Page 32 of The Gift of Seeds
After a few minutes, his stomach growled. He wrinkled his nose, smelling the faint fish odor from the trout he’d fried for supper the night before. The cast iron pan sat unwashed on the stove, next to a teacup and saucer and one fork, for he’d stood at the stove and eaten directly from the pan like a savage.
Even his great-grandmother wouldn’t have approved. As kind as she was, she’d been a stickler for proper manners and clean bodies and neat surroundings. So, she’d have given pointed glances to the clothing draped over the back of a wooden chair, the outerwear tossed on the round table, and the stockings and shoes tumbled on the floor.
For the sake of her beloved memory, Dale made himself get out of bed, sliding his feet into his worn-down slippers and pulling the top blanket around his shoulders. He hastened over to stir up the banked embers and add wood shavings and some newspaper. A flame kindled. He waited until the fire grew and added wood.
Because the handle chilled his fingers, he practically chucked the frying pan into the sink, wincing at the clanking sound, and then tossed in the spatula. Something else Great-Grandma Ada would disapprove of.
Not at all in the mood to cook, he pulled a cold piece of bread from the larder and spread on his favorite saskatoon jam while waiting for the hot water to boil. He poured some for tea, and more into the wash basin in the sink, pumping in water that was a bit slushy, to combine into a soothing temperature for his ablutions.
Once finished with practicalities, still wrapped in the blanket, Dale stood at the corner of the room that had back and side windows. He liked to stand here in the morning, admiring his garden and planning his day, while watching birds and squirrels and other small creatures going about their lives.
Today, there wasn’t anything he could do in his garden. A foot of snow must have fallen last night, a pale blanket smoothing over the slight bumps of his buried plants. The boughs of the trees—his evergreens and his bare-branched fruit trees—were draped with white.
One hand clutched the blanket closed. With the other he ate his bread and drank the tea, thinking about his day—Christmas Eve day—one like any other, except for the church service tonight.
The ghost of Great-Grandma Ada reminded him of the needed straightening up. Mentally, Dale tipped a hat to her and went to wash and dry the dishes and straighten up the room. He hung the frying pan on a hook, and returned the cup, saucer, fork, and spatula to the hutch holding some books, mismatched china, and drawers of silverware and utensils.
After making the bed, he dressed in the comfortable winter clothes he wore in the house and hung his outerwear on pegs near the back door. Once the house was a little warmer, he carried the more-presentable-going-to-town clothes upstairs to store in his wardrobe. He ignored the pile of books on the steps and the basket of clean laundry that needed to be put away.
As he hung up his vest, he heard the crinkle of paper in the pocket and remembered Annabelle’s letter. Feeling ambivalent, nonetheless he returned to the kitchen to read. Today, he still felt raw, in a good way, and wasn’t sure he wanted his equilibrium further disturbed.
Dale settled into his comfortable leather chair and held the envelope in his hand. Usually, he would skim the contents, and then dismiss any cut or sour remark from his mind. But Annabelle’s missives were the best of the bunch.
Still, it was odd she’d written him now when her Christmas parcel, which was sure to include a card and drawings from her children, had already arrived two weeks ago.
Letting out a sharp breath, he opened the letter and began to read.
Dear Dale,
To my shame, this is a long overdue letter. To be truthful, you owe this correspondence to my beloved husband. Over the years, Ambrose’s gentle but firm, guidance has slowly altered my perception of my (our) upbringing and gradually shaped me into a better, kinder woman. This has not happened without mule-stubbornness, many sharp words, undue recriminations, and some bouts of tears, all on my part, in case you were imagining my dearest husband indulging in such behaviors!
Frankly, my dear brother, I was despicable to you. Not, perhaps, cruel like Clarise, and certainly not by hitting or whipping you like Mother. More so indifferent. Uncaring. Focused on my own concerns. Struggling to navigate the briar patch of our family life. “Survive” is the word Ambrose uses. “Snake pit” is another.
But I could have tried to protect you. Certainly, I should have consoled you after a beating. I could have snuck you food the many times you were sent to bed without supper. Once I married, I could have invited you over for long visits.
You’ve had good reasons to forsake our family, Dale. I’ve stayed connected on a limited basis, and more and more through correspondence, because I knew no one would ever hurt our children with Ambrose present. Indeed, everyone acts charming in front of him, although I see through them. To be sure, even as a young mother, I wouldn’t have let anyone physically harm my little ones.
I did, however, have much to learn about being a loving mother and supportive helpmate. Every day, I thank the Almighty for my patient husband. As a silly, young woman, I certainly wasn’t capable of selecting a good man, instead focusing on wealth, status, and handsomeness. Only through God’s grace did I end up with my Ambrose.
His mother has also been my wise counsel, through my observation of her loving relationships with her children and grandchildren, as well as her good advice, her steadfast support, and her placid demeanor.
All this information is to assure you I have, indeed, changed.
I watch my children’s interactions and feel pride. They are not without the normal sibling squabbles, so my mother-in-law assures me. But they can play together, be kind to each other, and the elder ones are, mostly, patient with their younger brothers and sisters.
So, my dear brother, I’m asking for your forgiveness. I understand that forgiveness can happen in little increments and doesn’t have to be a grand, sweeping statement. So maybe someday….
I hope you’ve been on your own journey of healing, Dale, and if not, that you’ll begin.
With much love,
Annabelle
Dale’s chest tightened again, pulling in his shoulders. Annabelle’s letter stirred up too many feelings—not all of thembad—for him to process. What he did know and would write her was that she too had suffered in the “snake pit” of home.
For today, he chose not to dwell on the past. To escape the memories, he rose and went to the hutch, lifting outLes Liliacees, one of his plant books, to study the beautiful illustrations.
Then he opened the book, turned the pages, and deliberately dreamt of the future—of spring and summer in his lovely garden.
