[Canadian West 02] - When Comes the Spring (19 page)

"My wife's out back in the garden. She's right anxious to meet ya.
Got a minute to step around with me and say howdy?"

A smile flashed across my face. "I'd love to," I stated as I tucked
the small box of tacks in my handbag and prepared to follow Mr.
McLain.

The garden was weed-free and very productive. I wished with all
my heart that I had one just like it. Next year I must try. It would be
so nice to have some fresh vegetables. Some of them here were unfamiliar to me, though there wasn't much variety. I knew the frosts came
much earlier this far north. I had also been told that, because of the
long summer days, some vegetables did very well, with the added hours
of sunshine to make them grow rapidly.

I took my eyes from the plants and looked about for a woman. She
was at the far end of the garden patch, her dark head bent over a row
of beets to which she was giving her total attention.

"Nimmie!" Mr. McLain hollered. "Got Mrs. Delaney here."

The dark head lifted; then, in one graceful movement, the woman
was standing and facing me. -A quiet smile spread over her face. She
moved to meet me, extending a hand as she came.

"I am so pleased to meet you," she said softly.

She was Indian.

I walked home slowly, paying little attention to the staring children
or the barking dogs. I had not stayed long to chat with Mrs. McLain.
After my initial shock, there really didn't seem to be much to say. I
hoped with all my heart that my shock hadn't shown on my face. Why
hadn't Wynn warned me? Or had he known? And why hadn't I
expected it? Wynn had told me that often the men in the North married Indian women. They were used to the lifestyle, the hardships, the
work and weather, and weren't always fussing for their husbands to take
them back to civilization. So why hadn't I prepared myself for that
possibility?

I guess it was simply because I had so much wanted to have one
white woman in the area, and it seemed that the Hudson's Bay man
was the only candidate. In spite of telling myself that I was being foolish, I felt an intense disappointment. There wouldn't be a woman in
the area after all with whom I could share intimacies. No one for little
tete-a-tetes over an afternoon cup of tea. No one to understand
women's fashions and women's fears. It was going to be a lonely time,
the years ahead. They would be sure to get me down if I didn't take
some serious steps to avoid allowing myself to be caught in the trap of
self-pity.

I wasn't quite prepared at the moment to take those steps or to
make future plans. For now it was enough just to sort out my thoughts
and to spend some time in prayer concerning my feelings.

I did pray as soon as I got home, and I was feeling much better by
the time I went to bring in the clothes and apply the irons to the
garments.

As I ironed, I thought,' What might I have to offer these Indian people? What things do we as wives have in common? What could I do
to improve their living conditions? I knew Wynn didn't want me rushing in trying to change their way of life, but weren't there little things
we might enjoy doing together?

Perhaps a sewing class? I was a good seamstress, though I did admit
difficulty in adjusting from machine to hand work. It seemed so clumsy
and slow to me, and my poor fingers always seemed to be pricked full
of holes in spite of a thimble.

Sewing might be a good idea. Then we could have tea. Maybe
Indian ladies enjoyed tea every bit as much as white ladies did. I began
to feel excited about the prospects. By the time the ironing was completed, my plans had begun to take shape.

The first thing to do was to make friends with them. At the first
opportunity, no matter how difficult it seemed, I was going to speak to
the Indian women. Even if I made blunders, it would be a start. I
would never learn unless I tried.

But first I had another little project. The open cupboard shelves
bothered me. I had lots of material I had brought along; and now, with
the help of the tacks obtained from Mr. McLain, I would do something
about covering them.

As soon as my ironing was done, I put away the laundry and the
makeshift board and went to Wynn's office in search of a hammer. I
found one hanging on a nail with the rest of his few tools and went to
work. With material, scissors, hammer and tacks, I soon had the opencupboard area nicely draped with curtains. They hung in attractive
folds and I was quite pleased. They certainly were an improvement on
the exposed dishes, pots and pans, and foodstuffs. I cut matching place
mats for the table, hemming them up as I hummed to myself.

I was finished just in time to get busy with the supper preparations.
I could hardly wait for Wynn to get home and see how much nicer the
kitchen looked. Again I wished for a white woman to share with. She
would have understood my satisfaction and pleasure with the accomplishments of the day. Wynn, being a man and troubled with the duties
of a law officer, might not be able to fully appreciate just how important this little addition was to me. A woman would, I was sure.

Wynn did notice my kitchen, complimenting me on how nice it
looked. I beamed with pleasure.

As we had our evening meal together, he asked me if I had met
Mrs. McLain as planned. I did not want Wynn to know about my
great disappointment in not finding a white woman, so I tried to make
no comments that would give away my true feelings.

"She seems to be somewhat younger than Mr. McLain," I began.

"I understand that he was married before," commented Wynn.

"She has a garden," I said with some enthusiasm. "I would love to
have one like it next year. It would be so nice to have fresh things."

Wynn agreed. "You shall have your garden next year," he smiled.
"I'll even see that the ground is broken for you. I think fresh vegetables
would be a treat, too. That's one thing, I must confess, I miss about
Calgary."

"I didn't recognize all her vegetables," I confided, "but she had lots
of carrots, beets, potatoes, and onions."

"What's she look like?" Wynn asked, remembering that looks
might be considered important to a woman.

I hesitated. I hadn't really looked at Mrs. McLain too closely. I drew
from my memory in the brief glances I had afforded her.

"She's dark, not too tall, rather slim."

It wasn't much of a picture; but I couldn't really remember much
more.

"Was she pleasant?"

"Oh, yes. Most pleasant," I hurried with my reply.

"That's nice," said Wynn. "I'm glad you have a white woman to-"

So he hadn't known. "Oh," I interrupted him, hoping my remark
sounded very offhand and matter of fact, "she isn't white. She's Indian."

I turned from Wynn to get the teapot, so I didn't see if his surprise
equaled mine or not. When I turned back to him, his face told me
nothing.

"I'm sure she'll be good company," he encouraged. "I hope you'll
be good friends."

The next morning I heard some women's voices approaching our
cabin on the trail to the west; and, true to my resolve, I went outside so I could greet them. Three Indian women approached me, talking
rapidly as they came.

They were dressed in a combination of Indian buckskin and calico
purchased at the trading post. Lovely beadwork made a splash of color
against the natural tan of the soft deerskins.

At my appearance, things were suddenly very quiet.

I knew no Indian words. I had to take the chance that they might
know a few English ones.

"Good morning," I said with a smile.

There was no response.

I tried again. "Hello."

They understood this. "Hello," they all responded in unison.

"I'm Elizabeth," I said, pointing a finger at myself. That seemed
like such a long name to expect anyone to learn. I changed it. "Beth,"
I said, jerking my finger at my chest.

The youngest woman smiled and nodded to the others.

"Beth," I said again.

She giggled, hiding her face behind her hand.

I didn't know what to try next. I wanted to invite them in but
didn't know what words to use. Well, since I only had English, I would
use English.

"Would you like to come in?" I asked, waving my hand toward the
cabin.

They looked puzzled.

"Come in?" I repeated.

The middle one seemed to get my meaning. She held up a basket
she was carrying and said distinctly, "Berries."

I understood then that they were on their way to pick berries and
didn't feel they had time to stop. At least, my logic came up with this
information.

I nodded, to assure them I understood. The other two women
lifted their containers to show me that they were berry-pickers as well.

I nodded again. How did one tell them that she wished them great
success in their picking. I scrambled around in my mind for some
words; but before I could come up with something, the young woman
surprised me by pointing a finger at me, lifting her basket in the air, waving a hand at the trail ahead, and saying, "Come?"

It caught me off-guard, but I was quick to respond.

"Yes," I smiled. "Yes, I'd love to come. Just wait until I get a pail."

I ran into the house, hoping they wouldn't misunderstand and go
off without me. I quickly scribbled a note for Wynn in case he should
come in while I was out, grabbed a small pail, my big floppy hat and
a scarf to ward off mosquitoes, and dashed back out the door.

They were still waiting for me.

They took one look at my hat, pointed at it, and began to laugh
loudly. There was no embarrassment, no discourtesy. They thought it
looked funny and enjoyed the joke.

I laughed with them, even making the hat bounce up and down
more than was necessary to give them a good show. They laughed
harder, and then we moved on together down the path to the berry
patch.

I had no idea where we were going. I decided to watch closely for
landmarks in case I had to find my own way home. I wasn't much of
a woodsman, and I would have hated to require Wynn's leaving his
other duties to come looking for me.

We followed the path to the stream and the stream to the river and
then followed the trail that paralleled the twists and turns of the river.
I was sure I could find my way home so far.

We had gone maybe a mile and a half when the women cut away
from the river and headed through the bush. There was no path now
and I began to get worried. I could never find my way home without
the aid of a path. I sincerely hoped the other women could. We might
all be lost!

We walked for about another mile before we came to the berry
patch. The bushes were thick with them, and they were deliciouslooking. The women talked excitedly as they pointed here and there.
Then they set right to work.

I couldn't begin to keep up with them. Their hands seemed to flash
as they whipped berries into their containers. I tried to follow their
examples but ended up spilling more berries than I got to my pail, so
I decided it was wiser for me to take my own time and get the berries
safely where they belonged.

While the women chatted, I listened intently. I tried so hard to
formulate some pattern in their speaking, to pick out a word that was
repeated and sort out its meaning, but it was hopeless. As they chatted,
they often stopped to double over in joyful, childlike laughter. It was
clear they were a people who knew how to enjoy themselves. I wished
I could share in their jokes. Then I wondered if I might indeed be the
butt of their jokes; but, no, they didn't seem to be laughing at me.

It was almost noon when the youngest one came over to where I
was picking. She looked in my pail and seemed to be showing approval
on my good job. Then she showed me her basket. She had picked
twice as many. She knelt beside me and quickly picked a few handfuls
which she threw in my pail. The others came with their full containers.
They gathered around me and they, too, began to pick berries and
deposit them in my pail. I was the only one who still had room in my
container. With four of us picking, the pail was full in no time. I
thanked them with a smile, and we all got up and stretched to ease the
ache in our backs.

"Ouch," said the oldest lady, and everyone laughed.

We started home then, full containers of berries carefully guarded.
It was well after noon when we arrived at my house, and none of us
had had anything to eat. I was starving. I wondered if they were, too.

"Would you like to come in?" I asked them, motioning toward the
door.

They shook their heads and nodded toward their baskets, informing me that they had to go home to care for the berries. I lifted my
pail then. "Some of these are yours," I reminded them, pointing to the
berries and then at their baskets.

I began to scoop out berries to add to their already full containers,
but they shook their heads and pulled the baskets away.

"Keep," one of them said, the others echoing, "Keep."

I thanked them then and they went on their way, while I went to
find something to eat and then to care for my own bountiful supply of
berries. Such a delightful surprise! The berries were sweet and juicy and
would be such a welcome addition to our simple meals. And the contact with the Indian women had been just as pleasant a surprise.

I wondered where they lived and if I would see them again.

I told Wynn I had a surprise for supper that night.

"Where did you get these?" he asked in astonishment when I
brought out the pie.

"I picked them myself-well, at least most of them."

"How did you find them?"

"You'll never believe this," I began enthusiastically. "Some Indian
women came by today; and when I greeted them, they said they were
going berry picking and they invited me to go along ... so I did. I
didn't quite fill my pail on my own. They helped me."