarah. All evening long she had struggled with the pain of her mother’s death two weeks earlier. “It wasn’t fair that Mom had to die so young,” Margaret told herself for the millionth time. “Maybe if I had complained less about the housework and worked harder she would still be here.” It was then that the golden glow had materialized from inside the dresser drawer, slowly enveloping the room, and Sarah appeared. She looked exactly the same, except that the huckleberry stains on her dress were gone. Margaret was positive she wasn’t dreaming. She was sure that she was awake.
”No you’re not awake,” Sarah had corrected her with that same impish grin. Don’t you remember? The only time we can communicate is when you’re dreaming? There is someone with me who wants to talk to you.”
Mom kneeled beside the bed, her arms tightly embracing her daughter. “Margaret don’t ever blame yourself for my death. It was my time to go. I feel so much better now than when I was alive and sick.”
The following morning all Margaret could remember of the rest of her dream was that she and Mom were crying, vowing they would love each other forever. Sarah wasn’t there at all.
* * * * * * * *
One day after Margaret was all grown up and living and working at the Coast she received one of her infrequent letters from Joey. Her brother still lived on the farm with Dad. He wrote that Paddy the old workhorse who had been put out to pasture after Dad purchased his tractor, had finally died. They’d buried him in the vicinity of where they’d buried Peggy years earlier. At the end of Joey’s letter—almost as an afterthought—he’d written:
”... Thought you might be interested. When we were kids you thought you saw the ghost of a young girl. Dad and I have been tearing down that old log cabin for firewood. It had been built in two separate sections. The one part was added on much later, probably by a different family. The addition was what we tore down first. Underneath, there was a bit of a depression in the soil and I noticed a metal plate that, I guess, had come off a coffin. I gave it to a lady from the Historical Society.
“The lettering on the nameplate read:‘Sarah Jane Williams. Born October 10, 1905. Died December 14, 1915....’”
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