pages 286-287

Pages 286-287

                As Beauty took to a steady trot, returning home over the long narrow road, we planned our garden.  He would plow it first thing in the morning and those precious garden seeds we had so tenderly fondled and admired when the winter winds blew, would at last be sown in the black rich soil.  So the next morning as Jim turned the never to be forgotten fertile ground that was to be our first garden, I read and re-read the directions on each temptingly pictured package.  There were radishes, string beans, turnips, lettuce, beets, ever-bearing dry farm peas.  Father had given us some corn and potato seed and also promised us some cabbage and tomato plants.  He had planted in boxes along in February and nursed them along to good sized plants.  They had their early garden all planted and by tomorrow we would have most of ours in.  He plowed and harrowed all of it that day.  The next morning we took sticks and strings to make straight rows.  Jim would use a hoe to make the little trenches, sowing each package of seed carefully.  When he had finished this, I had the potatoes cut, planting more of them than any thing else.  We awoke, happy people, about the middle of the night, to hear the rain beating against the window.  When we retired, not a cloud was to be seen in the sky.  We began to think we had been favored above all people, our garden all in, with a rain to soak and nourish the newly planted seed. 

                When morning came it was still raining.  Looking out the door, Jim said, “Now, isn’t that great, I just hope it keeps up for a week.”

                “Oh, no,” I said, our seeds would rot instead of coming up.”

                “I’ll take that chance,” he answered, closing the door.

                The wind had shifted a bit, causing the rain to blow in through the open door. About that time, I had stepped beside him, saying “Doesn’t the rain feel good.”  As it continued through the day, clearing up a bit toward evening, settling in again as the dark clouds, full of moisture, hung heavy over the drippy valley, when the shades of night drew the curtains of dusk, like a pall over all, much the same which kept us indoors for that day, giving us a chance to catch up on reading and the answering of neglected letters that had been stacked in a letter file, waiting for just such a time to answer them.

                The first thing Jim said upon sitting down to this task was, “Do you know we are just about out of ink, put it on your list.”  For in a country like this, neighbors were much too far to borrow from and one didn’t like making unnecessary trips so far to the store through neglect of keeping a pad or scrap of paper handy for jotting such items down, so it became a habit of mine.  The letter writing became an interesting affair.  I answered my sister’s letter, they would leave Portland, Oregon, sometime in May, coming to Rupert, where we would meet them, visiting with us , as well as our folks.  We were looking forward to this long awaited visit.

                The days seemed to slip past very fast, even with rain continuing its noisy pitapat against the window with the eaves dripping steadily.  But, when we sat thus, at the close of day, eating our evening meal, the rain ceased, as quietly as it had come and for a few fleeting moments, the sun broke through the heavily filled clouds , in its glory, to set clear, dropping behind the horizon like a ball of gold, denoting all would be clear the coming day.

                We were up early,  wondering if much could be done , but everywhere we looked, dampness held sway, pearl like drops glistened from the bushes, the eaves of buildings, fence posts and barbed wire and anything the dew-like drops could cling to, even the horses’ manes and hair carried the results of the storm, but the sun was doing its best to brighten the soaked world around us, all to the pleasure of the rancher and stockman for this would insure good grazing from the flats and foothills alike and a good crop for the rancher.  Any day now, herds of cattle, would be going down the section to summer pasture.  So we stood thus thinking.  When I said, “I know what let’s do, fix my baby chicken pen, it would’t be long now and if we expect to have fryers to eat, we’ll have to protect them from the coyotes, who would make short work of the hen while trying to protect her brood and each little chick.”  So, we fixed it on the south side of the chicken house.  Jim set four posts, then used one by six inch boards two foot high on three sides, then putting very wide extra heavy chicken wire around that.  By evening, the task was accomplished.  Next, we took two nice sized wooden boxes, cut holes in each end for doors and put one in each corner of the lot and fixed feeders and waterers.  We used a big old coffee mill which him had bought at a second hand store to crack or grind enough whole wheat for some time.  He said, “now you are all set.”  I said, “Isn’t it wonderful, all we have to do now is wait.”  We both laughed together.