Christmas with Tucker (14 page)

My grandfather and I worked the maintainer in shifts for the next three days and nights, Tucker at my side to keep me company. At first, he was a little reluctant about jumping into the cab, but after a little coaxing he was right at home. I made a bed for him behind the seat from old blankets and coats. Having Tucker with me made the work seem more tolerable and the hours passed by quickly. From time to time, I imagined he would shout up little commands to make sure I was paying attention. “Look out there, George, you’re drifting to the right.”

I let him know who was boss. “You can’t even walk a straight line, Tucker. So don’t tell me how to plow!”

The snow let up, but the real problem was the wind, which caused drifts into the roadway so that we were having to redo what we had previously done. Still, we made progress, having cleared all of the main roads and shifting to the more isolated side roads and country lanes.

We were exhausted, but the winds were dying down and we were gaining ground. The dairy truck was coming again, and both the power and phone companies were able to start making repairs. The temperature was also climbing, and as we thawed out from the big storm, things were getting back to normal. Soon, McCray’s Dairy had power and phone service, and the worst was behind us.

There were only a few days of school left before the Christmas break and I was hoping that all the canceled days would mean a free pass for me on both algebra and memorizing lines for the school play.

My grandfather gave me ten dollars and suggested that I do some Christmas shopping with my grandma—at least as soon as I cracked the ice and did the milking.

The next morning, Grandma and I decided we needed rest, so shopping would wait another day. After breakfast, I re-read the letter from my mom that I had stashed very carefully in my pocket. She said that they would be driving to Kansas and hoping to arrive no later than December 24, roads allowing. She said that I should be packed and ready to go by December 27. School started in Minnesota on January 5. I tossed the letter aside and tried not to think about it.

ON DECEMBER 19
, my second day off in a row, I took Tucker for a long walk. It seemed that Frank Thorne’s health was continuing to improve. When I brought Tucker back, Thorne even asked me to come inside and sit down. I did not have much to say, so after a few awkward moments, I said my goodbyes and headed home.

Grandma made a huge lunch and I must have eaten too much. I felt exhausted, so I stretched out on my bed for what I thought would be a short nap before I helped with the afternoon milking. I did not wake up until 7:30 the next morning.

Stumbling out of bed, embarrassed, I wondered why no one had woken me. Downstairs, both of my grandparents were very quiet, probably a bit irritated at me for sleeping in and not helping with the chores, I thought.

It was up to me to make some conversation. “I better go check the pond and clear the ice.”

My grandfather barely looked up. “Thanks, you do that.”

It went quiet again, and I ate in silence until my grandfather spoke.

“George, I took the trash down to the dump and I pulled out two empty jars that looked strange to me. You probably think that I’m too old to have noticed, but there had been alcohol in them.”

As I gulped the last of my oatmeal, I’m sure my face turned as white as the snow I had been plowing.

“Do you have any idea how those jars got in the trash?”

Rising from the table and pulling on my coat, I planned to toss a quick “don’t know” over my shoulder and head out.

“George, get back over here and sit down.”

I sighed, knowing I’d have to tell them everything, wondering if they’d understand. “Yes, I know how they got there, but it’s not what you think.”

“Try me,” my grandfather said.

I told them the whole story. My grandmother had her hands on her hips, her irritation with me slowly dissipating. Grandpa Bo listened with an impassive look on his face, until he cracked a bemused smile and spoke.

“Well, can we agree that’ll be your first and last trip up to Blackberry Hill?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m disappointed that you chose to run that errand for Thorne, incomplete as it was, but I’m proud of you for one thing.”

“What’s that, Grandpa?”

“You were able to correct your course after you made a wrong turn. That’s a good skill for a maintainer. Now get on out of here and crack the ice.”

Not until I had my own children did I realize how skillful my grandparents were at parenting. It is extraordinarily difficult to simultaneously correct and support a teenager. They actually made me feel better about myself and them when I made mistakes.
My misjudgments and wrong turns were opportunities to learn from and not events to be ashamed of.

Walking out the door to crack the ice, I realized I had no idea how I was going to say goodbye to two such wonderful people, whom I loved to the core. What would life be like without them?

When I got to the pond, I discovered there was no need to chop the ice. It had grown so warm, almost fifty degrees the day before, that the opening had not frozen over. The cows were ambling down to the lake for a drink and the heifers were bawling for their mothers. There was a strange smell in the air—at least for that time of year. I looked to the sky to confirm what I thought.

Snow clouds are a light gray color and just reach right down to the trees so that the spaces between the sky and the land all come together without dramatic contrasts. The sky that morning was very different. Overhead it was clear and bright and to the east the sun was giving us everything she had to give. But to the west, the sky was black as night and I could hear thunder booming on the horizon. I smelled rain. Thunderstorms were for spring and summer, not winter. This made no sense to me.

Although I might have recalled occasional lightning strikes, I could not remember ever seeing a winter thunderstorm.

I went up to the dairy barn to help my grandfather finish the milking and ask about the weather.

“Grandpa, have you seen the sky to the west?”

“I sure have and I’ve listened to the weather report, too.”

“What’s it doing?”

He grunted. “It’s not good.”

“What do you mean?”

“George, you’ve done a good job helping us dig out of two feet of snow and now you just might find out what’s ten times worse than snow for a road maintainer—ice.”

“Ice?”

“I’ll take a foot of snow over an inch of freezing rain any day. Freezing rain coats every piece of gravel and every tree limb. The maintainer’s tires can’t get enough traction to do any work. On top of that, after an inch or so of freezing rain, branches, limbs, and eventually entire trees will crumble under the weight of the ice. Falling timber will block the roads and the power lines will be ripped straight off the poles. It’s a maintainer’s nightmare. We could be down for weeks.”

“What can we do?”

“Nothing, son. Nothing at all.”

My grandfather and the local weather forecasters thought we were going to pay the price for the warm air that had blessed us the last few days. A cold front had marched down from the north and was prepared to do battle with the warm air that still lingered from the south, and just like it was during the Civil War, Kansas was stuck right in the middle. Thirty miles to the north, it would be several degrees colder. They would get snow—to be pushed aside with minimal difficulties. Thirty miles to the south it would be a few degrees warmer and they would get a cold but harmless rain. Stuck right in the middle, we would get paralyzing ice.

By 2:00
P.M
. on December 20, 1962, the freezing rain hit, dumping a little over an inch of hard frozen ice on the road. It was a mess, just as forecast.

However bad it might have been for the roads and the trees, it was beautiful outside. The ice coated everything and made
the whole world glisten and shine. It was as if the universe were flash-frozen, leaving all life suspended.

It could be weeks before we thawed out. Anything that could get wet was also now coated in ice: trees, buildings, horses, cows, sheep, rocks, and, worst of all for us, roads.

Cherokee County, Kansas, ground to a total halt.

While I knew what a mess snow would cause, I had no idea what damage a solid inch of ice could do. I hoped that people had learned their lesson and had stocked plenty of supplies in the few days we had between storms. We were in for a very tough week leading up to Christmas and probably into the New Year.

We did not even bother starting the maintainer. My grandfather and I cracked the ice on the pond, milked the cows by hand, and dumped the milk on the ground, and we all went to bed early, not knowing what the coming days would bring.

IT WAS
less than a week away and the prospect of a decent Christmas was fading fast. My scheme to get Tucker back was not working. We had no power and the phone lines were down. I had not talked to my mom or sisters in over a week. While hoping that the weather and the road conditions would improve, I was left wondering if they would be able to make it through the final thirty miles of the trip home, where the snow had turned to ice.

The tree I had cut for Grandma Cora had made it as far as the tree stand in the living room, but we’d been so busy with snow days that it had sat, undecorated, for all this time. Just like our milk, it seemed like the holiday was going to be thrown out. I was trying to act like I didn’t care, but it was hard to give up on Christmas.

Lying in bed that night, I could hear tree limbs creak and moan under the weight of the ice. This storm was bad for us, but for some of our neighbors it had to be worse. Mrs. Slater needed her insulin, Sherry Rather had her baby to deliver, and old Mrs. Reed would be worried sick. Most everyone was frightened and
here I was just lying in bed doing nothing. It left me feeling rather useless and sick to my stomach.

I wondered if we should just walk the frozen roads of Cherokee County. Maybe we couldn’t maintain the roads, but we might still be able to help the people who lived along them.

The next morning I brought up my idea.

“Grandpa, maybe we should check on some of our neighbors and make sure they aren’t hurt or in need of anything.”

He looked at me, equally disgusted by the whole situation. “There is just not much we can do.”

My grandmother reached out and patted my arm. “It’s nice of you to think of them.”

“But how about Mrs. Slater and old Mrs. Reed and the people who aren’t so healthy?”

“They have good neighbors that live much closer than we do. In this ice, a person would be lucky to walk a mile an hour. Mrs. Slater lives eight miles from here. It might take you eight hours to just get there and another eight to walk home. What could you do if she did need help?”

“I guess you’re right, but it just doesn’t seem right to sit and do nothing.”

My grandfather didn’t say anything. My grandmother looked bothered, too, but she seemed to accept there was little we could do. “We’re hoping the weather will warm again in a few days and we can melt our way out of the ice.”

“Well, what if it doesn’t? Christmas will be over. How will Mom and the girls make it here?”

“We’ll still have Christmas, George. A lot can happen in a few days. You’ll see.”

After breakfast, my grandfather started up the chain saw and began clearing our yard of the branches and limbs that had
cracked and fallen to the ground from the weight of the ice. I was out helping him in the yard when the back door opened and Grandma called, “George, come up to the house.”

She was waiting for me at the back door with two plates full of warm food, covered in aluminum foil. “Just the man I was looking for.”

I eyed her suspiciously. “What?”

“I need a delivery. Top plate to Frank Thorne and the bottom plate is for a red dog, but don’t stay too long; lunch is almost ready and your grandpa promised me I could have you to myself this afternoon. We have some Christmas work to do.”

I took the plates away from her. “Sure, I can take them!”