into darkness. When we got to the far corner Inge put her hand on my arm and stared at me, her gaze intense. Then she shook her head and put her hands in her coat pockets and said good night. I made my way along the road that ran above the river. A shadow flickered along with me, keeping pace through yards and streets and pausing at the corner where I stood to let a drayman’s wagon pass. Up ahead, the street was a long dim chain of thin-pooled light.
5
M y mother always made sure we followed the old ways. She walked into the woods early in November to find a Yule log. On Christmas Eve she put this in the fireplace and kept it burning all night. In the morning, she sprinkled the ashes around the house to protect us from those who would do us harm. She decorated the tree by herself and kept it hidden in the front room until late in the afternoon on Christmas Day, when she rang a special bell to summon us. We filed into the room and saw the tree for the first time, as if she alone could summon magic. She told us that when she was a girl she could hear the silver church bells from the great town of Veneta, which had been lost when a flood came over the Baltic and everything had been submerged. All that was left were the smooth sands without a stone bigger than your fist, and the color of seawater as it washed over sand, and the weeds and the biscuit-colored sails of the boats, or the red sails of the little clippers that plied the harbor, and the beaches with their pebbles and crushed shells, and a stone pier decorated with flags and lanterns that stretched far out to deeper water. On Christmas Eve, she stood on the edge of the white cliffs in the complete darkness of early night, waiting for the golden seagull, which was said to sparkle even more brilliantly than the stars in heaven.
Now Hattie and I stood shivering in the front room and watched Martha hang nuts and apples on a spindly tree with thread from the mending box. I thought we should build up the fire in the stove but Martha said no. She always took my father’s side. I imagine she felt that the weight of trying to be a mother to Hattie and me was a considerable weight indeed.
I picked up a walnut tied in a bow with a twist of red yarn. “Here,” I said. But she put one finger up and glared at me and said, “Put that back.”
Morning light came up around us and ice lay in long glassy black stripes on the road where the wagons had passed. As I watched, a car glided slowly past. I did not know who would bring an automobile out in this weather. Cars did not have heaters and you had to drive with a robe over your knees for comfort. Or this is what I observed. I had never yet ridden in a car.
Hattie turned her back to the tree and wished out loud for mittens. Martha told her she had better be careful when she went out, because the ash man dressed in his animal skins and plaited straw might find her and demand whatever she had. If she did not give it to him, he would steal her away to his house of twigs and leaves and she would never be seen again. But Hattie made a face and told her to shut up because this was Wisconsin and there were no ash men here.
We celebrated that night without a goose. My father had gotten an old hen from Mrs. Muehls. I singed its pinfeathers and washed it and stuffed it with bread and a little sausage and onions and a few mushrooms I had picked in the woods and let dry on a twine I strung up in the mudroom. The bird was surprisingly passable to eat. There were many things Martha and my father might say about me, but they could not contest that I could cook.
After supper, my father handed each of us a brown packet containing a fresh pair of black stockings, a paper with a new needle pushed through it, and a new spool of black thread. He seemed very pleased with himself, even if my sisters and I were disappointed with his choice.
He reached for his cup and looked into it and then let the legs of his chair drop back to the floor. He
5
M y mother always made sure we followed the old ways. She walked into the woods early in November to find a Yule log. On Christmas Eve she put this in the fireplace and kept it burning all night. In the morning, she sprinkled the ashes around the house to protect us from those who would do us harm. She decorated the tree by herself and kept it hidden in the front room until late in the afternoon on Christmas Day, when she rang a special bell to summon us. We filed into the room and saw the tree for the first time, as if she alone could summon magic. She told us that when she was a girl she could hear the silver church bells from the great town of Veneta, which had been lost when a flood came over the Baltic and everything had been submerged. All that was left were the smooth sands without a stone bigger than your fist, and the color of seawater as it washed over sand, and the weeds and the biscuit-colored sails of the boats, or the red sails of the little clippers that plied the harbor, and the beaches with their pebbles and crushed shells, and a stone pier decorated with flags and lanterns that stretched far out to deeper water. On Christmas Eve, she stood on the edge of the white cliffs in the complete darkness of early night, waiting for the golden seagull, which was said to sparkle even more brilliantly than the stars in heaven.
Now Hattie and I stood shivering in the front room and watched Martha hang nuts and apples on a spindly tree with thread from the mending box. I thought we should build up the fire in the stove but Martha said no. She always took my father’s side. I imagine she felt that the weight of trying to be a mother to Hattie and me was a considerable weight indeed.
I picked up a walnut tied in a bow with a twist of red yarn. “Here,” I said. But she put one finger up and glared at me and said, “Put that back.”
Morning light came up around us and ice lay in long glassy black stripes on the road where the wagons had passed. As I watched, a car glided slowly past. I did not know who would bring an automobile out in this weather. Cars did not have heaters and you had to drive with a robe over your knees for comfort. Or this is what I observed. I had never yet ridden in a car.
Hattie turned her back to the tree and wished out loud for mittens. Martha told her she had better be careful when she went out, because the ash man dressed in his animal skins and plaited straw might find her and demand whatever she had. If she did not give it to him, he would steal her away to his house of twigs and leaves and she would never be seen again. But Hattie made a face and told her to shut up because this was Wisconsin and there were no ash men here.
We celebrated that night without a goose. My father had gotten an old hen from Mrs. Muehls. I singed its pinfeathers and washed it and stuffed it with bread and a little sausage and onions and a few mushrooms I had picked in the woods and let dry on a twine I strung up in the mudroom. The bird was surprisingly passable to eat. There were many things Martha and my father might say about me, but they could not contest that I could cook.
After supper, my father handed each of us a brown packet containing a fresh pair of black stockings, a paper with a new needle pushed through it, and a new spool of black thread. He seemed very pleased with himself, even if my sisters and I were disappointed with his choice.
He reached for his cup and looked into it and then let the legs of his chair drop back to the floor. He
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