Who Is Frances Rain? by Margaret Buffie Page A

through anything bigger. Paul Bunyan, I’m not.
    Bit by bit I pulled up clumps of dirt and roots, shaking them through an old screen window I’d brought with me. I wasn’t expecting much at this point, so I was surprised when my trowel hit something that sounded kind of hollow. I poked through the dirt again and — thunk — the same hollow sound echoed back.
    A whole layer of matted roots and soil, thick with the smell of rotting plants, lifted easily in one piece. I rolled it back. Underneath was the roof. The decaying bits of black and green roll roofing had once been attached to the boards below.
    An hour later, I’d pulled out the crumbling boards and log stringers. Under the roof, I found pieces of broken glass and a rotting wooden casement. So, there
had
been a window at this spot. After I’d dropped the razor-sharp pieces into one of the smaller boxes I’d brought, I sat back on my heels and looked at my first real find. A small tabletop. Not much, you say. But it was covered with tiny yellow tulips and blue polka dots. Now, I ask you, what tough prospector covers his table with oilcloth painted in a tulip design? It had been nailed on with a neat row of copper nails all around the edge.
    I carefully lifted it to one side. I was tempted to rip through everything, but the pamphlet warned against that, so I cautiously moved away more dirt and found a carved wooden table leg for my trouble. Dull blue paint chips peeled back under my thumbnail. I tried to imagine what it must have been like, sitting at the little blue table with its cheerful oilcloth covering, looking out over the lake and watching the seasons go by.
    A large black beetle scuttled out from under another table leg wedged into the soil. Waving his long antennae anxiously in the air, he tried to pick up any murderous vibrations before disappearing under a clump of peat. I watched his back legs toss up some dirt and at the same time noticed a glint of something under him. I flicked him away and he disappeared into the moss. From the soft earth, I pulled out a large cream-coloured mug. It left a perfect imprint of itself in the dirt. I brushed off the lettering on the front: “Sparton’s Root Beer, The Cream of the Crop, Est. 1889.”
    I crowed out loud. It wasn’t even chipped. The inside was filled with muddy-looking gunk. I tipped it over, tapping the bottom gently with the palm of my hand. A small leather parcel fell to the ground along with some crumpled oilcloth and black dirt. I delicately opened the rolled piece of leather. It was stiff under my fingers, but still fairly flexible. The oilcloth must have protected it for all the years it lay underground.
    When I was through, I held bits of oilcloth, a blackened piece of animal skin, and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles whose small round lenses were dirty but unbroken. They looked smaller than those that a man would wear. They looked like kid’s glasses. I put them on and looked around. The murky glass gave the scene a dull, gloomy look, almost as if it were dusk instead of a sunshiny noon.
    Grinning idiotically, I tucked them into the pocket of my shirt. Before I could stand up, though, everything around me dipped and swayed. For a second, I though I was going to faint. I put my head between my knees. The dizziness drained away almost as quickly as it had begun.
    â€œMust be hungry,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Well, kiddo, you deserve a break today, so get up and get away. For some lunch. More digging later.”
    I ate my picnic with my back against the trunk of a big jack pine overlooking the bay. The lake was sparkling in the noon sunshine and the warm breeze cooled my sweaty shirt.
    â€œNext time, I’ll bring my bathing suit,” I said to myself, happily working my way through a tuna and pickle sandwich, two apple tarts and half a thermos of raspberry Kool-Aid.
    When I leaned over to screw the lid onto the thermos, I felt the