I hate to say it, but maybe you were right to split up my parents. We’ve been getting things done around here.
For the first time ever, several weekends ago, we all cooperated to get the wood in for the winter. Usually Dad did it by himself.
I wonder if there’s a woodstove where he lives now. Probably not. Do you think he misses stacking wood? Do you think he misses us kids, or thinks of us more than once a week?
Luckily, there is a door in this house that opens right into the basement. Mom bought three cords of wood, and we borrowed a chainsaw from Harold and Sharla. Keanan loved that. I kept expecting him to slash his own jugular, but he managed to cut all the biggest rounds to a choppable size. Then he and Charlie bucked them up while me, Bonnie, and Mom stacked them into a sled and dragged it to the basement.
When we started out, I felt annoyed. Frankly I don’t like being around my family, if I can help it. Plus, my skin crawls when I have to work. Work is so repetitive and boring. Augh. It makes me sweaty. It just goes on and on endlessly. There’s nothing for my brain to think or do. But this time, as the pile outside dwindled and the pile inside grew, it actually started to get fun.
“Let’s sing Father Abraham,” Bonnie suggested. Singing is the one thing that makes my sister get spunky.
I hollered, “Father Abraham had many sons, and many sons had Father Abraham, and I am one of them, and so are you, so won’t you sing along, right arm, Father Abraham had many sons -”
Everyone started swinging their right arm and singing, even the boys with their axes. They tried to chop wood with their left arms. It looked so funny! I was afraid someone was going to get their head cut off.
By the end, when we went in for hot chocolate, we were all giggling. I don’t think we’ve ever done any work together before. The only thing we’ve ever done before is tried to play a board game, and then gotten all mad and fussy at each other.
So that is how it has gone all winter – we’ve been taking turns loading the wood into the basement and tending to the fire. None of us grumbles or complains when it’s our turn – well, except Mom, and then one of the boys does it for her. Otherwise, it’s like that first happy afternoon soaked into each piece of chopped wood, so that when we burn it our whole house is filled with joy and warmth.
We’ve also developed a system for taking care of meals and chores. Mom says it’s better when we clean together, so she turns on loud music on Saturday mornings and we go crazy dusting, wiping, vacuuming, until it’s all done. Each of us has a night to cook dinner, which is sometimes good and sometimes bad. I don’t like to eat what Charlie cooks. It feels strange having his food in front of me, even though he’s probably the one who makes the tastiest meals. When I eat it, I feel like I’m swallowing him.
But eating his meals is nothing compared to Keanan’s. Ugh! Keanan likes to experiment, which means every meal is some sticky mass of noodles boiled in ketchup and tossed with a combination of peanut butter, broccoli flowerettes, and canned fruit.
“I’m broadening your horizons,” he says.
Usually Bonnie gags when she’s eating his food, but Mom says each of us needs to take at least one bite before going to cook something else. Secretly, I like that she says that. It has a nice fairness to it. Also, it means they have to eat what I cook (usually breakfast-at-supper, which includes sausages, eggs, and toast).
This happiness is a strange feeling. Sometimes it’s humungous and everywhere, we’re bursting with it, no one’s tight or afraid. It happens in the evenings when we’re all sitting around the table, smiling, relaxed. Or when we’re doing Saturday chores together. Then I notice Dad’s absence and think, maybe it’s because he’s gone that we’re happy. What a terrible thing to say.
I’m not sure it’s true, though.
I have to tell you something, a secret. I don’t trust this happiness. In the mornings, when I get up early and walk around this new house that has become less new, I see Mom stumbling into the bathroom to get ready for work, and it jumps into my throat. Fear. Underneath the bubble of gladness, I’m scared. Her face doesn’t hold the joy for very long. Then she looks tight and tired, sometimes worried. And I’ve seen her crying on the couch at night. Bonnie always goes up to her, sits down, and holds her hand. I can’t figure out what to do. I don’t know how to comfort people – it’s not my gig. I am all about entertaining people, not comforting them.