afternoon, to carry lumber to shore for the skaters’ shack. According to him, the weather has been so cold, the men are prepared to build. One more freeze-up is all they need. People are already coming into the post office to stand around downstairs to gossip and stay warm.”
“Do you remember the year Kenan and I dressed as gypsies for the carnival? That was just before the war started.”
“I do. The two of you danced around the ice like dervishes. I remember how happy you both were.”
“Kenan won’t be with me this year. Will Uncle Am dress up?”
“I don’t know,” said Maggie. And she didn’t. Am had said not a word about the carnival.
“You two used to skate, didn’t you? Together, I mean.”
Maggie nodded, though she wanted to stop there. Her niece knew nothing of that time in her life.
“There was no rink at our farm. Who would have made such a thing in the country? We skated on ponds or the creek—it was known as
the crick.
The crick meandered through fields and woods and joined one pond to another. The ice was lumpy and rippled from the wind, but we skated just the same, even in moonlight. That was my favourite time to skate, nighttime. If there was no moon, Am carried a small lantern, a brass one we still have. He was the best man I knew on blades, and then some. If I tired, he was strong enough to pull me along behind. One winter he made snowshoes from birch, with leather straps, and we tramped over the snow around the woods on our farm. He was a man of imagination.”
She frowned when she realized she had used the past tense, and wondered if Tress had noticed. But while bringing up the past, she had also called up for herself Am’s younger, firmer face, the life and sparkle of his eyes, his wide, strong shoulders, even his narrower hips. None of this, she told herself, has anything to do with my life now.
“Uncle Am can do anything,” said Tress. “But he says the same about you. The last time he was at our place to visit Kenan, he told me that when you were in your teens, you were the only girl on the Ninth Concession who worked in the hayfields alongside the men. He said he had to wait for you to grow up so he could marry you.”
“He said that? Well, he did have to wait, because he’s six years older. And it was my father who got me working in the fields. He taught me to drive the team because he knew I loved the horses. I was skinny and didn’t weigh much, so he wrapped the reins around my body and fastened me to the crossboards at the front of the wagon so the horses wouldn’t yank me off. He bragged to his friends that I could turn a load of hay on a dime. When I drove the horses, that freed up a man to pitch hay. I
was
good then, though I’d never do it now. I wouldn’t be able to.”
Maggie laughed softly inside the memory: the raising and lowering of the horses’ heads, dust stirred by their hooves, the clanking of harnesses and reins, the scent of new-cut hay, the odour of sweating men around her, an occasional word echoing through the silence that encompassed and made them a single unit with a single purpose. Am had often been part of the crew, keeping an eye out for her, always.
“At the end of the day, it was Father who drove the team through the fields and back to the barn. He sat me on top of the load of hay, and I perched there like a banty rooster.” She laughed again because she remembered her father’s pride. He had worked hard on the farm because of his love for her, for Nola, for their mother.
“Whatever I did to help,” she said, “was a long way off from working two days a week in the town library—and I’m thankful for the job. I’ve always loved a good book, and now I can put my hands on any one I want.”
“You sing. Don’t forget that.”
“If I talk about the concert, Tress, my nerves will undo me.”
“It’s almost sold out, you know. There won’t be a ticket left by the beginning of December. That means more than five hundred
“Do you remember the year Kenan and I dressed as gypsies for the carnival? That was just before the war started.”
“I do. The two of you danced around the ice like dervishes. I remember how happy you both were.”
“Kenan won’t be with me this year. Will Uncle Am dress up?”
“I don’t know,” said Maggie. And she didn’t. Am had said not a word about the carnival.
“You two used to skate, didn’t you? Together, I mean.”
Maggie nodded, though she wanted to stop there. Her niece knew nothing of that time in her life.
“There was no rink at our farm. Who would have made such a thing in the country? We skated on ponds or the creek—it was known as
the crick.
The crick meandered through fields and woods and joined one pond to another. The ice was lumpy and rippled from the wind, but we skated just the same, even in moonlight. That was my favourite time to skate, nighttime. If there was no moon, Am carried a small lantern, a brass one we still have. He was the best man I knew on blades, and then some. If I tired, he was strong enough to pull me along behind. One winter he made snowshoes from birch, with leather straps, and we tramped over the snow around the woods on our farm. He was a man of imagination.”
She frowned when she realized she had used the past tense, and wondered if Tress had noticed. But while bringing up the past, she had also called up for herself Am’s younger, firmer face, the life and sparkle of his eyes, his wide, strong shoulders, even his narrower hips. None of this, she told herself, has anything to do with my life now.
“Uncle Am can do anything,” said Tress. “But he says the same about you. The last time he was at our place to visit Kenan, he told me that when you were in your teens, you were the only girl on the Ninth Concession who worked in the hayfields alongside the men. He said he had to wait for you to grow up so he could marry you.”
“He said that? Well, he did have to wait, because he’s six years older. And it was my father who got me working in the fields. He taught me to drive the team because he knew I loved the horses. I was skinny and didn’t weigh much, so he wrapped the reins around my body and fastened me to the crossboards at the front of the wagon so the horses wouldn’t yank me off. He bragged to his friends that I could turn a load of hay on a dime. When I drove the horses, that freed up a man to pitch hay. I
was
good then, though I’d never do it now. I wouldn’t be able to.”
Maggie laughed softly inside the memory: the raising and lowering of the horses’ heads, dust stirred by their hooves, the clanking of harnesses and reins, the scent of new-cut hay, the odour of sweating men around her, an occasional word echoing through the silence that encompassed and made them a single unit with a single purpose. Am had often been part of the crew, keeping an eye out for her, always.
“At the end of the day, it was Father who drove the team through the fields and back to the barn. He sat me on top of the load of hay, and I perched there like a banty rooster.” She laughed again because she remembered her father’s pride. He had worked hard on the farm because of his love for her, for Nola, for their mother.
“Whatever I did to help,” she said, “was a long way off from working two days a week in the town library—and I’m thankful for the job. I’ve always loved a good book, and now I can put my hands on any one I want.”
“You sing. Don’t forget that.”
“If I talk about the concert, Tress, my nerves will undo me.”
“It’s almost sold out, you know. There won’t be a ticket left by the beginning of December. That means more than five hundred
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