Cabin Tales (3)
hard work

After a simple breakfast, I set about looking for the old vegetable plot I remember being cultivated here years ago. Excited by the prospect of a challenge and armed with my axe and shears from the woodshed, I begin to hack away at the undergrowth to the left of the cabin clearing, just beyond the well.
My unprotected hands are soon scratched and bleeding but I can’t find any gardening gloves when I search within the depths of the shed. Instead, I tear up an old pillowcase from the cabin and wrap it around my hands to save them from further cuts. I’m delighted to find a patch of tiny wild strawberries within the brushwood as a reward for my perseverance, and also some onions.
When I’ve worked for a couple of hours, I have a reasonable amount of ground cleared, and so I sit for a few minutes to catch my breath and take a drink of reviving cold water from the well. The sun is rising in the sky now and the nuthatches and sparrows are singing in the firs and smaller trees beyond. I’m so unused to physical labour these days that, although I started work early to avoid the heat, I find I am sweating and tired already. But I feel strangely happy, despite my stinging hands, and satisfied that my small kitchen garden is beginning to take shape.
Fetching a spade from the woodshed, I begin to turn over the earth. A rich, loamy smell invades my nostrils, and I watch the earwigs and worms scuttle and wriggle for safety as my digging disturbs their homes. They are not the only animals here; throughout the morning, I hear movements behind me, twigs snapping and leaves rustling. And out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of squirrels darting between the trees in the fringes of the woods.
The squirrels and birds give me an odd sense of companionship, and the idea of chipmunks and raccoons out there likewise doesn’t bother me. But there is also the more frightening prospect that beyond them, deep among the woods, there are foxes and wolves and even bears. I hope they are not watching me, sizing me up. But I’m sensible enough not to go looking for trouble and I remember from childhood the need to stay safely at my cabin by twilight.
What a change this is from the urban life I led for so many years. I’m accustomed to being surrounded by concrete and steel, buildings hemming me in on all sides. The only trees in my neighbourhood were those planted by design of our town planners and grudgingly given a five-foot diameter of hard earth chopped out of the pavement. Here, the firs are king — towering above me, stretching up to the blue sky, strength in their number. And I am the interloper in the woods — the novice, the newcomer, watched by the wildlife.
By eleven o’clock I’m satisfied that the space is clear enough, and the ground soft enough, to take some planting. I wash and disinfect my poor bloodied hands. Then, ravenous, I eat an early lunch, sleep for an hour, and set off down the hillside into town, eager to buy seedlings, and in need of bread and coffee. The local small town is the wonderfully named Defiance, so called by its first settlers who fought the terrain and won their place in it. It’s a fitting place for me, too, starting out on this new phase in my life, putting my past behind me and saying ‘yah boo sucks’ to the rest of the world.
On the advice of a friendly storekeeper, I buy plants that will yield potatoes, carrots and beans to go along with my wild onions and strawberries. He also asks if I have a gun, in case the bears or coyotes decide that my newly-inhabited cabin is an attractive source of food. I know this is unlikely — they tend to attack only when driven by hunger, and the weather is not cold enough yet for this. When I voice my discomfort at the idea of handling a gun, the storekeeper assures me I would only need to fire warning shots, and not aim at the animal. But I tell him that I’ll deter anything that ventures too close with the time-honoured clanging of pots and pans, as I once witnessed my great-aunt do; I still remember how fast that black bear fled. I know the trick is to show no fear. He does manage to make a gun sale in the end, but only of a child’s giant water gun, which he tells me is a good deterrent. I hope I won’t ever be faced with a scenario where a black bear is close enough to soak, but you can never be sure, living away from town.
And so I stock up on my provisions and enjoy drinking coffee and reading the newspapers in a local coffee shop. But after a couple of hours, I’m more than happy to leave civilisation behind me and head home. I want to get my seedlings into their bed and water them generously before dark. I hope I have cleared enough of a margin from the undergrowth to deter the earwigs from eating my new plants; fortunately, my survival doesn’t depend on this, unlike that of the original inhabitants of Defiance.
By nightfall I’m exhausted. A sore back and tired feet bear witness to my day’s work and the long trek down into town and back again. I have planted my seedlings and soaked my hands, taking the sting out of the cuts; truthfully, I am quite proud of the visible signs of today’s manual labour. I light my oil lamp and bring it out onto the porch, as well as some candles in hurricane lanterns. The wood is full of rustling and chirruping, and my ears pick up the occasional hoot of an owl and the swoosh of bats.
How I enjoy the solitude and the lack of human noise around me. I sit, yawning and contented, and at peace with my world.
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This follows Cabin Tales (2) and the next instalment is Cabin Tales (4)

