"Silver", the Miracle Cat

SILVER, THE MIRACLE CAT

Silver's beginnings were fragile at best.  Dolly, the old mother cat, who had been with John’s family since before our marriage, had somehow miscalculated the time of delivery, producing a litter of new kittens on the coldest day of the year.  And if that wasn’t bad enough, the best shelter she could find was under the haystack! 

It was 32 degrees below zero that bitter January morning when John went to the haystack for bales to feed the cattle.  There, in a hole underneath the bales, he found the Dolly, her body frozen almost solid but underneath her she had been trying to shield five newborn kittens.  Four of them were dead, from the cold undoubtedly, but one tiny silver grey mite was still moving.  John tucked the wet bundle inside his shirt to keep it warm and hurried back across the large yard to the house, presenting me with the most pitiful little creature I had ever laid eyes on.  It couldn’t have been more than two hours old. 

Maybe Dolly had been too old, maybe too ill and certainly her judgment was terrible, but oh, what a dreadful way to go!  (The girls had named her “Dolly” because they had used her as a doll, carrying her around from the moment they had learned to waddle.  They had trained Mitzy, Dolly’s daughter and other kittens that same procedure and the cats all accepted it without protest which surprised me at first but then, seeing success at work, I just let it carry on.)  Anyway, seeing this little kitten so helpless now, made us all remember Dolly and her patient and docile nature.

The kids and I all choked back sobs, both for poor Dolly as well as this pathetic little legacy she had left behind.  What was to become of it?  Well one thing was for sure, if Dolly had given her life for this poor baby, we certainly owed it to her to try and save it.

I took an old basin, filled it with warm water and did what Dolly would have done had she been able.  I washed that poor little tyke off, then dried it with a warm towel.  Next, I had to find a way to feed it, but how?  The miniature mouth was almost invisible in the tiny head that was barely the size of my thumb.  Yet this thing was alive and if I could find a way to get some nourishment into that tiny body, it might have a good chance of surviving.  My mind frantically jumped from one possible solution to another, discarding them one by one as impractical, impossible or just plain ludicrous!

Then I got an inspiration.  The girls had dolls.  The dolls had accessories.  Among those accessories was a little plastic bottle with a miniature nipple that screwed onto the bottle.  If I made a needlepoint hole in that tiny nipple and filled the bottle with warm milk, I might be able to get the kitten to suck on the milk.  Even if that failed, I could squirt the milk into its mouth and it would have to swallow.  Encouraged by these possibilities, I set about to put the idea to work and three fascinated kids watched anxiously.

I warmed up a small amount of milk, then using a funnel; I filled the wee bottle and gently pushed the miniature nipple into the tiny mouth.  Nothing.  I wiggled it around trying to arouse some response from the kitten.  Nothing!  I squeezed the soft plastic bottle in an effort to get some milk into its mouth.  Major mistake!  The soft plastic threads of the bottle slipped, popping the nipple off, drenching both that kitten and me with the warm milk.

Back to the basin, another bath and another drying operation.  Then I refilled the bottle, and, securing the nipple with several strips of sticky tape, I tried again.  Eventually, by squirting milk into the tiny mouth, the kitten began to swallow and then suck on the tiny nipple.  Ah!  success at last!  Relieved, I let it suck until, sated, it fell asleep in the palm of my hand.

It had taken about a third of the tiny bottle, and it had taken it willingly.  It was going to survive, I was almost sure of it now.  The kids and I all felt elated.  “Silver”, as we decided to call her, was going to be a baby with new and different challenges, but we knew it would be a rewarding experience.

Silver fed from that tiny bottle for over three weeks, willingly and eagerly sucking on the tiny nipple.  I found that after a short spurt of sucking she would stop.  I stroked her belly gently with my finger and a tiny gurgling burp sounded from her throat.  I was both amused and intrigued.  I guess the mother burps them when she licks them but I had never known that kittens, like human babies, burp!  After a burp, she would start sucking again.

Silver grew quickly.  The kids eagerly waited for her eyes to open but it was the tenth day before they finally did.  By this time she was crawling blindly out of the small cushioned basket that had been her home since that fateful day when she had come into the house half frozen.

Now that she could see and was starting to make daily sojourns into the room, I decided it was time to toilet train her.  I got some sawdust from the woodpile, warmed and dried it in the oven and put it in a box.  Then I put her in the box.  She seemed to know instinctively what to do there and we never had to clean her sleeping basket, or her, again after that day. 

She learned to drink milk from a dish.  Besides that, each time we sat down to a meal, we always dropped tiny morsels of goodies into her dish so that eventually she learned to expect it.  She ate what we ate no matter what it was, perhaps she just didn't know any different.  She never had raw meat because we never ate it but she never refused any tidbit we gave, even if it was a vegetable or fruit that the kids would sometimes put on her plate to test her.

She no longer slept in the sleeping basket, preferring instead to sleep on the bed beside me.  I didn't let her in the kids’ rooms at night, fearing that in their sleep they may roll over and accidentally smother her.  In the mornings, she was our alarm clock.  She would nuzzle our faces with her nose, tickling us with those whiskers of hers, and if that failed to get us up, she would start licking our face.  That rough little tongue of hers always did the trick.   This was fine on weekdays when we needed to get up early, but it was a real nuisance on Saturdays when we wished to sleep in.

Her sawdust box was cleared out of the way and hidden underneath the stairs and each week she got a fresh box of clean, oven-dried sawdust.  She was meticulously clean, preening herself after each meal, washing each paw repeatedly and then using it to wash her face.  Then, she'd lie down and purr loudly in contentment.

The girls played with her constantly.  Even Mitzy, Silver’s older sister, was given some reprieve and a chance to freely roam afield because Silver occupied so much of the girls’ playtime.  She was now their baby and they would wrap her up in the old baby blanket, carrying the tightly wrapped bundle around for hours.  She never resisted.  I suppose she never knew that a cat's life could, or should, be different.

One evening we had homemade pizza for supper that I threw together just out of leftover ingredients.  The topping consisted of homemade tomato paste, lots of mozzarella cheese, and minced fried chicken doused with onion.  Silver sat dutifully beside her dish waiting.  I told the kids she wouldn't like it, that tomato paste was not regular cat fare, but they gave her some anyway.  She ate it.  "If it's good for you" she seemed to say, "then it has to be good for me".

It was late and the kids were in bed, and John, too, retired soon after.  I was still working in the kitchen and Silver was sleeping on the couch in the living room waiting for me.  As I worked busily at my chores, my heart suddenly stopped at the sound of a blood curdling yowl that emanated from the living room.  I looked up to see Silver rounding the corner from the living room to the dining room, her feet sliding out from under her on the slippery waxed tiles as she dashed madly around the next corner to the kitchen and around the next corner heading pellmell for the sawdust box.  Just short of the box she lost it.

The pizza had not agreed with her digestive system after all and she had desperately tried to reach the sandbox before it erupted from her throat.  She had missed it by five inches. Had the floor not been that slippery, had there been one less corner to turn, had she realized sooner how sick she was, - but she had given it her most valiant effort.  I could hardly fault her as she stood there forlornly looking at the mess she had made.

Silver never went outdoors at all that first winter, but late in the spring, when the snow and ice were gone, we started letting her outside when the weather was warm.  She enjoyed the outdoors but hated cold.  Then, at the beginning of June, a freak snow storm dumped about five inches of fluffy white snow on the ground.  Her first encounter with snow was incredibly funny and unforgettable.

We let her out and she walked hesitantly on the cleared sidewalk looking at this white stuff all around her.  Then she stepped off the walk into the snow.  Immediately, her foot sank into the soft white fluff.  Startled, she leaped up and back onto the sidewalk, staring at the white surface in front of her that really wasn't a surface after all.  After a moment, she decided to try again.  Gingerly, she touched the snow with her paw, then pulled it back and shook it.  She licked her paw and then sat back on her haunches scrutinizing the whiteness in front of her, not quite sure what to do next.  Inside the house we watched her consternation through the windows and laughed uproariously at her bewilderment.

Silver never did spend too much time outdoors, especially if it was cold.  She preferred to sleep on the warm bed with us, year round.  She knew nothing of hunting and probably would have just as soon run from a mouse as after it.  She got all her nourishment thrown to her off the table but she never made any attempt to go get it herself.  She didn’t even associate with the other cats.  She had bonded with humans from the start and didn’t know anything else.

In the fall, Silver prowled around outdoors but always sought out any warm spot she could find if she could not get into the house.  This search for heat became her death knell before she was even three years old.  One day, John had driven in from somewhere and after stopping the car, had some chores to attend to before going out again.  Silver got underneath the car and, feeling the heat of the engine, crawled somewhere inside where it was warm.  When John got back into the car and started the motor, poor Silver never stood a chance.  A loud banging came from under the hood - not even a yowl.  When John opened the hood to investigate, Silver's mangled body was wedged between the fan and the belt. 

We could not contain our sobs when we saw what had happened.  That poor baby that had survived such adversities in her first few days of her life, had never even learned to be a real cat.  She had given us total love and devotion and she had had so much more to give.  The kids and I felt her loss most because she had been such a big part of our lives.  We missed her terribly, but this was now just another chapter in our book of memories.

We Can't Go Back

We Can’t Go Back

We can’t go back

To youthful carefree days

When life stood still

And heaven was just a touch away.

When a simple evening walk

Brought wonder, ecstasy, and love

A shared happiness so complete

It transcended simple words.

You walked me home that night

And your touch sent my senses reeling

As your shoulder brushed mine

With a faltered step

On an unexpected rock in the shadows below

For one brief moment, you held me tight

And entrapped my heart.

You kissed me then

Oh, so shyly - yet ever so tenderly

On my cheek.

I was too shy to kiss you back

To put my arms around you

But I yearned for that moment to last

Last forever,

Wrapped tightly in your embrace.

When you left,

You took a piece of my heart with you

And I didn’t wash my face for a week

Lest I wash off

That precious, sweet and tender kiss

You had bestowed upon my cheek.

Our lives changed when we moved away

Silently and in secret, I kept dreaming

But our paths never crossed again.

My broken heart healed

And life went on.

We became different people

With different lives

Different goals

Different loves…

But the memory of that first love remained

Buried deep within my heart

To surface in those secret moments

When I walk alone in the dark

Stumble on a rock

And falter in my step….

A single shy peck upon my cheek

Still sears my face

As though a flame….

And the wonder of that first love

Still warms my aging heart.

Fisherman's Folly

Fisherman’s Folly

“Oh, so you did get back,” the couple observed nonchalantly when my husband John answered the knock on our camper door.

“Yes, we did” my husband answered frostily and then stood waiting for them to make the next comment.  I didn’t want to hear their next comment.  I didn’t want to talk with these callous people at all.  I didn’t want to hear their explanations or their apologies, if indeed they were even going to offer them in the first place.

I stepped up behind my husband, looked them in the eye and bid them a cold, “Good night.”  John picked up on cue and firmly closed the door in their faces!

Rude?  Yes, we were being rude!  But we had good reason to be.  It was ten minutes after ten and almost dark outside.  We had just got back to camp after a harrowing experience thanks to these people and all they could say was “Oh, so you did get back”?  Were they expecting that we wouldn’t?  Probably, judging by the surprised look on their faces and the tone of their voice.  Did they think we had drowned out there?  Where was the concern that normal people would have expressed about our safety in this kind of situation?

My husband and I exchanged exasperated glances but neither one of us spoke.  We still found it hard to talk about how foolish we had been and how close we had come to meeting a watery grave as a result of our folly.  John was just mad.  Me, I was angry too, but I was also still physically shaking from the terror of the experience!

We had come up north for a little fishing and, having no set destination in mind, we had found, and had been captivated, by the beautiful Wukusko Falls in this northern Manitoba wilderness.  We settled here at the campsite on the banks of Wukusko Lake late last night and all this morning we were quite happy fishing along its rugged but peacefully quiet western shore.  We got a couple of pickerel and the pike we threw back but we were content.  At noon, we took our catch to camp, cooked up the pickerel and enjoyed the fresh feast.  In the afternoon, we set out again, to ply the waters for the supper meal.

As we sat in our twelve foot Lund boat, we marvelled at the serene beauty of the lake which boasted of a number of islands out in the distance but the opposite shore was not in sight.  However, we had no desire to explore.  We only had a little seven-horse-power motor on the boat and that was enough to limit any frivolous ideas.  This area was providing all the pleasure and adventure we had hoped for on this holiday.

It was while we were trolling leisurely in the shallow waters off the shore that these people had driven up to us.

“Catching anything?” the man asked casually, eyeing our small craft with a rather condescending look.  They had a sixteen foot boat and a large, probably at least a 40-horsepower motor.  I suppose we must have looked like poor country cousins to them.  Still, they seemed congenial enough.

“Got a few pickerel and some pike that we threw back, but we got our lunch here this morning, and now we have enough for supper with a couple to spare,” John replied.

“What sizes are you getting?” the woman wanted to know.

I pulled up the stringer and displayed our catch.  We had mostly three and four pounders which were not really big fish but as far as we were concerned, they were perfect.  The larger ones didn’t fry up as tasty because they didn’t absorb the salt throughout and they usually took longer to cook making them somewhat less tender.  The two strangers laughed when they saw our catch

“Oh, you’re just getting the babies around here.  The big ones are around those islands up there.  You won’t get anything smaller than a seven pounder out there.  And none of those slimy little pike either.”  The man went on with disgust.  “When you get a fish out there, you know you have something to bring home.  Where you people from?”

“We’re from Dauphin,” John answered.

“Then you better get out there,” he pointed to the islands.  You know that between the two of you, you can only bring home a limit of sixteen fish.  You ought to make that sixteen count if you have come all the way here for it.  Follow us, we’ll show you where the real fish are.”  And with that he gunned his motor and they took off eastward toward the islands. 

John and I looked at each other thoughtfully.  The guy made sense about making our limit count.  Limits were strictly enforced and we were not the type to risk a penalty for an illegal catch.

“Should we go for it?” John queried me thoughtfully.  I shrugged my shoulders. 

“Whatever”.  He was the driver.  The lake looked calm enough.  If he thought it was fine, I saw no reason to refuse.  So John gunned our little motor into action and we took off in their wake, but their big boat quickly left us far behind.

At first, everything was fine, but soon, we found ourselves in the middle of the big lake, far from any shore and our so called “new friends” never even looked back as they sped off into the distance.  Then, to make things worse, a wind came up, whipping the deep water into ever frothier waves.  As we traveled south, we were moving against the waves, but as the waves got bigger and bigger we really started to get alarmed.  Going out farther into the big lake was pure folly with our little craft, and we knew it.  There was an island to the east of us but in order to get to it we would have the waves hitting us broadside.  By this time, however, we saw no alternative.  The wind had turned into a gale.  If we stayed on the water, we would soon be inundated by the ever increasing size of the waves.  That island was our only hope – that was if we could make it to the island at all! 

I was in the front of the boat.  John was manning the motor at the back.  Yelling to each other against the splashing roar, we decided to try getting to the island.  As John turned the boat eastward, some of the waves started washing into the boat.  My heart sank as I watched the grimace on John’s face and I turned my eyes away.  If he was scared, then I knew we were in deep trouble.  I started to pray as I turned towards the island, trying to will it to meet us half way or something.  I could feel my feet wet and I knew the boat was filling up with water.  My clothes were soaked from the spray, but I didn’t care.  I didn’t dare look at John anymore, I was afraid of what I would see on his face.  I just prayed. 

Sometimes I think my guardian angel works overtime, because an answer to my prayers came in the form of a very wide rocky shoreline around that island.  Just when the boat filled with water and we thought we were goners, we found ourselves on a rocky bottom but still about a hundred yards from the island itself.  The motor stalled on the rocks and the boat sat there teetering on the rocks swaying against the waves. 

John and I got out of the boat which raised it somewhat in the water, allowing us to drag it through the choppy water scraping the boat’s bottom over the rocks.  We had a small 48-ounce juice can which was now floating on top of the water in the boat but we had no time to worry about using it to bale the water out.  Our main concern was to drag that boat to that shore, as soon as possible and get ourselves onto dry land.  After what seemed like an eternity, we reached the shoreline and, securing the still full of water boat to a tree, we fell exhaustedly on the ground to catch our breath and rest.

We would think about getting back later but our next order of business was to empty the water out of that boat and drag it onto higher ground; otherwise the force of that wind would probably break that rope and carry the boat away into open water.  First, John took the motor off the back of the boat.  That raised it higher in the water again.  Next, we got the fishing gear, the cushions and everything else out of the boat.  Then we tipped the boat on its side and emptied the water out.  Now we were able to carry the light aluminium boat up onto the shore.  Feeling safe now, we turned our attention to our clothes.  We were soaked to the skin.

There were two cabins and a couple of sheds on the island.  Hopefully, there were people here.  We knocked on each door but there was no one.  But one of the cottages had a clothesline – with clothes pins yet!  How lucky can we get?  We stripped our wet clothes off leaving only our undergarments, just in case someone was hiding in the cottage or something, and hung our wet clothes on the line. 

Feeling like Adam and Eve incarnated we set out to explore the little island.  The sun was warm and although the wind was still strong, it was refreshingly pleasant.  It soon had our clothes, our boat and all our gear dry and ready to reload.  Problem was, the water was still too rough for us to head back. 

The day wore on, 5 o’clock, then 6, then 7.  Still the wind kept whipping up those savage waves.  For ourselves, we were safe and fine, but our truck was near the boat ramp at the campsite.  If someone noticed that we were not back, they might assume we had drowned or met with some other ill fate.  If word got back to the kids at home, they would be devastated until they found out where we were.  Somehow, we had to get back to camp, but we had to get back safely!  It was late August and we knew there was still some daylight left so we decided to wait.  Often the wind likes to die down before dusk. 

By 8:45, the wind had shifted to the west and it didn’t seem as strong as before.  There were still whitecaps on the water but we would be going against them.  God willing, we’d make it to camp in one piece.  We didn’t dare wait too much longer.  We had to make it back to camp before it got dark. 

My heart was pounding as we dragged the now dry boat over those rocks back to deep water.  Once in, John started the motor and turned the bow into the waves heading west toward the campsite.  I sat in front, looking straight ahead at the distant shore and prayed.  John opened that throttle wide and that little 7 horse motor gave it all it had.  As we bounced over those waves, the spray soaked me through to the bone again but I didn’t even realize I was wet till we arrived safely at our boat launch. 

As we silently unpacked the boat, we talked about those people that had talked us into doing such a stupid thing.  Actually, we were just as angry at ourselves.  We should have used our own brains and not attempted that dangerous a trip.  John could have said no and so could I but neither one of us did.  We had both used poor judgment and we both knew it.  We could not even blame each other.  Yes, those people had goaded us into going there, but it was our own decision to follow them.  We had no justification to trust them or to believe them because we didn’t know anything about them, but it was easier to blame them then to admit to own foolishness.  Oh well, such is the cost of education and we knew we would never! forget that valuable lesson.  Fishing is for the hardy – not for the foolhardy and neither good sense nor sound judgement is not up for debate!

Introducing the family

MEET OUR FARM FAMILY

In order that you can fully appreciate my stories, you need to know the characters in them.   You need to know my family and the backdrop to all my stories.  The stories are true experiences that were part of our lives on our farm.  So come  join me as I introduce you and walk with me down my "MEMORY LANE".

Our small family farm was located in central Manitoba, three miles from Ethelbert, forty miles northwest of Dauphin.  Basically we specialized in grain farming on one section of land and ran a herd of about a hundred and twenty head of beef cattle, with a few milk cows. 

To round out our family circle, there was my husband John, myself, three children, “Jim” (John Jr.) our oldest, and the two girls, Carol, three years younger than Jim, and Connie, our youngest, a year younger than Carol.  Then there was "Dido" (grandpa) and "Baba", (grandma).  They were John's parents and they often helped on the farm.  Baba was a constant babysitter when the kids were small as I was out working in the fields.  Also, John had an Uncle Leon, - Strayo, we called him - whose very unique personality inadvertently brought much mirth to our family, particularly to me, who often got paired off with him during harvest time.

In some stories, you will also meet my brother, John, nineteen months younger than I, and Betty, my next sister, seven and a half years older than I.  They shared my early adventures.  John and I grew up together as our other siblings were much older and working out in the city by that time.

Besides the human members of our family, there were also the special animals that played an integral role in our farming operations.  There was Bimbo, Rascal and Kennedy, the dogs; Dolly, Mitzy, Tommy and Silver the cats; Little Mite the saddle horse; Dukey and Pokey the ponies; Spotty, Suzy, Jessie and Faline, the milk cows; and Jacky the jackrabbit.  The beef cattle also all had names, Lucky, the steer, Tweety Pie, the calf, who thought he was human and would gladly have followed us into the house had we allowed it.  Then there was Rita, Mabel, Jessie, just some of the cows, and Charlie, that notorious big white Charlais bull who was such a typical philandering male that he would jump any fence just to see a new face, yet he was a total wimp because he had to be penned in for vaccination and he bellowed like a baby when you gave him a needle.  He was unlike Joe, his predecessor,  a much smaller Hereford bull, who was so docile, we could come up to him anywhere in the pasture, rub his rump, jab the vaccinating needle home and send him peacefully on his way.  Each of these members of our family had their own fascinating personality and an interesting story to tell.  In this blog, you will meet them all.

Some of the stories and poems are about my own years growing up, first on my parents’ farm in Ukraina and later Kulish, northwest of Ethelbert.  Most of the stories, however, deal with events that happened after I was married and are set at our farm in Loon Lake area where our kids grew up.  However, after we moved to Dauphin, I had more leisure time on my hands, particularly when I started traveling. Hopefully, as you skim through my stories, you will empathize with our tragedies, cringe at my indiscretions, laugh at my absurdities and revel in my triumphs!  Many of my idiosyncrasies came later in life, when I really should have known better but I did learn something new each time and became smarter after each mistake.  Such is life!

War's Legacy

In Memory - Europe’s Silent Legacy

Carefree tourists, singing gaily

Age old melodies, simple words

The unfolding panorama of ageless Europe - France

Rushing past our tour bus

As we speed along the highway.

Wide open fields of grain

Thick, lush, seemingly endless

An emerald sea, undulating

Heaving, breathing, sighing

With each gust of the shifting breeze.

Suddenly, the singing voices hush

A gasp, an exclamation!

All eyes turn.

In the midst of the silent growing grain

A massive graveyard!

Erect, neatly defined rows, the white crosses

Command our attention.

In stark contrast to the harmony we felt

Just minutes ago

An eerie chill clambers up our spine

And grim reality battles disbelief.

Yet the crosses stand

A silent memorial

To brave young men

Strangers in a foreign land

Who went to war

Never to return home again!

Only silent graveyards remain

Desolate, lonely, unadorned

Amidst a sea of emerald grain

Just a simple melancholy reminder

Of countless lives laid low

Outsiders in a land not their own

Who gave their lives

That a stranger might live

Might sing.  Might laugh.

Might plant these fields of grain

That wave so freely in the wind.

The Value of a Mistake

The Value of a Mistake

From some painful mistake somewhere in our past

A memory will plague us and help to attest

That action before us, the things that we do

May have consequences we don’t want them to.

The cost of education is expensive, you know,

And money is seldom the force of the blow.

Embarrassing moments keep us from repeating

Some major faux pas, though the blush was but fleeting

Or some terrible blunder that caused an uproar

Will not re-occur cause we tallied the score.

So cherish those moments when you discover an error

They’re lessons so precious, they haunt you forever.

**********************************************

Finale "Challenges of a Housewife" Part 4

Final chapter of "Challenges of a Housewife"

My heart was beating like a bongo drum.  This was Judgement Day!  I didn't know if John knew what I had been up to.  I didn't know if he had spoken to his father.  The white car had driven in that direction.  Had Dad taken the strangers out to the field to meet his son and prove to them that not all of his family were raving lunatics?

John took his time.  He filled the tractor with fuel, then stopped into the shed for something.  In the house, suffering intolerable suspense, I waited impatiently for the axe to fall, sick to my stomach, my heart hammering out a staccato beat. Whatever was going to happen, let it happen now - and quickly.  I can't stop it!  I couldn't even pray. 

After what seemed like an eternity, John came to the house.  The absence of shock on his face when he walked in told me he had come prepared for a major cataclysm.  He must have had visitors out in that field.  Perhaps the well-dressed strangers had warned him about what to expect.  It was doubtful that his father could have been coherent enough to explain what they had witnessed. 

Wordlessly ignoring me, John walked around the kitchen, looking at the gaping holes in the wall; the stairs that were now missing the three angling steps; and the empty north wall where the foot of the stairway used to be.  He walked through the opening in the wall into what used to be the bedroom and noted the bottom of the stairway waiting for the three angling steps that would connect it to the rest of the stairs.  He stood staring at the patched up wall facing the living room, at the doorway that was no more. 

I was glad I had had the time to clean up before he got home.  The place looked much less daunting this way.  Still, I was paralyzed with fear.  I waited, my heart pounding wildly for some reaction that would indicate to me whether I should run for my life or just stand there silently, prepared to meet My Maker.

"How do you propose to finish this?" John finally asked.  His voice was calm and he actually sounded sincere in his query - like he honestly wanted to know!  I couldn't believe my ears.  My knees turned to jelly, and my heart leapt in relief and exhilaration.  Was he actually going to support me in this project?

"Well, all we have to do now is build a wall to close off this stairway, put a door here to this old bedroom and we have two whole walls for cupboards.  We can take this old little cupboard out and put the stove here instead.  That will make the room smaller for floor space but there will be a lot more room for everything else.  And see, behind this door we still have the stairs to the basement and all we have to do is make those three curving stairs up here and the stairway is as good as new - and out of the way!

I was rambling on excitedly now.  God had heard my prayers.  My husband was going to let me live.  He was listening to me and I was not only going to live, but it appeared as if I was going to have my beautiful new kitchen!  My enthusiasm was beyond all bounds. 

"I'll go get the plywood and some two-by-fours before Hryhorchuk closes the store."  Still calm, John turned and walked out to the truck and drove toward town.  I was all a flutter now.  Had it really been that easy?  Was it really going to happen this quickly?  Was I really going to get away this peacefully?  My emotions vacillated between relief and disbelief, excitement and fear.  "If I am dreaming, please Lord, don't let me wake up" I prayed.

It was now after five and I had to start supper, so I heaved the stove into position, connected the pipes and set out to make supper.  If my husband was truly as supportive as he seemed to be, I was going to make him a supper of all suppers!  He deserved it! 

After supper, there was still enough daylight left to do some work so we set up to make those three angling stairs to the upstairs bedrooms.  There was no way we could sleep downstairs in that dusty, and now with the stairway, crowded, old bedroom.  We needed those stairs, so we fixed them.  Then we hauled up the mattresses and by midnight we were settled in our new bedrooms upstairs.  We had worked calmly together, John didn't seem the least bit angry, though he said very little.  Still, I was eternally grateful. 

The next day, John did not go into the fields.  Instead, we built the wall, finished off the doorways, and he even got me some clay to patch those gouges in plaster around that closed off doorway. 

When we finished, John informed me, "I'm going to go see if Nick can come and do the cupboards."  Nick was his brother-in-law.  He was a carpenter.

Within a month, I had beautiful white paint on my brand new kitchen cupboards, along the whole north wall; beautiful new wallpaper on the walls and a kitchen that I was delighted about.  John and I even discussed replacing the old wood stove with an electric one someday and adding a refrigerator and perhaps even a freezer! against that brand spanking new east wall - “when we get hydro in year or two”.

Friends and neighbours that came to visit could not congratulate us enough on our renovations and John got most of the complements about it.  Few people knew about how those renovations came about.  I didn't care.  I got what I wanted out of the deal - my fantastic kitchen.  Besides, John deserved all that credit for supporting me, even if it was only after his options were eliminated.  Even my father-in-law was proud of the house when that kitchen got finished.  He had a "modern" house to gloat about now.  For years after, my evening ritual was to stand in the doorway and admire my kitchen before I went to bed.  Perhaps that kitchen would not have been the answer to every woman's dream, but it certainly was the answer to mine!

Necessity may be the “mother of invention,” but it is “desperation that makes things happen!”  Faint hearts do nothing at all!

"Challenges of a Housewife" Part 3

I was trapped!  I could hardly pretend I wasn’t home; the kids were out there on the lawn.  There was no time to camouflage my project and no time to clean up either the mess or me.  If ever anyone needed to freeze time, this was definitely it!  I had reduced my father-in-law's pride and joy to a shamble of dust and debris.  I was sure it would appear totally hopeless at this point.  I knew it would be devastating blow to his pride in front of these people he was obviously trying so hard to impress.  I was doomed.

I watched in horror as my proud, unsuspecting father-in-law led his guests to view what he had every reason to believe would be a "nice house".  Engrossed in his usual zealous prattle, Father failed to notice the pile of debris off to the side where I had deposited the broken sections of wall from the bedroom.  He was ill-prepared for the destruction that beset his eyes when he stepped across the threshold.  As his jaw dropped to reveal a gaping mouth, a cloud of dust assailed his lungs.  His discourse stopped mid-word and his face turned ashen.  At that moment, I was truly afraid he might just suffer a heart attack.

You could have heard a fly sneeze in the silence that followed.  Father and his guests stood motionless, staring at the wreckage before them.  I stared helplessly back at them, unable to think, to utter any excuse, any explanation or any apology.  There was nothing I could say and it was obvious that there was nothing they could say, judging by the shock on their faces.  Nobody moved or spoke for what seemed like hours, but honestly could have only been minutes, while each one of us tried to get past the deadness that had overtaken each of us. 

It was one of the strangers that finally spoke first. 

"I guess you are doing some renovations," he said and I stared at him mutely.  Dad was still in a trance.  His eyes were fixed, his mouth was still open, and his breath was coming in raspy gasps from somewhere beneath the grinding rapids of his racing heart.  The taller of the two strangers seemed to gain his composure first.

"We should let you get back to your work," he verbalized kindly, obviously trying hard to provide this stunned assemblage with the benefit of an escape hatch.  "We'll come back another time."

I just nodded numbly. 

"Come, let's go take a drive through the country," he urged but my Father-in-law was paralyzed with shock.  His mouth was still gaping and eyes were still fixed like protruding marbles in his head.  He hadn't blinked once since he stepped into the room.  The man put his arm around Father's shoulder.  "Come," he urged but Father stood rooted in his tracks. .  He had turned into a virtual stone statue.  In desperation, the man motioned to the other stranger.

Gently but firmly, they linked their arms with Father's and between them, they managed to turn Father around to face the doorway.  Then with great difficulty and with as much dignity as they could muster, they got him down the steps and onto the sidewalk.  Wedged between the two men, Dad staggered. zombie-style, towards the car where they helped him into the front seat.  As they all got into the car, I took my first deep breath since their arrival. 

As I watched the white car with the smartly dressed strangers and my stupefied father-in-law pull out of the yard, it suddenly hit me.  The result of this afternoon may affect me profoundly.  My father-in-law will come out of his stupor sooner or later and when he does, Heaven only knew what ramifications there would be for these rash actions of mine to deface his precious house.  He had a violent temper, I knew that, but he had never ever directed it at me.  Quite frankly, I could not picture him doing so, but then I had always been a docile daughter-in-law and had never given him any cause to vent at me - never, that is, until now.  This time I did it right though.  This was the mother of all misdemeanours.  Maybe I hadn't asked for reprisals till now but this time, instead of asking for a sample, I had demanded the full rack.  And that was not even taking my husband into account!  This may just be the last day of my earthly life!

The wind had totally gone out of my sails regarding the renovations.  Gone was the bravado, the enthusiasm and excitement of a functional and, perhaps even beautiful, kitchen.  Would I live to see it even?  And even if I survived with my life, would I be banished forever from the house and the farm?  John would probably divorce me on the urging of his very insistent father, his mother would land up taking care of my kids and I would never even be allowed to see my precious babies anymore.  I felt physically sick! 

Why, oh why, hadn't I left well enough alone?  This was no minor indiscretion I had been toying with here.  There were going to be major repercussions!  Helplessly I looked around me at the mess.  I tried to see it as Father and those strangers had seen it, without the wistful image of a neat kitchen to blanch the stark ugliness of the debris. 

That was it!  I could remove that ugliness.  Perhaps I could soften the blow of my impetuous action if I brought the image of that kitchen into the foreground.  The kids were awake and I quickly gave them more wieners and buns and Kool Aid.  Thank God they had not learned the art of rejecting a repeat meal yet.  I worked feverishly, packing the debris into a box that I could easily haul out to the garbage out behind the woodpile.  Then I finished anchoring the slab of wall into the opening between the bedroom and the living room.  I would have to plaster that wall to smooth it in preparation for the wallpaper, but for now, it looked half decent.  Next I swept and washed the floors and the walls, removing as much of the dust as I possibly could.  I was shaking out the sheets from the furniture covers when John came home.

Final entry next week

Challenges of a Housewife Part 2

Continuation of "Challenges of a Housewife" 

I heaved the big cast iron stove out of its niche under the stairs, releasing clouds of black soot into the room when I disconnected the chimney pipes.  Then I measured off where I wanted to make the opening for the door to the bedroom.  This doorway had to be the exact same size of the living-to-bedroom doorway because I would have to use that slab of wall to seal that doorway later.  I could not afford to make any error here.

Drilling the holes at the top to make clean-cut corners sent billows of dust to mingle with the soot that was already in the room, but when I started the chain saw to cut out the doorway I almost lost my nerve.  The clay plaster of the wall protested against the chewing teeth with a dust storm that would have made the Sahara wince.  And worse yet, every now and then the blade connected with either a pebble in the clay or perhaps a nail because I'd hear this blood curdling screech and fiery sparks burst from the bottom of the chain saw.  Heaven only knew what was happening on the other side.  I pulled the blade out and raced through the dining - living room to the bedroom to make sure I hadn't started a fire there.

No, it was fine but I knew that the chainsaw blades were being damaged by those rocks and nails.  Still I had to go on.  Back I went to my chainsaw to finish the cut.  It took me less than ten minutes to make the two six-foot vertical cuts.  The timing beat the hand saw by a mile but I was nearly choking, partly from the dust but mostly from the exhaust fumes from the gas powered chain saw.  I shut off the saw and staggered outside.

While waiting for my breathing to resume, I reassessed my situation.  This plan would work, but I had to make some adjustments if I wanted to keep breathing.  Wrapping a bandana over my nose and mouth, I tied it securely at the back of my neck and then went inside that dust bowl that used to be my house.  I opened every window and door that would open, upstairs and down, to let the breeze roam freely throughout. 

Now I was back in business.  The horizontal cut along the top, however, presented me with a problem.  The chainsaw was too heavy for me to cut a straight line horizontally above my head.  It took me more than half an hour to make the thirty two inch cut with the hand saw but finally I had the piece of wall isolated.  Careful not to let it fall and break apart, I pried it loose and walked it a couple of feet over then propped it against the wall in preparation for the next phase of my renovations - sealing off the living-to-bedroom opening. 

Checking my watch, I decided to make the other cut in the wall to divert those descending stairs into the bedroom.  This cut had to be made floor to ceiling on both sides except that one side had to go right up against the outside north wall and the top had to be flush with the ceiling.  For these cuts, I would be unable to use the chainsaw because there was no room for it. 

I made the internal floor to ceiling cut with the chainsaw, standing on a chair.  Fine.  Now for the more difficult outside wall and ceiling flush cuts.  I checked the kids, gave them some of their favourite wieners, buns, cookies and milk then ran back into the house to continue with my project.  I worked hastily, using the handsaw against the ceiling, fighting that clock that seemed to have entered the Indy 500 races.  The fuel on the big tractor would last till late in the afternoon but I had to have the basic work done before John came home or my project would be sabotaged for sure.  The knuckles on my hands were raw and bleeding, but I had the ceiling cut complete with only the outside wall cut left to do. 

I had to break to fix John's lunch.  With sandwiches and an ample supply of water and Kool Aid, I gathered the kids into the car and we sped out to the far field where Daddy worked.  In the field, I quickly unpacked the lunch before John got down from the tractor so he would not notice my bleeding knuckles then made light conversation to divert his attention to the kids.  I waited impatiently for him to finish eating so I could get back to my project. 

At home, I spread a blanket on the lawn in the shade of the big maples, brought out some pillows and told Jim to put the girls down for their nap.  They all thought it was neat idea.  There was no way I could let them sleep in the house.  They would suffocate in that dust but I didn't tell them that.  Jim was always a good little helper with the girls and as long as they had enough distractions, the kids could be fine with just minimal supervision.

I went back to that wall but as I glanced up at the spots of blood on the ceiling and then looked at the wall where I had to do another flush cut, I cringed.  I grabbed some rags, wrapped my hands to protect them from the abrasions, and sawed my way down along the wall.  Why didn't I do this in the first place?  I could have saved the skin on those knuckles. 

The cutting finished, I went to the bedroom and moved the mattress off the bed setting it against the couch in the living room.  The bed frame and dresser I moved against the far wall.  Now I had room for that slab of wall and eventually for the descending stairway!  From the kitchen side I pushed the cut-away section of wall away from the stairwell.  When it started creaking, I jumped back onto the third step and watched the curve of the stairway pull apart with the weight of the four by eight foot section of clay-plastered slats that held it together.  With a thunderous crash it fell to the floor of the bedroom sending ever more clouds of clay dust into air as the huge slab cracked into several splintered sections of debris.  I now had a gaping hole in the wall and the area was ready for a redirection of the stairway.  I had to clean that mass of clay wall off the bedroom floor next.  I took the garbage outside and cleared the corner to make room for the three descending steps. 

Then, using the crowbar I was able to loosen the bottom section of the stairway from its position but getting it to the bedroom through that thirty-two inch opening was a whole other matter.  Heaving it onto its side, I managed to push, pull and manoeuvre it through.  After more huffing and puffing, I had the stairs functional minus those three angling steps.  Great!

Now I was at the second stage.  If my luck would just hold out, if my lungs continue functioning, if my stamina endures, I just might manage to carry this off.  Some of my muscles were complaining and my lungs were pleading for clean air but I wasn’t taking time out to listen.  I couldn’t afford to.  Time was of the essence here and this was a “do now or die forever” project!

Now to close the doorway between the bedroom and living room.  I ripped all the mouldings off the living-to-bedroom doorway and stripped all the boards off leaving a raw hole into which I hoped to fit the cut out section of the wall from under the stairs.  I moved the big recliner against the opening to act as a sort of anchor to prevent it from falling through in case it leaned.  Panting from the exertion and rushing, I wedged and wiggled the slab to its new position, sealing the doorway between those two rooms.  Fitting it in was a challenge but finally I had it exactly where I wanted it.  To secure it, I gouged out some clay in the wall and in the slab so I could nail slats to both pieces that would hold the huge slab in position.  One more nail, strategically placed and this phase of my project would be done 

I was busily doing this when I heard a car pull into the driveway and my heart lurched in dismay.  "Please God, no company today," I prayed fervently as I ran to the door to check.

But God had given me enough help today with the cuts and with the walls.  His patience must have run out and He was allowing company to come in spite of my desperate prayers.  Covered with dust and sweat, my hair so matted it would have made a farm dog blush, I watched in consternation as my father-in-law and two smartly dressed strangers emerged from a shining white Pontiac.  From his animated gestures I could tell that my father-in-law was giving his listeners a glowing report of the farm and all the other assets as he proudly escorted them to the house.  

CONTINUED NEXT WEEK