Spring at the House on the Hill

Bobbie, Patsy and I were among the first off the school bus on this cool spring afternoon. The sun was already sinking in the west, taking with it much of the day's warmth. Yet, Bobbie, my sister just two years younger, Patsy, our niece, and I had enough time to get in an hour or so of volleyball. The sagging clothes line in the side yard would do for a net. The volley ball was anything from a child's rubber ball to a half deflated basketball. But, we played with zeal using the skills we learned in PE classes at school.

A wire clothes line had been wrapped around the stately trunk of an old cotton wood in the corner of the yard. It had been there so long the cotton wood had embraced it partially closing its self around it. The wire loped across the yard to a t-pole that seemed to bow to the steadfast cottonwood. The clothes line was propped up at intervals by poles leaning in unison. Grass grew around the great cottonwood, tall, dark, green, cold and unfriendly. The cool March wind assisted the tall green grass in cheering us on. Only when the sun slipped below the western horizon did the chill drive us inside to the warmth of the wood stove in Mama's kitchen.

A pot of beans steamed on the back of the stove and the wonderful smell of cornbread filled the house. A large skillet of potatoes hissed as Mamma gently turned them and placed the lid back on the skillet.

Without turning she said, "You girls get the water and wood in before it gets dark. Now go on. Supper is about ready."

Ignoring Mama's request, Bobbie and I made a beeline for the back of the stove and the one cane bottom chair.

"Watch, you don't fall into the stove." Mama said with a little irritation in her voice. Bobbie beat me to the chair and I took a seat on the wood box.

Daddy followed us into the kitchen with the cool March wind preceding him. "Didn't ye Mammie tell you girls to bring in the wood?" he said.

I grabbed an empty bucket sitting on the low water table near the door and headed for the pump in the corner of the yard out by the barn lot. I knew Bobbie was watching me from the window and wouldn't be out until she saw me making my way back with the sloshing bucket of water. After many trips into the cold spring evening, the chores are finished and supper is ready. Bobbie and I take our place on the bench behind the table. Rachel and Grace sit in chairs at either end. Daddy is already in his regular place eating cornbread and milk from a small aluminum pan. Supper was hurriedly eaten while a pan of dish water heated on the woodstove. The fire was getting low and the kitchen cooling fast. Mama put away the few leftovers and lifted the pan of hot water onto a wooden board placed on the table to protect the oil cloth. She left the dish washing to Bobbie and me.

It was my turn to wash and Bobbie's turn to dry the dishes. The process was slow and lonely. We could hear the radio in the front room and the task of washing dishes became almost unbearable and terribly unfair. We could not imagine Rachel and Grace ever having washed a dish. The fussing and complaining added a little energy to the task and at last it is done. A ten minute job has taken at least thirty minutes.

The evening news has gone off and the question, "Who was that masked man?" signals the end of the Lone Ranger and radio entertainment for the night.

With the dishes finished, I opened the back door, and returned for the pan of dish water. There was no running water in the house on the hill. We disposed of dirty water by throwing it off the back porch. By now the dish water was cold and black from soot scrubbed off the bottoms of pans. Solidified grease circled the water line inside the dish pan. The front of my dress was wet, my feet were cold and Bobbie had suddenly turned on me. Just before I got to the door with the pan of water, she shut the door.

"Open the door." I screamed.

"Open it yourself." She yelled.

A shouting match developed quickly. Mama came in to settle it and emptied the water for me. With my job finished, I moved on to the warmth of the front room leaving Bobbie alone in the cold kitchen to finish drying the dishes. I could hear Bobbie crying and slamming dishes. Already I was sorry but the warmth of the room was heavenly and homework must be done.

By the time the dishes were finished, Daddy had already gone to bed. Low conversation, reading, sewing, and homework were taking place just a few feet from his bed. We often wondered just how much Daddy actually slept. A game or two of Chinese checkers followed the homework. When Daddy became restless and began to clear his throat, we knew it was bedtime. Rachel and Grace slept in the unheated bedroom. Bobbie and I slept in a bed in the opposite corner of the front room.

When the heating stove in the front room came down, that meant spring had arrived. Being a little cold natured, I wore a sweater or jacket until the days became warmer. It was unclear whose idea it was to take down the stove. I suspect it was Daddy's since he kept a close watch on the coal pile. There seemed to be a direct correlation between the depletion of the pile of black lumpy fuel and the onset of warm weather. If there was a little discrepancy, it was ignored by Daddy. He spent the spring days outside, planning and preparing soil and machines for a new crop. With spring came hope, a season of forgiveness, a chance to start over, an opportunity to correct mistakes, a new beginning.