Past Forward Volume 1 (35 page)

“Why can we write at the kitchen table but
not eat at the living room table? That is illogical.”

“It is but for one thing,” Mother said. “We
don’t because I said so. That is sufficiently logical to me.”

“Well, why don’t we eat at the dining table
then? Isn’t it for dining?”

“Yes, but it’s easier to eat in the
kitchen.”

Willow stared at her mother. “So why do we
have it? It’s wasteful. Illogical.”

“You would think so,” Mother said. She
turned and left the room but not before Willow heard her say,
“There are just some things I couldn’t give up, and a dining table
was one—family dinners…”

“I understand now, Mother,” Willow whispered
as she scrubbed the windowsill and took down dusty curtains.

By the time she finished the housework and
planned the next week’s canning, Willow realized she was
hungry—lunch time. She pulled out the last of her roasted chicken
and made a sandwich. She’d planned to spend the afternoon in the
small pile of fabric Lee had given her for her birthday, but the
chicken sparked a new thought.

Chickens. She could butcher the older
chickens. Though they usually waited until September, she didn’t
need as many eggs now, and at least two weren’t laying anymore. She
set up everything in the barn, sent the pup outside, and went to
find her first chicken.

The storm had unsettled the birds, but
finding a leg with a green band around its leg wasn’t difficult.
The younger chickens wore yellow, and the new chicks would get
blue. She picked one that she suspected was “retired” and carried
it from the coop. In the barn, she wrung the neck, chopped off the
head, and hung the bird on the hook of their butchering cart.

They skinned most of their chickens without
plucking them. She sliced the skin from neck to legs, peeling it
off as she went. She made quick work of the bird, and less than
fifteen minutes later, Willow dashed out into the rain for a fellow
coop-mate. Once she got in the groove of things, she could butcher
and skin a chicken in less than ten minutes.

Her phone rang just as she finished up with
the tenth chicken. Gloves covered in blood, Willow let it ring
while she carried the last bird to rest next to the others on the
kitchen counter. By the time she washed her hands, dried them, and
pulled out her phone, it had long stopped ringing.

“Hey Chad, you called?”

“Oh, good. I just wanted to make sure this
wind wasn’t causing any trouble that way.”

She wondered if he ever turned off the
protector part of his law enforcement persona. “Nope. We’re right
as rain here.”

“Cute.”

“Why, thank you!” she quipped.

“Very funny. Hey, if this rain keeps up, I
don’t think Cheltenham Ranch is going to deliver the lambs.”

Her shoulders drooped. She hadn’t let
herself think about it. “I kind of expected that. Oh, well. Maybe
next week.”

She knew her words gave away her
disappointment when he asked, “What are you doing today?”

“Butchering chickens.”

“What!”

She laughed. “I know it’s early, but it was
that or sew, and it’s not like I need the eggs anyway. I’ve got so
many that I’ve resorted to storing them in sand in the cellar for
winter.” As they talked, she pulled out the largest bath canner and
filled it with water.

“
Can you do
that?”

She shrugged, forgetting Chad couldn’t see
her. “Mother did a few times when we had too many chickens. Most of
the eggs made it for several months. I followed her directions, so
hopefully—”

“How many chickens did you—do?”

“Skinned fourteen. I’m going to pluck two
more for roasting.”

“How many will that leave you?”

The question seemed odd—why should he care?
“Eight. I have chicks arriving next week so I’ll butcher more
around Christmas and have a new flock to work with.”

“You’re a better woman than I am.”

Rolling her eyes at the ridiculousness of
such a statement, Willow quipped, “I’d hope so.”

“
Well, in the chicken
department, you’re a better
man
than I am too.”

She could swear she heard him shudder. “Not
afraid of a little chicken, surely.”

“No, just disgusted by their skin, their
fat, their innards—”

“Aww. I’ll remember not to ask you to grill
one.”

His siren blipped. “Caught a speeder. Gotta
go.”

Willow stared at the phone in her hand. “He
thinks chickens are gross. How funny!” She peeked under the canner
lid, but no bubbles even hinted at forming. There was probably
still time to clean and wrap the birds.

By the time the water boiled, Willow had the
skinned poultry clean, wrapped, marked and in the freezer. This was
the portion of butchering that she loved. There was nothing more
satisfying than jars of canned food or packages of frozen wrapped
meat ready for the coming months.

She carried her pot to the butchering cart
and sat it on a small table next to it. With a chair ready for the
plucking, she pulled her gloves back on her hands and went to find
the two final green-banded birds. This time, she grabbed one, wrung
its neck, and set it outside the door before grabbing the next one.
If she had both killed, she wouldn’t let herself dawdle over
plucking. She shuddered at the thought but dragged herself out of
the chicken yard.

Outside the barn, she hosed both birds off
and then took them inside for a dunking. The stench of the boiled
bird and feathers nauseated her. She sat on a chair and pulled
handfuls of feathers as quickly as her fingers could do it. With
each fistful, Willow reminded herself how much she loved roasted,
stuffed chicken and forced herself not to shudder. Plucking
chickens—not her favorite.

Once finished, she tramped across the
meadow, through the trees, over the stream, and to the back corner
of their property, shovel in a sling on her back and carrying a
large pot of chicken parts. Shaking from cold, she dug a hole and
buried heads, feet, skins, and other chicken waste. Mother insisted
it be far enough away from home that the dogs couldn’t find it and
dig it up. It took longer than usual, the rain making it difficult,
but she returned to the house in time to milk Willie and feed the
chickens.

Once finished, she stepped into the house
and shed her clothes on the back mat, racing upstairs for a hot
shower. “Lord, thank you for indoor plumbing. I’ve never been more
thankful for it than right now.”

“Rain, rain. Go away. Come again another
day…”
Willow sang to herself the next morning as she hand
stitched the bound edge of her skirt in place. At this rate, she’d
be done mid-afternoon. The pile of scraps near her beckoned,
tempting her. “Maybe there’s enough there for a child’s outfit.
Surely, Mother kept some of the patterns she used for me,” she
mused as she tied off the end of the thread and knotted a new
length.

Stitch by stitch she added pin-tucks,
drawstring shirring, and other details designed to complete the
overall look of the dress she’d planned. She’d wear it to church on
Sunday if the roads weren’t too muddy. Again, she glanced at the
scraps. Her mind whirled with possibilities, but she forced herself
to finish her own dress first.

Making a child’s dress is silly,
she
scolded herself.
You don’t know a child who could wear—
The
twins. She could give the final product to that widow for her
twins. Chad could give it to his cousin, and Luke could pass it on
to the children.

Excitement stirred her fingers. The bodice
was completely finished as was the skirt. She’d be done in no time.
Her fingers stirred the scrap pile once more. If she used the rest
of the brown corduroy left from last winter’s flannel lined
skirt…

The moment she finished her dress, she hung
it on the dressmaker’s dummy by the stairs and stood back, admiring
it. Her glee lasted only a few seconds before she jogged upstairs
for patterns and the corduroy she hoped would stretch her scraps
far enough to make two jumpers. She found the fabric and retrieved
a box of old patterns from the attic.

The clock chimed three as she tried once
more to lay out the pattern pieces in a way to eke out two dresses
instead of one. Despite her best efforts, and more than a little
fudging, there simply was not enough fabric—not for the style she
had in mind. She stared at the pieces, rearranged them again, and
then her mental vision took a new shape. She laid out the pieces in
a different way and then lined up the leftovers on the rug beside
it. Two yards.

Her feet pounded up the stairs two at a
time. Not until she reached the craft room did Willow realize she’d
been skip-counting as she climbed. She pulled a bolt of unbleached
muslin from the shelf and grabbed an old-fashioned wooden sewing
box from beside the bookcase. She carried it to the kitchen and set
it aside while she dug out the extra leaves for the table. After
she cut two yards from the bolt, she laid it open, smoothing out
the slight crease from the center.
Oh, Mother. Thank you for
always insisting that we wash and iron these things the moment they
come in the door. I’d go crazy if I had to wait for it now.

Willow’s gut wrenched.
Don’t think about
it now,
she ordered herself.
It won’t change anything, and
you’ll just feel worse. Suck it up. Mother wouldn’t want you
whining about missing her when she’s happy with Jesus.
No
matter how hard she scolded herself, regardless of what she tried
to make herself believe, the truth and emptiness of her loss
hovered near her heart, threatening to charge at the slightest
provocation.

Alas, creativity was a balm for her soul.
Fully in her element, Willow spent the next hour drawing paisleys
on the fabric with a pencil. She used a stencil—one her mother had
cut years before—as a placement guide and to keep them uniform in
size. Once scattered across the fabric, she drew details inside
each one. Flowers and swirls filled the warped teardrop shapes
until she stood back. Satisfied. Next came scrolls from another
template, this one used for stenciling in their scrapbooks.

Hours ticked past as she drew every detail
she wanted on the fabric. The clock, and a few well-timed protests
from Wilhelmina breaking through the steady drone of rain, told her
it was time to milk and feed the animals. She raced through her
chores, hardly stopping to scratch the pup’s ears before she burst
into the kitchen and shed her coat, coveralls, and shoes.

Her stomach rumbled. She stared at the
fabric, her fingers itching to return to her project. As she
hesitated, Willow suddenly realized that she was thirsty—no, more
than thirsty—parched. She grabbed her glass and filled it with
water, guzzling it in seconds. A second refill washed down just as
quickly. By the time she took a drink of the third, dinner was
forgotten.

Red squirted into a small jar of white
produced a pink much too clear to work. She added the tiniest drop
of yellow. Better. Another drop of paint—black this time—gave the
color the proper hue. Willow capped the jar and moved onto the
next, mixing yellow and red and slowly adding blue until she was
satisfied. Other colors followed—aqua, brighter pink, and a
purple-brown for shadows.

With careful strokes, she painted one
section at a time. By the time she finished with each color, the
first sections of fabric were dry enough for the next. Willow lost
herself in the creative process, forgetting everything but the
project before her.

Chad’s voice in the kitchen doorway startled
her. “I just stopped to see if you’d drowned yet or not.”

The paintbrush streaked across the paisley,
ruining it. “Oh no!”

He stepped forward to see what she was doing
and groaned. “Oh man, I’m sorry.”

“That’s ok; I’ll just cut around it.”