The lane was an uneven gravel pathway with multiple depressions filled with frozen muddy water. The air was crisp and caught in your throat if you breathed too deeply. The bare-leafed trees all around looked like they were holding their breath. Either side of the laneway was lined with a fairly new page wire fence. The posts had yet to be trimmed to a uniform height. At one end of the lane was the henhouse. Not an ordinary one but a large two-story building. It was quite weathered and even it seemed to be hunched from the deep cold.
At the other end of the lane was a building that dwarfed the henhouse. It was a monstrosity of a barn in two parts at right angles. The shorter angle housed the two workhorses and a few heifers. The other long part held the large dairy herd. Wisps of moisture wound up from the main door. A large pile of manure was piled at the far end of the barn waiting to be taken away to the fields come spring. A little milkhouse stood dwarfed next to the barn, a heat lamp glowing through the frosted window. There was very little snow yet but what there was looked like tiny particles of minute tapioca gathered around the corners and crevices of the newly frozen surfaces.
A quarter of the way from the barn stood my Grandma. She was holding two pails of steaming water. She was carrying them to her hens, or in her country accent her hins. She was wearing an old three-quarter length grey wool coat with mismatched buttons. The sleeves were loose around her wrists; her large knitted mittens took up any available space. There were already icicles forming from the tips of the mittens where the water had splashed against them. Her rubber boots covered her lower legs and multiple layers of stockings went from there and lost their way up under her heavy dress. Grandma had never worn slacks. The finishing touch was a ragged blue tam that was pulled down over her ears with just little wisps of white hair peeking out. Hair that had never been dyed and had never seen a commercial hair conditioner, yet it always looked soft and beautiful.
The lines on her face told of many years of hard labour with her husband on this farm—the same face that had never seen any makeup or moisturizer. Yet it had its own glow all of the time, especially in this crisp morning air. Her back was slightly hunched from her years and accented even more from the weight of the pails.
I had stepped out from Mom and Dad’s house, which was just beyond the henhouse. My snow boots were tightly zipped up over my lined winter jeans. My mittens were joined by a long string one to other through my sleeves and over my shoulders under my hooded coat. The scarf, which Mom had stitched into the back neck of my coat, hung loosely. My red toque with its ugly pompom was pulled down over my ears. If there had been a way to fasten down my toque my mother would have done that as well. With my busy mind, remembering accessories was not my strong point.
I looked up and saw Grandma struggling with the pails, the same person who in her quiet way had become my first mentor. Her sayings were etched in my mind, such as “Idleness is the devil’s workshop,” or “Work builds character,” or “Lazy people stand around looking for things to do, ambitious people just do.” Someday I would like to record the many sayings that helped to form my foundation. I was a sponge, she was the water. She was my refuge from the craziness of Mom and Dad’s house.
The image of her stooped over and struggling with the pails wrenched my heart. I made a dash for her. She didn’t see me until I was right in front of her. I reached for the pails. “Granny let me carry those pails, please.” As my hands closed around the steel handles she yanked them back, spilling a good part of the water in the process.
“The day I can’t carry water for my own hins is the day you will be putting flowers on my grave. Let me be and get on with your own chores!”
I was choked. It didn’t register in my 10-year-old brain the importance of Grandma doing this chore on her own. The hens and the henhouse were her domain and hers only. Grandpa had no say over how many chicks she started in the spring or what she did with the eggs or, even more importantly, what she did with the few cents she made when she sold the extra eggs to the egg man.
I see now that I wanted to be gallant, but I was interfering in her sacred space and infringing on her power. She hauled her water for many more years until we managed to run a water line from the well to the henhouse. We told her it would increase the value of the building.
She was a quiet, powerful woman. She continued to carry in wood, cook for her sons, clean her home, do laundry, and encourage my apprenticeship in the garden. When Grandpa argued with her, she would sprinkle black pepper on the wood stovetop and leave the room. Grandpa napped on a cot by the stove. As the pepper started burning, Grandpa would start sneezing. I could hear Grandma’s throaty chuckle as she walked away. When Mom insisted on me receiving communion in the Catholic Church, Grandma took me to be baptized in the Baptist church.
Sometimes it seems like the essence of Grandma’s being is infused in mine. Then when I look around at our family, I see I am being arrogant. There is some of Grandma’s essence in all of us. She was a quietly strong, modern woman way ahead of her time.
