southeast gale started on February 6. It shook the cabin and beat the windows with rain and sand. We stuffed rags in the wall cracks, but we still had sand blow in during the dry spells and rain blow in during the wet spells. We used the chamber pot instead of the privy, and I got sick of the smell.
Daddy kept the fish-oil lamp lit and read to us from the
Fisherman and Farmer
newspaper. Even though it was two weeks old, it was better than listening to nothing but the clattering of thewalls and roof. Grandpa pulled out his greasy deck of cards, and we played poker, using raw beans to bet with. Grandpa ended up with the most beans.
By the third day of the gale, I was weary from the constant clattering and shaking. We'd run out of meat, and the chamber pot was very much in need of emptying. During a dry spell, Daddy said he'd take care of the chamber pot and I'd go to the smokehouse for a goose. Over supper, we'd say a prayer that the gale would end.
I stuffed a sack under my shirt and pushed open the cabin door. If the door hadn't been built on the west side, I don't think I could have opened it. As soon as I stepped around the corner, the wind slapped me in the back and nearly toppled me over. The low-growing cedars looked like they were wrestling each other, and even the thick gray clouds had been swirled into spirals by the wind.
I plodded to the smokehouse, crouching low to keep my footing. Inside, the walls shook and creaked, and the smell of smoked meat and fish made my mouth water. I lifted a large goose off its hook and stuffed it into the sack.
Outside again, I faced the wind head on. Sand stung my cheeks and stuck in my eyes. It was hard to breathe. I held one hand over my face and, pressing my shoulders against the force of the wind, trudged to the cabin.
I slammed the door against the storm and tried to blink thesand out of my eyes. There was sand in my mouth, and it crunched between my teeth.
“I hope this goose lasts until the gale ends,” I said.
“I'd like the gale to end
now,
so we can eat that goose in peace and quiet,” said Grandpa.
Daddy agreed.
By the fourth day the wind died some, and by the fifth day it was time for us to start digging out. Sand was piled up against the smokehouse, cabin, and privy. Our rain barrel was overflowing with fresh water but half buried in sand. We also had company. A herd of cows, confused by the storm, had decided that our yard was their new grazing area.
“I'll be planting my garden soon,” said Grandpa. “I don't want those cows knocking down my fence and trampling my collards.”
He told me to take a stick and shoo them away. I picked up Daddy's shotgun and aimed at one of the cows.
“I said
shoo
them, not shoot them,” Grandpa said.
“I will,” I said. I made a gunshot noise with my mouth, and took aim at another cow.
Grandpa leaned on his shovel and looked at me crossly. “You get yourself a stick and chase them away before I take a stick to
you
.”
I put down the shotgun. “Can't we shoot
one
?” I asked. “A scrawny one that'll die before spring anyway?”
Grandpa's cheek twitched. “You go shooting other people's cattle, you'll see where it gets you,” he said.
I picked up a stick and went after the cows. They belonged to a rich white man who lived on the mainland. Pea Island was free grazing land, and he'd dropped them off here to graze on salt grass and anything else they could find. He'd pick them up next summer after they'd fattened up. The problem was, some of them wouldn't make it through the winter, with its storms and cold weather. I thought picking off one of the weak ones before it died and having us a nice steak would be a fine idea. Grandpa and Daddy didn't agree.
When we were done digging out at our house, Daddy said we should take our shovels over to the station to help. We found the crew digging out the stables, cookhouse, storage house, and station house. Mr. Wise called “Hello” to us from the roof of the
Daddy kept the fish-oil lamp lit and read to us from the
Fisherman and Farmer
newspaper. Even though it was two weeks old, it was better than listening to nothing but the clattering of thewalls and roof. Grandpa pulled out his greasy deck of cards, and we played poker, using raw beans to bet with. Grandpa ended up with the most beans.
By the third day of the gale, I was weary from the constant clattering and shaking. We'd run out of meat, and the chamber pot was very much in need of emptying. During a dry spell, Daddy said he'd take care of the chamber pot and I'd go to the smokehouse for a goose. Over supper, we'd say a prayer that the gale would end.
I stuffed a sack under my shirt and pushed open the cabin door. If the door hadn't been built on the west side, I don't think I could have opened it. As soon as I stepped around the corner, the wind slapped me in the back and nearly toppled me over. The low-growing cedars looked like they were wrestling each other, and even the thick gray clouds had been swirled into spirals by the wind.
I plodded to the smokehouse, crouching low to keep my footing. Inside, the walls shook and creaked, and the smell of smoked meat and fish made my mouth water. I lifted a large goose off its hook and stuffed it into the sack.
Outside again, I faced the wind head on. Sand stung my cheeks and stuck in my eyes. It was hard to breathe. I held one hand over my face and, pressing my shoulders against the force of the wind, trudged to the cabin.
I slammed the door against the storm and tried to blink thesand out of my eyes. There was sand in my mouth, and it crunched between my teeth.
“I hope this goose lasts until the gale ends,” I said.
“I'd like the gale to end
now,
so we can eat that goose in peace and quiet,” said Grandpa.
Daddy agreed.
By the fourth day the wind died some, and by the fifth day it was time for us to start digging out. Sand was piled up against the smokehouse, cabin, and privy. Our rain barrel was overflowing with fresh water but half buried in sand. We also had company. A herd of cows, confused by the storm, had decided that our yard was their new grazing area.
“I'll be planting my garden soon,” said Grandpa. “I don't want those cows knocking down my fence and trampling my collards.”
He told me to take a stick and shoo them away. I picked up Daddy's shotgun and aimed at one of the cows.
“I said
shoo
them, not shoot them,” Grandpa said.
“I will,” I said. I made a gunshot noise with my mouth, and took aim at another cow.
Grandpa leaned on his shovel and looked at me crossly. “You get yourself a stick and chase them away before I take a stick to
you
.”
I put down the shotgun. “Can't we shoot
one
?” I asked. “A scrawny one that'll die before spring anyway?”
Grandpa's cheek twitched. “You go shooting other people's cattle, you'll see where it gets you,” he said.
I picked up a stick and went after the cows. They belonged to a rich white man who lived on the mainland. Pea Island was free grazing land, and he'd dropped them off here to graze on salt grass and anything else they could find. He'd pick them up next summer after they'd fattened up. The problem was, some of them wouldn't make it through the winter, with its storms and cold weather. I thought picking off one of the weak ones before it died and having us a nice steak would be a fine idea. Grandpa and Daddy didn't agree.
When we were done digging out at our house, Daddy said we should take our shovels over to the station to help. We found the crew digging out the stables, cookhouse, storage house, and station house. Mr. Wise called “Hello” to us from the roof of the
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