La Glace, Alberta, Sept 25, Monday morning
I had read to the bottom of a letter on Friday after school. My feet
were in the oven. It had been a warm letter.
"If that one wasn't long enough for you," Mom said dryly, "there's
another one from Abbotsford under your pillow."
Both of them had news. The first one threw it out at me right under the
salutation:
- "Image-in-mind,
- I will probably be coming up this weekend."
On Saturday night our room was strangely tidy. The kitchen was in a steamy
panic. Mom and Rudy and the two cats had come in earlier to curl up on the
bed and absorb peace. It was almost ten. I sat in the big chair brushing
my hair. The lamp was behind me. Almost at the same time that Paul announced
the fact with a shout from the living room I saw a light coming onto the
yard. The lighted patch between the two headlamps was red. I bounded up,
yanked a comb through my hair, and catapulted into the kitchen just in time
to hear Daddy exclaim and Mom remind him to take it easy. ("Calm down
Leave everything as it is" - she didn't want all the stuff lying around
to be shoved behind doors as it usually is.)
I stepped out of the door, closed it behind me, walked slowly around
the corner in the dark to meet him. He was at first only a shape, and then
became a voice, became Frank, altho' still not quite. He did not become
completely Frank until last night.
I felt smaller and more slender than usual. I was, perhaps, a mess, but
he is only Frank and actually Frank. My blue jeans were rumpled and rolled
up. Judy's shirt was pretty dirty. My white socks and sneakers were the
utmost in dustiness. But yesterday he said, "You looked so good last
night: I didn't even want to touch you."
"Good, Frank? - blue jeans and a dirty ol' shirt and -"
"Maybe, but there was a bit of moonlight."
We only stood and looked at each other. I'd thought he might try to "pleat
me up like an accordian" but he just stood and looked. Judy craned
her neck - we could see her from outside, but she couldn't see anything.
"You'll get heck for staying outside so long," he said.
"Just cold. Are you going to come in?"
He did, just for a moment. My feelings about him after he'd left were
muddled up. I felt as though he were a queer stranger who seemed to know
me quite well. When I dreamed that night I dreamed I deserted him for Paul
Sylvestre. He went to the café [the La Glace Cafe used to rent two
rooms upstairs] where he had an uneasy night.
When asking for directions to us, he had asked Myrtle in the café,
"Where do Seimenses live?"
"M-m-m, I don't know. Kroeker place, I guess."
"Oh. Where do Epps live?"
"You mean Ellie Epp?"
"Well, yeah ..."
Myrtle reported this morning that as soon as he'd come through the door
she'd known he was "Ellie's boyfriend." She explained vaguely,
"... oh, he just seemed sort of sophisticated. I just thought so."
Friday night after choir practice and until noon Saturday was pretty
bad, not because of butterflies but because of too much hamburger for supper
and a 'flu bug. My mind felt stretched out into thin strings and then tangled
into a skein of whirling colors. I stumbled to the can, threw up cerimoniously
in front of the door, and then huddled in the cold. Uncle Willie on the
floor was disturbed often by a bare-legged figure padding to the sink and
back to bed. He told Mom all about it in the morning.
About 10 o'clock I struggled out to go back to the can. The sun was hot
and bright and it staggered through the sky. I sat shivering above the hole
and it took hours and hours to find the courage and determination to stagger
out again. I thought I was going blind. There were no details, no shadows,
only flashing, swaying, intense color. I slept until noon, put on some lipstick
and some eyeshadow, read Frank's last letters and was "all better."
On Sunday I saw him through the window - tight blue jeans, his lovely
new blue ribbed seater, curly hair and blue eyes - he looked good!!
When he came back from stowing his stuff in the shack he had changed, disappointingly,
into a suit jacket. But after all the church deal, when he came to lunch,
he was back in jeans and the sweater and big camping boots. (Nice. His hands
under the blue cuffs were brown and wide and somehow sensual. While we ate
lunch I stared at them, and it changed my mood from an even non-caring to
an intensity of some kind. We sat in the living room. The D's yakked with
Mom and Dad in the kitchen. There was no one else in the living room with
us. We sat, not close together and yet not apart, and did not think of much
to talk about. I felt drowsy but still awake to the feeling between us.
When I leaned my head against the pale blue cushion on the back of the couch
he looked at me (I knew, tho' I didn't look up at him) and when he touched
my hair or cupped his warm hand sideways and briefly, over my chin, the
feeling rose. Any sound in the next room made him jump; I was amused.
(Behind me Gerald and Ronny are giggling and plastering my lipstick on
each other. The contrast is painful.)
We got the cows, Paul, Rudy and Frank and I. Until almost to the cows
we walked apart; I felt small beside him. When brothers dear were ahead
he grabbed my hand. It was cold. His was warm and he warmed my fingertips
in his pocket.
(Those boys are so revolting.)
He carried his gun. We had stopped in at the shack to get and load it.
He emptied it carefully before he handed it to me for chasing the cow. I
carried it over my shoulder on a ridge and imagined that I was a Macabee
(Israeli) guerrilla sentry.
Rudy stuck like an adoring leech. I couldn't shake him until, the cows
all in, we went through the gate. Frank stopped, leaned his gun against
the post. Rudy stopped also. I stared at him pointedly. He moved reluctantly
after Paul.
"Wanna see the Indian grave?" I asked Frank.
"I already have, but I'll see it again with you."
We walked up the hill. I remember being mildly jubilant.
I have dreamed a long time of seeing this hill at night with a boy.
The moon was full, but there were thin rubbery clouds over it and trees
between. The sky was red around us. A wind blew in from the lake. We passed
the big rock. He knew the way as well as I did. The stone was leaning. I
tugged at it. He pulled it straight. I was on the flat rock nearby.
"I wonder if there's any dead Indian under here." I hopped
on the rock disrespectfully.
"Wouldn't be surprized." I stepped off. "They don't scare
me after they've been dead fifty years."
"No? And yet you got off that rock pretty quick."
He closed in. Let's face it; it was a romantic evening. Even the cows
hadn't spoiled it.
When he zipped his jacket open, I wondered. He leaned my face into it.
It was warm. He's really quite proud of it. "Day and a half's wages
but as soon as I got into it it was worth it."
Lights sashayed across the fields below.
"Who is it?" Frank was suddenly tense. "Want to get down
a minute?" We crouched on the hill together. He searched my face. "Do
you think they're looking for us?"
"No, Frank, I'm sure they're not."
They weren't. Oddly, we joined them in the car to listen (in the back
seat) to "Anne of Green Gables" on the radio. I sat in one corner,
he in the other. Tentatively, I slid my hand across the seat to him, only
one small cold finger. He hooked it, and sometimes he squeezed when there
was something we knew about.
When he ran back to lean his gun up against the shack I wanted to hide.
It was dark enough so that I was hidden by just sitting on a rock. I waited
for him. Our car came. He ran to open the gate. I waited. He was laughing
and talking to Mom and Dad. I felt left out. I walked toward them into the
light. They drove past leaving us behind.
My parent-type people get along well with him. Sitting in the living
room I tried to reassure my friend. He has been uneasy. I explained this
to Mom.
"Frank, you don't have to be uneasy about coming over or living
in the shack. Mom told me point blank that any friends of mine, boys or
girls, were perfectly welcome at our place. So long as I don't elope. They
won't kick you out. They aren't ogres."
He wasn't uneasy after that.
He left, after our late evening lunch with Blocks. He got up, shrugged
into his touque and jacket, bolted. At the door, on hearing Mr Block shout
after him, "It was nice to meet you again, Frank," he turned with
a smile in his voice and said, "I was in such a hurry I forgot to say
goodnight." I will ask him why.
All day today people have asked, "Did you find the cows? Going cowherding
again tonight? Was that your boyfriend, Ellie?" We did. I'm not. (It's
raining) He is.
I'm glad.
Sept 26, Tuesday
Yesterday was an odd day.
I came to school expecting ribbing. I got it all day. I liked it until
Gerald became a little too-too. All day I was remote from everyone around
me. I always seem to be but yesterday was even worse. At noon and study
period I scribbled journalations. As we got closer to the small house tilted
against a hill I felt anticipation rising. His truck was on the yard.
It was sleeting a little. I walked into the house expectantly with my
smooth blue looseleaf on my head. The kitchen was empty. He came later.
He and Dad sawed wood outside. He looked odd in his touque and his old
jacket. His legs, tho', were appealingly thin (boys have lovely flat thighs)
in tight jeans.
I began to feel different, angry and resentful for some reason I couldn't
recognize. I growled. When Frank came in for lunch I stuck my tongue out
at him under the table. Cream splattered all over me when I butterred. The
towel fell in the used oil and oil dribbled over my legs when I fished it
out.
I didn't talk to him and I didn't smile at him. When they were outside
I cleaned up angrily. I needed fresh air, I decided. While changing after
volunteering to help shovel grain I asked Mom why I was so cantankerous.
She said she had a pretty fair idea. I asked to be told. She said, "better
wait 'till you're in a better mood." I think I knew, too, faintly.
She said, as I walked out, "they'll be taking their guns along to see
if they can find a few chickens."
"Oh, great," I snapped.
"... when men get together with guns they never see anything else,"
Mom said. I detected amused understanding and sympathy. A "between
us women" feeling.
In the truck I carefully avoided touching Frank. To avoid his seeing
my face, I yanked the kerchief down over my forehead as far as I could.
He talked to Daddy. Paul was silent, as I was. I avoided him outside too,
answered him briefly, crawled out the other side of the truck, talked animatedly
to Paul, and did just everything I could, pointedly, to be distant.
They went off to shoot. I shovelled vehemently, alone. A soft, pretty,
grey mouse tumbled out of the oats near me, a dear little mouse with bright,
frightened eyes. He stopped to stare at me. I touched his smooth back with
one finger and crooned to him. He scrambled away into a pile of oats, desperate
to get away from me.
The men came back. Frank was not with them. I don't care, I thought.
I don't care if he's dead.
Then, contradicting myself, I mused, today he is even more a stranger,
a peculiar looking stranger with a European, sharp, face, whose hair is
tumbled and whose eyes are bold and blue. He seems to know me well. He laughs
down at me. He knows something is bothering me and he glances curiously
at my tight face. He acts almost as tho' he will touch me. But I do not
know him. I do not know who this strange man is. Why is he here? What does
he want with me?
This continued until long after supper. Mom and I laughingly referred
to it as my "block." In the truck Frank tentatively pulled my
kerchief back. Without looking at him I pulled it forward, further than
before.
"When you have your kerchief so far forward you remind me of a Turkish
woman with a veil," he said mildly. I sat sullenly and wanted (yet
not wanting to) to go to bed and leave him with Daddy, discussing guns and
crops. I stood at the wall. The butter got made. Rudy went to bed. Judy
read in our room. Paul dragged his books away. Dad went out, and then to
bed. Mom took a lamp and disappeared.
We were alone. His eyes began to thaw me slowly. They stirred me up gradually,
and warmth began to move back into my smile. He held my hands, both, across
the corner of the table with his square brown ones. Both of us sat with
our heads on our arms, not touching, when his voice tautened and he said,
"I didn't have any technique. It was all just natural. I didn't
do anything. I don't know how it ever happened." There was a breathless
feeling that always comes when we talk about love. He didn't say goodnight
until long after, and he did it tenderly. It was the same again.
Sept 28, Thursday
He and I "went out" last night. It was fun. I remember the
sharp wind and the darkness when I stepped outside with him. The bumps in
the road that were cushioned by his jacket, and the blue sweater, and his
shoulder. The wind driving brittle leaves down the street at Sexsmith. Walking
down board sidewalks. The pretty white haired old lady with her curls and
pink scalp and the smile that is identical to her great niece's. The warm,
bright kitchen with a rocking chair. The enclosing coldness of the wind
and the dry rustling grass as we clambered back into the truck. The row
of greenish lights that was Sexsmith. A deep curve in the road that dipped
and tickled the bottoms of our stomachs.
He says things that no one else could say. Clambering back into the truck
out of the cold, he said, "We're going to have to make like the partridges;
when it's cold they get together in little groups to keep warm." And
so we made like the partridges and it worked very well - the heater
hummed and soon it was hot. "What do the partridges do when they get
warm?" I asked. They spread out, of course. "They unzip,"
he said, and unzipped.
We sat in the truck outside our house with the lights on for a whole
twenty minutes after making our 11 o'clock curfew. The motor was on, and
we could feel its rhythmic pulse. We talked. He touched me and I thought,
this is so natural, his touching me. This is so sweet it makes him something
more than a stranger. I don't feel shy anymore about touching him either.
Like now, I can touch his hair, curl a little around my finger and tug it
down over his forehead (it is crisp and stubborn. Sometimes when the light
is right it looks lighter, almost frosted, at the ends) I can tell him how
much I like him without saying a word, by transmitting tenderness through
my fingers - as he does.
He said, "When the party is over I can pick up the pieces and burn
them."
"By then, you won't care any more."
"Maybe you're right." It's a song, 'When the party's over,
I'll be there to take you home' - if someone doesn't beat me to it ... And
if someone does beat me to it, I'll pick up the pieces and burn them and
say 'that's life,' I guess."
"Maybe there won't even be any pieces. Maybe it will just be a vaporization.
I think so, Frank. Probably quite painless."
"No - I think I'll burn pieces."
"You can roast weiners. Over the fire, you know. And marshmallows.
You'll invite your friends "
"Friends?" he interrupted.
"... and have a gay old time.
"No," he said. I watched his lips form the word. "There
won't be much gaiety."
"I don't know why I'm talking like this," he said suddenly.
I don't know either. But maybe he's been wondering about it.
He has perhaps been wondering about other things too. I have. About what
he said on Sunday. I asked him as I'd wanted to.
"I still haven't been able to figure out what you meant on Sunday
when you said ..."
"Said what?"
"... said something about that I wasn't supposed to miss you. Whyfore?"
"You just aren't supposed to miss me a lot once in a while. You're
supposed to miss me a little all the time. I miss you a little all the time.
And I think of you a little all the time."
I found myself thinking continually, I love you. I love you. I love you
but I can't and won't say it. I said, instead, "You're so nice,"
and my voice was very small and muffled in his collar.
Sometimes the "feeling" at a "time like this" is
almost like a pulse. It fluctuates. "Lightly, lightly," to "oh,
oh, o-o-oh." Smoothly, back and forth from mood to mood.
We will sit apart, or he will touch my face lightly, and then the other
mood sweeps in and his arm tightens. My fingers on his neck tighten too,
and the warm spot where his hand is spreads until my ribs crackle. (Nearly.)
And then again it is "lightly, lightly," as we look at each other
and smile. He laughed once, last night, in a new way. He sounded about eighteen
and happy. It sounded right and fitting because we both were - happy &
young, but touched with knowingness.
Sept 29
Mother & Judy went to a meeting; Paul & Rudy & Dad went to
bed; Frank was tired; I was too. But we sat around in the kitchen anyway.
There were millions of stars showing - it was a brittle night - clear
& sharp edged & crisp, like a piece of ice over a puddle on a fall
morning. It was cold by the windows where I kneeled on a chair to look out,
but just a soft coldness mixed with the soft warmness of his personality
& his tenderness & his touch.
There was a disturbing note. His voice, which I like because it is much
different from any of the other voices, became low and husky from wispering.
"Ellie, I want you. I don't want anybody else."
"... you're going to be an educated girl. I hope some bright college
boy doesn't get the same idea "
I found myself thinking defiantly I hope some bright college boy does.
When I moved away and dropped my eyes he said, Ellie what's wrong?
Frank, I thought, please. Please don't make any long-range
plans with me in them. I'm sixteen. I have a future I want to work out and
find. I don't want to belong to anyone, not even you, for at least ten years.
In ten years you'll be 31. Uh-uh. But how can I tell you? How can I explain
without hurting you? How can I say, "Frank, do not be so serious. Be
eighteen instead of twenty-one. don't like me so much because I am frightened
of such adult feeling. Don't think of me as always being as I am now. I
will soon like someone else better than I do you, and I am a coquette to
begin with. Think of now, not forever, not even tomorrow. Only now. But
how shall I tell you?
Sunday
He is gone.
Today he was handsome and we laughed a lot. He came home from church
in his suit and helped us make the fire. He changed into the blue sweater
for dinner. He sat in Daddy's chair & I sat in Mom's because they'd
gone to Crooked Creek. The kids were all home. I made dinner but he made
the coffee because I didn't know how. After Judy had (slowly, painfully
slowly) cleared the table we sat across it, not touching, & talking
about insignificant things. I can't remember anything we said. Then he got
up to go and pack the rest of this stuff. I put on more lipstick & more
eyeshadow and was coming from "over the hill" when he arrived.
He came in, handed around four cookies from Mrs Seimens. ("gives indications
of being half-cracked"). He watched me solemnly while I ate it &
then said abruptly,
"Well, the cookie's gone now. I guess I'll go."
"Now?!" I asked.
"Gotta go sometime. This isn't like a greyhound - they just leave.
I've got to go myself."
He went to the door. My mind shouted now? Now? You can't go! Now? Already?
No, no. He opened the door & he stepped out. On the step he turned,
said goodbye to Rudy, Paul, (he said, "Goodbye Frank" solemnly)
and Judy (who grinned knowingly). Then he turned to me. He was outside.
It was windy. I was still inside, but the door hid me from the kids. I could
see the blue from my sweater reflected on my fingernails while he held my
hand against his travelling clothes. (They had a dribble of partridge blood
on them.) We talked inanely.
"What I have to do is shut this door slowly now."
"My arm will stay on that side. What will you do with half an arm?
If a cop stops you you'll have a bit of explaining to do ..."
"He'll be looking around for a corpse."
"and you'll have to bring it back to prove it matches."
"You should wear more green the color of your blouse & your
gloves."
"No, Frank."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes. It makes you look the way you described Sally. Real good.
Like a chocolate coated ice cream cone. Good."
- Back to our tender apschied. "Goodbye," he said. "See
you," I said. "See you. Sometime. Not for a long time tho'."
I hadn't realized until then how long it really is going to be. Maybe I
won't ever see him again. Maybe not for years, a whole year, when even a
month is forever. (That would be twelve forevers. By then maybe I shall
be caught up in my journal.) Yesterday morning when we squatted on the warm
hill with the sun being blown through us, he said, "Maybe I can help
you celebrate your seventeen birthday."
It will be long. The thought of how final this really is was, is, a scratch
across my heart. I bit my lip & hung my head so that he would not see
my tears. He tried to lift my chin and when I held it stubbornly firm he
stepped down a step or two & looked up into my face. He gathered me
up & the moment momentarily blotted out tomorrow because he was crushing
me until I gasped. I stepped out the door. His arm behind me pulled it firmly
shut & I found my self being lifted violently down in a desperate grip.
"Wanna walk me to the truck?" he said, "I always walked
you to the door. This is a little different."
I did. The front seat was full of stuff & the door was open, ready
to go. He wrapped his arms around me again.
"I'll have to count to ten," he said. "One ..." he
began, and his voice didn't even hezitate before saying "ten."
"I'm going to be glad to see those miles slide away under my wheels"
he told me yesterday, and in direct contradiction, "if anybody tries
to persuade me I'd probably stay too long." He explained, "I will
be glad to go home. Everything solid that I know is there. This is beautiful
country, but I doubt that I'll ever live here."
"What about your Nass River Valley?"
"That's why."
- At "ten" he let me go & climbed in. I wanted to fly back
to him but I stayed back a ways from the window as he started the motor.
He grabbed my hand. His fingernails are square & black & rough.
His fingers are short & square. His hands are calloused but they speak
in whispers, softly. My hands are long & thin. Sometimes I grip one
with the other to see if they really do seem fragile & they do because
the bones feel soft, like a kitten's bones.
His hand held mine fiercely. He began to move slowly away. Our hands
were torn apart. He stopped to wave at the gate, & looked back continually.
On the highway he looked back too, toward my alone-ly, tumble-haired (he
messed it all up - for the last time) small figure beside the house. The
sun was out for the first time today. It glinted on the red truck. Then
Frank drove over the hill & he was gone.
Monday
There are so many things to remember about this week. All the little
things he said & we felt are skittering so quickly into the little far
corners of my mind.
Friday night was one of the times I must not forget. Already it seems
long ago.
We had supper early - I made it & Frank was amused by my scuttling
around in the kitchen. While he was eating there was a knock on the door
- Janeen & Marlys were there. They stood in the shadowy corner, &
the lamps were't lit yet. Frank didn't look at them but stared straight
ahead & kept eating. His back was toward them. Conversation was unimportant
but not uncomfortable. Frank, tho', was uneasy. He was in his old clothes
& not shaved & quite rumpled up. She was wearing a gold-colored
jacket & a slim skirt & didn't look particularly anything. I did
introduce them. There were few words & probably mutual disappointment.
There was a new ring on her hand - a Sexsmith school ring - "Already!"
I exclaimed.
"I know it's terrible, but that's just how I am," she fluttered.
Then they left. Frank made a few cynical remarks & was in a bad mood
until he went & changed. He came back in his black pants and blue sweater
& lovely black jacket. I had brushed my blue & brown jumper suit
until it was sleek, & I was wearing a sheer & frilly green blouse
under it. ("I'll confess it's Judy's, & was somebody else's before
that" - he didn't mind & was amused that I told him.)
The truck was cold. On the way to the highway, he drove with two hands
& we talked happily. At the highway he reached over & I was not
at all cold after that. The greenish lights of Sexsmith were behind us,
and Clairmont's too. We came to the top of the hill just before Grande Prairie
& the lights below were gorgeous. I leaned forward & breathed deeply
until we were among them. We parked just on the other side of Richmond.
There were crowds & lights & it was exhilerating to walk past people
& to meet people I knew with my hand (in short green gloves) in his
hand. We asked for a hobby shop in the bookstore & bought a book binder
for Paul & a one-year diary (Frank's). At Gumpy's Hobby Shop we spent
a languid half hour buying model planes for Paul.
After we got out of Gumpies we stowed our stuff. At the door, while he
was putting things in, I said something silly - I can't remember what it
was - but he closed the door calmly, & then calmly hugged me on the
street, just off Richmond Avenue.
We pushed through crowds outside the theatre, I found it exhilerating
to be among them & pushed by them & near to so many of them.
He commented on my blouse, evidently liked that color on me. After he'd
written that day up in his diary he let me read it. "She was wearing
a greenish blouse that gave her a sort of lassy quality." As a sideline
- isn't it interesting that both boys I've ever dated more than once have
fallen promptly & enthusiastically in love with me - and then started
to keep a diary!
It was good to be out with him again. We were happy with almost no reservations.
I was. Maybe he wasn't - I don't know.
At the door when we were at home again he wanted to get me in fast -
it was pretty late. I was in no hurry, but he is so honorable. However -
he did stop when we were outside, & closed in. We stood just at the
tailgate in the wind and laughed.
"You're a lucky person," he said.
"Whyfore?"
"Because you enjoy living."
I clambered up onto the steps.
I touched the top of his head.
"I feel like a little boy when you do that," he said.
Something just now made me think of last Sunday night, of the hill in
the wind and the glorious sky and his cold, cold cheek.
On Saturday morning everything was sunny all day. I was never sure until
evening that he would stay until Sunday.
When he was chopping wood energetically at the top of the hill I ran
out to talk to him. The sky was blue & the leaves were blown & golden.
We sat crosslegged on the earth amid chips & sawdust and were friends.
Then I had to run back in to the house to clean my room & he went back
to hacking wood up.
In the afternoon we coaxed Daddy into helping us catch the horses so
we could ride. He got onto Buck & we ran out to the field & chased
them in, two heavy white mares, and Red. While Frank held Buck Daddy leapt
to Red's back & rode him without a bridle. It was beautiful. When Red
was bridled, Daddy gave me a boost up. Red sidestepped nervously as Daddy
tried to hand me the reins. When I had them in one hand, Red suddenly rocketed
away. I reached calmly for his mane as he streaked across the field. He
was uncontrollable. Judy & Paul told me later that it had looked as
if I had him completely under control & was calmly galloping him. I
wasn't! I don't remember fear tho', only a small concern when he headed
for the barbed-wire fence. As he began to swerve, his back became slippery
and I catapulted off. A cloud of dust rose. Daddy galloped forward on Buck.
Frank ran toward me. I was on my feet before he got there tho' & he
brushed off my dusty gold canvas (Daddy's) shoulders. My barrette was lying
on the ground, open. Judy put it away for me. Nobody seemed very concerned.
Frank quipped, later, "I didn't think you were hurt because of the
way you fell. You lit on your back end."
I saw him ride Buck; he clamped his teeth & held it with an iron
gauntlet that I could almost see, (and a banner flying too). But he didn't
stay on long - vaulted off & exclaimed how strong Buck was.
"We'll go dig some potatos," he told Daddy. When Daddy was
almost to the bush, he said, "He's far enough now. Come on." We
ran up to the fence & set up a tin can. Paul shot about 11 times. I
tried. It hit the can - but how could it have missed? I was sprawled flat
("right leg straight from the gun, left at an angle") with the
22 propped on a rock & Frank steadied the barrel the first time. I got
it the second time too, & the third. ("deadly!") We sat in
the grass & watched. He knocked a penny through a tin can. He hit a
fence post at 90 yards.
We dug potatos. I was his special plant-puller-outer. The kids picked
up the potatos. Mom came after a while, & Daddy hailed in Frank &
Paul to thresh. I didn't see him again until supper. After supper we sat
in the living room to visit while Mom & Dad bathed. Paul & Rudy
fell asleep. Soon the cats did too. Judy was in her room. Mom & Dad
talked quietly in the kitchen. Soon they went to bed too. The house became
quiet. Mom stuck her head out her door. Frank dropped my hand at the first
squeak & looked so sober & righteous I could have giggled.
"Let the cats out before you go to bed, eh, Ellie?" she smiled.
When the door was shut Frank jumped up to go home. He watched me crawling
around looking for cats, then "enfolded." I remember feeling my
bones, all down my side, bumping his side. Then he got the last word very
quickly and ran home to his cold shack on the hill among the trees.
When Mom & I took potatoes to the shack in the afternoon I secretively
snuggled my face into his blue sleeping bag. The lining was soft, and where
his head is there was the intimate smell of his shaving lotion. He would
have laughed had he seen me then.
October 7
Funny how I'm green-pastures minded about men. Even when I'm in love
& all the trimmings with Frank - or somebody - my attention wanders
to a blond crew cut and a square-jawed smile. I'm referring to, at the moment,
Mr. Block's (one of them) brother Henry. But it is often someone else.
back to frank after his life index page
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