Love Comes Softly Page 7

  On she walked, down the path to the stream just behind the smokehouse. She found a stone platform that had been built into the creek bed where a spring, cold from the rocky hillside, burst forth to join the waters below. The perfectly shaded spot cooled crocks of butter and cream in the icy cold water on hot summer days. Clark hadn’t told her about this, but then, there had been no reason to, it not being needed this time of year. She paused a moment, watching the gurgling water ripple over the polished stones. There was something so fascinating about water, she told herself as she moved away, and this would be a choice place to be refreshed on a sultry summer day. But of course she wouldn’t be here then, she reminded herself once again.

  She went on to the corrals, reaching over the fence to give Dan, or was it Charlie, a rub on his strong neck. The cows lay in the shade of the tall poplars, placidly chewing their cuds while their calves of that year grew fat on meadow grass in the adjoining pasture. This is a good farm, Marty decided—just the kind Clem and she had dreamed of having.

  Giving her head a quick shake, she started for the house, past the henhouse. She suddenly felt a real hunger for panfried chicken. She hadn’t realized how long it had been since she had tasted any, and she remembered home and the rich aroma from her ma’s kitchen. At that moment she was sure nothing else would taste so good. Preparing chicken was one thing she had watched her mother do. Whenever they were to have fried chicken, she would station herself by her ma’s kitchen table and observe the whole procedure from start to finish. Her mother had never begun with a live bird, though. Marty had never chopped off a chicken’s head before, but she was sure she could manage somehow.

  She walked closer to the coop, eyeing the chickens as they squawked and scurried around while she tried to pick out a likely candidate. She wasn’t sure if she should first catch the one she wanted and then take it to the axe, or if she should go to the woodshed for the axe and bring it to the chicken. She finally decided she would take the chicken to the axe, realizing that she would need a chopping block as well.

  She entered the coop and picked out her victim, a cocky young rooster that looked like he would make good frying.

  “Come here, you, come here,” she coaxed, stretching out her hand, but she soon caught on to the fact that a chicken would not respond like a dog. In fact, chickens seemed to be completely something else. They flew and squawked and whipped up dirt and chicken droppings like a mad whirlwind whenever she got to within grabbing distance of them. Marty soon decided that if she was to have a chicken for supper, full pursuit was the only way to get one into the pan. She abandoned herself to an outright chase, grabbing at chicken legs and ending up with a faceful of scattered dirt and dirty feathers. Round and round they went. By now Marty had given up on the cocky young rooster and had decided to settle for anything she could get her hands on. Finally, after much running and grabbing that had her dress soiled, her hair flying, and her temper seething, she managed to grasp hold of a pair of legs. He was heavier than she had expected, and it took all her strength to hold him, since he was determined he wasn’t going to be supper for anyone. Marty held tight, just as determined. She half dragged him from the coop and looked him over. This was big boy himself, she was sure, the granddaddy of the flock, the ruler of the place. So what, she reasoned. He’d make a great panful, and maybe the bird hated the thought of facing another winter, anyway.

  Panting with exhaustion as she headed for the woodshed, Marty nonetheless felt very pleased with herself to have accomplished her mission.

  She stretched the squawking, flopping rooster across a chopping block, and as he quieted, she reached for the axe. The flopping resumed, and Marty had to drop the axe in order to use both hands on the fowl. Over and over the scene was repeated. Marty began to think it was a battle to see who would wear out first. Well, she wouldn’t be the one to give up.

  “Ya dad-blame bird—hold still,” she hissed at him and tried again, getting in a wild swing at the rooster’s head.

  With a squawk and a flutter, the rooster wrenched free and was gone, flopping and complaining across the yard. Marty looked down at the chopping block and beheld in horror the two small pieces of beak that remained there.

  “Serves ya right!” she blazed, kicking the pieces off the block into the dirt.

  Still determined not to be beaten, she headed again for the coop, while one short-beaked rooster still flapped about the farm, screaming out his wrath to a dastardly world.

  Marty marched resolutely to the coop and began all over again. After many minutes of chasing and gulping against the flying dust, she finally got what she was after. This fellow was more her size, and again she set out for the chopping block. Again things didn’t go well there. She stretched him out and reached for the axe, dropped the axe and stretched him out, over and over again. Finally she got inspired, and taking the chicken with her, she headed for the house. Into her bedroom she went, bird firmly under her arm, and took from a drawer the neatly wound roll of store string. Back at the woodshed, she sat down on a block with the chicken in her lap and securely tied the legs together. Then she carried him outside and tied the other end of the string to a small tree. Still holding the chicken, she tied another piece of string to his neck. She tied the second string to another small tree. She brought the chopping block from the woodshed and placed it in the proper spot beneath the chicken’s outstretched neck.

  “There now,” she said with some satisfaction and, taking careful aim, she shut her eyes and chopped hard.

  It worked—but Marty was totally unprepared for the next event. A wildly flopping chicken—with no head—covered her unmercifully with spattered blood.

  “Stop thet! Stop thet!” she screamed. “Yer s’pose to be dead, ya—ya dumb headless thing.”

  She took another swing with the axe, relieving the chicken of one wing. Still it flopped, and Marty backed up against the shed as she tried to shield her face from the awful onslaught. Finally the chicken lay still, with only an occasional tremor. Marty took her hands from her face.

  “Ya dad-blame bird,” she stormed and wondered briefly if she dared pick it up.

  She looked down at her dirty, bloodstained dress. What a mess, and all for a chicken supper.

  Out in the barnyard an indignant short-beaked rooster tried to crow as Marty picked up the sorry mess of blood and feathers and headed for the house.

  All of those feathers had to come off, and then came the even more disgusting job of cleaning out the innards.

  Somehow she got through it all, and after she had washed the meat in fresh well water and seasoned it, she put it in the frypan with savory butter. She decided she’d best get cleaned up before Clark and Missie returned. A bath seemed to be the simplest and quickest way to care for the matter, so Marty hauled a basin into her room and filled it with warm water. When she was clean again, she took the dreadfully dirty dress and put it to soak in the bath water. She’d deal with that tomorrow, she promised herself as she carried the whole mess outside and placed it on a wash table beside the cabin.

  Feeling refreshed and more herself after her bath, Marty resumed her preparations for supper. When Clark and Missie arrived, tired but happy from their day together, they were greeted by the smell of frying chicken. Clark’s face showed no surprise, and their exchanges were matter-of-fact as Marty welcomed the two in for supper.

  Indeed, Clark could hardly contain his surprise during the meal and had been on the verge of asking Marty if she’d had company that day, so sure was he that she must have had help to accomplish what a chicken for supper would require. But he’d thought better of such a question. After supper, on the way to the barn, he saw the soiled dress in the red-stained water and the mess by the woodshed. The chopping block was still where Marty had left it, though Ole Bob had already carted off the chicken’s head. The store twine was there, too, still attached to the small trees.

  As he passed the coop he could tell there had been some general upheaval there as well. It lo
oked like the chickens had flopped in circles for hours—feathers and dirt were everywhere, including in the overturned feeding troughs and watering pans.

  What really topped all was the old rooster angrily perched on the corral fence with his ridiculously short beak, clacking away to beat the band.

  “Well, I never,” muttered Clark, shaking his head in amazement.

  He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of that rooster. Tomorrow he’d do something about him. Tonight he was thankful for Marty’s meal of fried chicken.

  TEN

  Neighborly Hog Killin’

  Marty mentally braced herself for the new week, hoping with all her heart that it would be packed full of activity.

  Monday morning, Clark brought in the big rooster, beheaded and plucked. He advised Marty to boil rather than try to fry the patriarch of the flock, and Marty didn’t mind taking his advice. After cleaning the bird and putting him on to cook in her largest pot, Marty set to work washing up all the clothing she could find that needed washing. Her back ached from the scrub board, and she was glad to spend the rest of the day at her sewing. She was surprised at how easy it was to care for Missie. The little one was quite content with a big wooden spoon and a bowl to stir up pretend meals for her dolly. Marty decided she’d make some new doll clothes when she had time.

  The rest of the week was packed full, too. She went with Clark to Ben Graham’s for the killing of the hogs. Todd Stern and his near-grown son, Jason, were there, too, and Marty recognized them as the kind neighbors who had brought Clem’s body back and supplied his burying place. The pain was there, sharp and hurting again, but she made a real effort to push it from her. She was glad to be with Ma Graham. She felt able to draw so much strength, wisdom, and advice from the older woman.

  As the day went on, Marty could not help but notice the looks that were exchanged between young Jason and Ma’s Sally Anne. If she didn’t miss her guess, something was brewing there.

  She had little time to ponder on it, however, for the cutting and preparing of the meat was a big job. After the menfolk had done the killing and the scraping and had quartered the animals, the women were hard pressed to keep up with them.

  The job that Marty found hardest to stomach was the emptying and preparing of the casings for the sausage meat. Floods of nausea swept over her, and several times she had to fight for control. When they were finally done, Marty went to the outhouse and lost all her dinner. She was glad to be rid of it and went back to work feeling some better.

  The men looked after preparation of the salt brine for curing the bacon and hams and readied the smokehouse for the process. The women ground and seasoned the sausage meat and had the slow, rather boring task of stuffing the casings and tying them into proper lengths. It helped to be able to chat as they worked; still the job seemed a tedious one. On the second and third days, Hildi Stern came with her menfolk, and the extra hands aided much in getting the job done.

  Lard had to be chopped up and rendered, some kept for cooking and frying and some put aside to be used in the making of soap.

  By the end of each day, those involved were tired and aching. Marty noticed that Ma tried to assign her the less-demanding tasks, but Marty would have none of it, wanting to do her full share.

  At the end of the third day, the meat was divided up and things were cleaned up and put away for the next year’s killing. Ma’s Sally Anne put on the coffee for them all. They needed to renew their strength for the work that waited at home at day’s end. Marty noticed Jason look in Sally’s direction and saw her face flush beneath it. She couldn’t fault Jason. Sally Anne was a very pretty seventeen-year-old, and just as sweet as she was pretty, Marty thought. Was Jason good enough for her? Marty hoped so. She knew nothing of the boy to make her think otherwise. He looked strong, and he certainly had been carrying his share of the work the last few days. He seemed mannerly enough. Yes, she summed it up—maybe he’d be all right. Anyway, it looked like he’d have to be, the way they were mooning over each other.

  She remembered again how it had been when she had first met Clem—when his eyes turned toward her, she could feel him watching even when she wasn’t looking directly at him, and her cheeks would flush in her excitement. She had known right away that she would love him, and she guessed he had known it, too. His very presence had sent fireworks through her. She had felt she couldn’t wait to see him again, but she could hardly bear it when she did. She had thought she’d explode with the intensity of it, but that’s what love was like. Wild and possessing, making one nearly burst with excitement and desire—being both sweet and painful at the same time. Yes, that’s how love was.

  Clark was excusing himself from the table and Marty got up, too. She said the necessary thank-yous and good-byes to Ma Graham and eyed the crocks of lard she was to take home for making soap.

  “No use us both gittin’ ourselves in a mess makin’ soap,” Ma Graham said. “Marty, why don’t ya leave them crocks here an’ come over in the mornin’ an’ we’ll do it all up together like?”

  Bless ya, Ma Graham, Marty’s heart cried. Ya know very well I’d be downright lost on my own tryin’ to make soap fer the first time.

  She looked at Clark for his reaction.

  “Sounds like a good plan ta me,” Clark responded.

  “Thank ya, Ma,” Marty said with feeling. “I’ll be over in the mornin’ jest as soon as I can.”

  Thank-you seemed very inadequate for the gratitude she felt.

  ELEVEN

  Togetherness

  Marty kept her word and hurried through the morning household chores so she could do her rightful share of the work at Ma’s. As she went for Missie’s coat and bonnet, Clark spoke up.

  “I’ve nothin’ pressin’ to take my time today. Thought I’d be doin’ the caulkin’ here in the kitchen. Why don’cha jest leave Missie to home with me, an’ then ya won’t need to worry ya none ’bout her gittin’ underfoot around those hot pots.”

  Marty nodded her appreciation and agreement and hurried to the team and wagon that Clark had waiting.

  It was cooler today. In fact, there was almost a chill to the air. Maybe winter would soon be coming. Marty did not look forward to those long days and even longer evenings that stretched out before her.

  The soapmaking was a demanding, hot job, and Marty was glad when they were finished. The soap mixture was placed in pans, ready to be cut into bars after it had cooled.

  The two women sat down for a much-needed cup of coffee and one of Ma’s slices of johnnycake. There did not seem to be much chance for confidential talking at Ma’s place. What with eleven children crowding every corner of the small house, there was seldom an opportunity to be alone. But Ma talked freely, ignoring the coming and going.

  She told Marty that her first husband, Thornton Perkins, had been the owner of a small store in town, and when he had come to an early death, he had left her with the business and three small children to provide for. When Ben Graham came along with good farmland and the need for a woman, he appeared to be the answer to prayer, even though he had four small ones of his own tagging along behind him. So they had joined forces, the young widow with three and the widower with four. To that union had been born six more children. One they had lost as a baby and one at the age of seven. The seven-year-old had been one of Ma’s, but Ben, too, had felt the loss deeply. Now the children numbered eleven, and every one of them was special.

  Sally Anne and Laura were both seventeen, only two months apart, with Ben’s Laura being the older. Next came Ben’s Thomas, then Ma’s Nellie. Ma’s Ben had been next, and Ma supposed one of the reasons Ben had become so attached to this boy was that they both bore the same name. Ben’s twins were next in line, Lem and Claude. They were named after their two grandfathers. The younger children Marty still didn’t have sorted out by name. There was a Faith and a Clint, she knew, and she believed she had heard the little one called Lou.

  It was the two older girls that most interested Marty.
Sally Anne was one of the prettiest young things Marty had ever seen, and the girl seemed to simply adore her stepsister Laura. Laura, though capable and efficient, was plain and probably knew it, for she seemed to always be trying to outdo Sally Anne. Why does she do it? Marty puzzled. Can’t she see that Sally Anne practically worships her? Laura has no earthly reason to lord it over her. In watching more closely, she decided that Laura was unaware of what she was doing, probably driven by a deep feeling of being inferior to her pretty sister.

  She doesn’t need to feel thet way, Marty reasoned silently. She has so much to offer jest the way she be.

  She supposed there was nothing she could do about it. However, she promised herself that she’d try to be especially nice to Laura and maybe help her realize she was a worthwhile person.

  It was getting to be late afternoon, and Marty knew she must be on her way.

  She thanked Ma sincerely for all her help with the soap. Now she felt confident that she’d be able to do it on her own the next time. She told Ma that if she could spare the time, she’d sure appreciate another visit from her before the snow shut them in. Ma promised to try and, giving Marty a hearty hug, sent her on her way.

  When Marty reached home, Clark came out of the cabin to take over the team, and he brought Missie with him for the brief trip to the barn. As Marty entered the kitchen, she saw that all of the old crumbled chinking had been replaced with new and was rapidly turning to the proper attractive white. Now she wouldn’t be sweeping up pieces of it each time she cleaned the kitchen floor. Though she was still embarrassed about her inadvertent error, she was glad the chinking was fixed and noted with appreciation that Clark had even cleaned up any mess he had made in completing the job.