Working With Cedar: The Early Years

  WORKING WITH CEDAR

  The Early Years

  By Terry McDonald

  COPYRIGHT JANUARY 1, 2016

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WORKING WITH CEDAR

  The Early Years

  BY

  TERRY MCDONALD

  WORKING WITH CEDAR

  A Post-Apocalyptic Tale

  The second chapter Nash’s tale:

  The Early Years

  WORKING WITH CEDAR AUGUST, 2068

  The number of rough cedar planks still on the wagon shames the stack of finished boards on my bench. I have to stop daydreaming.

  Feeling refreshed from the nap inside the barn, I gulp another dipper of water from my pail and take up my jackplane. Make a stroke and the blade digs in, lifting a thick, splintery curl. The only cure for it is to turn the board over and hope for better grain. Give the fresh side a stroke and the shaving curls out, thin, smooth, perfect.

  A cooling breeze passes by; rustling the pitiful mound of shavings stretched the length of my work area. Feeling the air rumple my chest hair prompts me to heed Betty’s warnings. I take my dried shirt from the trailer and cover my skin to block the sunlight that scared her so.

  I make a vow to keep at it, to finish the boards before dark, not the smoothing with a draw edge, just the planing. I see Burt playing chase with a bunch of other youngsters over on the west side of the house. I have determination, but sometimes that can fall short. I decide to plan a backup and shout loud enough for Burt to hear, but he doesn’t turn toward me. It takes twice more to get him to look in my direction. My hand motion brings him running over.

  “I told you, Mister Vaughn, my name is Brent.”

  “That’s right, you did. Brent, I want you to keep an eye out for the posse. Tell Nate Chalmers I need to see him.”

  “Aw shoots, Mister Vaughn, they’ll be wanting to eat soon’s they come in. I’ll have to wait over by the cookhouse. Miss Penny will find some way to put me working. She always does.”

  “Well then, just skip over there and tell her to pass my message to Nate. If she tries to put you to work, tell her you’re helping me. Will you do that for me?”

  “I can smell the cornbread cooking. If I do it, can I tell her you want a piece?”

  “I don’t want any.”

  Brent smiled a conniving smile. “I’ll eat it for you.”

  “Go on then, but don’t let Penny catch you out in a lie. She keeps a switch handy and she’s quick with her whippings.”

  Brent said, “Don’t I know it.”

  “I bet you do,” I shout to his back as he skips off. Watching his flashing bare legs so tanned and strong brings a surge of envy. I remember once repeating the saying, ‘The energy of youth is wasted on the young’. My Betty had a different take. The young have enough sense to enjoy youth. Old people don’t know how to play—waste all their energy on seriousness. I’ll give her that one.

  I pick up the plane, and lay it back down. Torina, Little Billie’s daughter left their house and is walking toward me. She draws near, and even twenty feet away I see the red of her eyes.

  I wave her to the tailgate of the trailer, pushing the boards aside to make room for her to sit.

  I remember thinking the first time I laid eyes on her that she would grow into beauty. She was seven. Her beauty came, blessed her teens and twenties. Smallpox stole that from her in her thirties, left her body pocked and pitted. She took to wearing a veil anytime she left the house.

  She married Seth Hansard, Shorty Hansard’s boy. The sorry skunk didn’t want what the pox made of her. Took off one night and never came back. Their little boy died two years later of the cough. Six other kids in the hold whooped their way into early graves.

  Almost as arthritic as I, she needs a hand to help her onto the tailgate. She is rail-thin, and the hand I hold deeply wrinkled. There’s a big age difference between seven and twenty-three, our ages back then, but not so much between fifty-two and sixty-eight. Time does equalize people.

  She settles onto the tailgate and asks, “How are you doing, old man?”

  “If you’re asking me how I’m doing with prepping the boards, not too good. If you’re asking how I am in general, not worth a damn.”

  Torina pulls a handkerchief from her dress pocket and touches it to her pox marked face. “I can’t wear my veil because I can’t stop crying. I keep thinking I’m dried out, and here comes another well full.”

  I pick up the plane, saying as I did, “Good thing men don’t cry.”

  She calls me on my bullshit. “Your eyes are as red as mine.”

  Choosing not to respond to the truth, ask instead, “Did you come over here to help me?”

  “No. I thought you’d say words too calm my soul. You’re good with words.”

  “Revenge is the best calmative.”

  “No, that’s what I would get from Betty. What I need is what you would say. Please Nash, give me something.”

  Torina is yanking my heartstrings. I lay my plane back on the plank. Torrie…,” to her look I say, “Yes I called you Torrie. Seth stole that from you, no, he stole that from everyone who loves you. Forget that pile of worm castings wearing the skin of a man. Ran off and left one of the finest people in the world. Ran from the baby he birthed and owed.

  “You ditched the name ‘Torrie’ because he used it. Well I knew you long before he did and you’re my Torrie and I’m reclaiming you. Do you hear that? You’re mine.”

  She threw both hands in the air and said, “Whoop tee doo. That sure went nowhere. Fuck Seth, but I happen to prefer Torina.”

  “Whoop tee doo back at you. I’m calling you Torrie from now on.” With something in mind, I bend to the ground to grab a handful of cedar shavings. Stand with it and realize I plucked them from the place of Penny’s tobacco spit. It takes two fresh handfuls of shavings to wipe off the mess.

  Go to her with a clean batch of heartwood shavings. “Open your hand.”

  Her reluctant arm moves and I pour them into her hand. “Now smell them. Draw the scent in deep.”

  “Is this some sort of rustic cure for crying?”

  “Cut the sarcasm and just do it.”

  She raises her hand and sniffs the fragrant oil the shaving give off.

  I shake my head at her tentative effort. “Take the scent in deeper.”

  She put the handful closer to her nose and drew the stringent volatiles in deep, let her breath out and cast me a quizzical expression. “Smells good.”

  “Yes it does, but that’s not the point. You ever smell that before?”

  “Just about every day. It’d be almost impossible not to, what with so much cedar used around here.”

  I nod. “Yep, just so. Now open your ears and listen to our world. Tell me what you hear.”

  She tilts her head up and closes her eyes.

  “I hear children playing. I can barely hear James grinding something on his sharpening wheel. Off in the distance I can hear crows cawing.” Lowers her face to look at me, letting the shavings fall from her hand, she says, “Just everyday noise.”

  I move back to my bench and sit on the planks. “Everyday noise, everyday stuff; the smell of cedar; the odor of Penny’s cooking, smell it all the way to here, smell it sometimes from a mile away. Know you can walk any road in Sweetlips and see crops growing or fresh turned fields readying for fall planting.

  “Just everyday things. Everyday things bought and paid for by the citizens of Sweetlips: Bought with hard work, hardship, and heartbreak. Blood spilt to keep what we earned and more we’ll spill to make sure our children have these everyday things.

  “It hasn’t been easy, but for nearly forty years, at th
e cost of a million tears and gallons of blood, we’ve kept this place clean and wholesome. Yours and mine are only a drop in the buckets of what we’ve shed, but every drop’s bought its weight in glory. Your daddy, Little Billie, shed his share and now shed it all. He was a mountain of a man and a world of moral strength; A hero for heroes.”

  Torrie’s eyes well and begin flowing. She slides from the tailgate. Walking to me, speaks barely over a whisper. “They are horrible, hurtful drops. Will you hold me?”

  I rise from boards and we embrace. In her arms, my tears spring easy, two tore up wore out warriors, overloads of glory dampening the cloth of our shoulders.

  Long we stand, swaying under the sun. Torrie draws a breath deeply and breaks away. Standing close, she asks, “What can I do?”

  I move back to my work area. ”One thing not to do is stay inside your home. Find something to occupy yourself. Hell, go over to the kitchen and volunteer to help. For sure Penny won’t put up with you crying and whimpering.”

  Drying her face with her handkerchief, she barks a short laugh, “That’s for sure. The word, ‘patience’, isn’t in her vocabulary.” She chuckled, “Penny’s already been here to give you an earful. I saw you wiping her tobacco spit off your fingers.”

  I reply to her almost smiling face, “Yes she did, and I’m glad her spit and my discomfort amuse you. Get on with you and let a man work.”

  Stepping to me for a parting hug, she says, “Looking at how much you done, dawdle might be a better word.”

  Walking from me, she turns to say, “Thank you, Nash.”

  I nod, and turn to my work. The plane sits on the board awaiting. I ease my butt onto the impromptu bench of boards bridging my workbenches and gaze around my holding. Taking my own advice, I open my senses to the sights and scents surrounding me.

  It is all around me… The glory Betty and I bought with bone and blood, Bought with the blood of those who joined with us.

  Knowing what’s coming, too weak in heart to ignore it, I gather my water bucket and ladle and return to my hay bale inside the barn.

  IN THE PAST

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  JUNE 2023

  Nash followed Betty into the kitchen. Unlike the main kitchen downstairs, except for the unwashed dishes and eating utensils on a counter, along with a couple of used pots in the sink, the space was immaculate. Leaving the door open to allow light into the space, Nash went to where an LED lamp sat on a prep table and switched it on.

  Betty located a knife-block on a counter and began drawing knives one at a time, holding them close to her eyes to examine them. She found none she considered suitable and began opening and closing drawers attached to the various stainless steel counters and tables. From one drawer she removed a flat, grey utensil and laid it on the surface above. Finally, opening a drawer she removed a short paring knife and examined it.

  Turning to Nash, she said, “Good steel, moderately sharp.” She picked up the first item she found “Diamond hone will give it a better edge. We’ll need some sort of disinfectant; Alcohol, Lysol, bleach. See what you can find.”

  Nash pointed to the huge handbag she’d placed on the counter. “You said you’re a nurse. You don’t have anything in your bag. It’s big enough to hold an entire operating room.

  “No. I wanted to go by the hospital to get some supplies, but traffic was already so bad, we didn’t dare try.”

  While searching for disinfectant, Nash listened to the nerve-racking sound of the blade sliding on the sharpening tool. Finding an unopened gallon of bleach in a metal base-cabinet, he returned and placed it on the prep table.

  Betty held the small knife close to the lantern. “This will do.” Pointing to a shelf, “It’s too dark in here. Grab the smallest mixing bowl,” shifting her finger, “the bleach, and the half bottle of water by the dirty dishes. We need better light.”

  Moving toward the door, she called over her shoulder, “A roll of paper towels; A fresh roll. I saw some in the cabinet under where the bowls are.”

  Nash did as she ordered and followed her from the kitchen, warring with his eyes to keep them from glancing in Jill’s direction.

  Betty had crossed the room to the bullet-blown open windows, stopping before reaching the edge of shattered glass crumbles of tempered glass that lined the long wall.

  “There’s good light here, and we can keep watch on the road while I operate. Put everything on the floor. We’ll need three chairs, one for you, and one for me and another for my instruments. Come on. You get two of them.

  Moving the chairs, Nash was becoming very nervous about her term, “Operate”. She set her chair down and then spent a moment arranging her makeshift operating room. She opened the paper towels and tore off several sheets to layer on one of the chairs.

  Placing the sharpened knife on the towel, she sat on a chair and said, “This isn’t the ideal situation, but we’ll get this done. Put your rifle down and drop your pants. Let me see your wound.”

  Nash let the strap of his small pack slip from his shoulder to his feet and then laid his rifle onto the hardwood floor.

  “There are two unopened bottles of water in my pack.”

  Betty said, “Kick it my way.”

  He gave it a shove with his foot and unbuckled the holster holding his pistol to lay it beside the rifle. Hesitating a moment, facing away from her, he loosened his belt, lowered his jeans and his boxer shorts.

  His embarrassment at exposure to a stranger, a beautiful one, only deepened when he felt the pressure of Betty’s hands on his hips turning him to better view his wound.

  “I can see the fragment. Stand where you are, I’ll need to clean this. Don’t pay attention to what I’m doing. Keep an eye on the road.” She paused speaking and then said, “We don’t want to get caught with our pants down.”

  “Ha, ha,” was his response to her humor.

  He heard her puttering behind him. “You’ll let me know before you do anything; right?”

  “You’ll know. Now I’m preparing a solution of water and bleach to sanitize my hands and instruments. I wish I had forceps,”

  “I have a stainless steel combination tool in my backpack.”

  “Thanks, I need the water anyway.”

  He heard her work the zipper on his pack and then the sound of metal as she worked the combination tool. “Oh, great, this will do just fine. Now hold still, I’m going to swab the blood from around your wound.”

  Betty’s touch was gentle but firm as she cleaned the dried blood from his buttock. Even so, Nash flinched away a few times.

  “Don’t be a baby,” Betty chided. “If you’re like this, what are going to do when the real hurt comes; scream and run away?”

  “Maybe. It sure would be nice if you had Novocain.”

  “It would be nice if I had a lot— oh crap. We need something to stitch up with afterwards.”

  “Stitches!”

  Betty slapped his uninjured butt cheek and said. “Shut up and think. You’re bleeding now, but it’ll get worse when the fragment’s out. Have you seen any sort of sewing kit while wandering around the house?”

  “No.”

  “Wire? Thin wire will do.”

  Nash thought and came up blank. “No, er, wait. There is a retractable ink pen in the kitchen. I think Jill had it out for some reason. The spring in it is thin. Maybe we can straighten it out.”

  “It’s worth a try.” She slapped his butt cheek again. “Wait here.”

  She was gone long enough for Nash to grow impatient. He turned his head to the sound of returning footsteps.

  “Any luck.”

  Twenty feet from him, she held up a short length of nearly invisible wire. Speaking as she walked, she said, “I managed to get it fairly straight by stretching it while dragging it across the edge of a counter. I should have enough for five twists if I’m conservative with it.

  She resumed her chair and said, “Good. Your tool has a wire snip.” He heard it clank when she placed it int
o the bowl holding the bleach solution. Dabbing away fresh blood she said, “Let’s get this done. I’m scared and itching to get away from here.”

  Nash felt her fingers probing the flesh around the piece of shrapnel imbedded in his buttock. Several times, he squeaked with pain, but managed not to jerk away from her hands.

  It hurt even worse when she gave the hunk of metal a tentative pull. “I think I can get this out without cutting. The slit’s large enough, but the other end is jagged and bent. I’ll need to tilt it as I pull. Nash, I won’t lie to you. This is going to hurt, but I’ll be quick. The sewing will hurt worse, but I think three twists of wire will close it. I’m going to put them deeper than normal. There’s no telling what sort of strain they’ll get in the time it takes to heal.”

  Nash shuddered and said. “It has to come out. I’m ready. Do it now.”

  Betty had him lie across the third chair to put his rear end in a stable position. He heard her chair slide closer and then three snips as she cut the wire to length.

  She began speaking, “Nash, I meant to tell you, anytime you make a mixture of…,” Nash felt a moment of intense pain. While talking, she used the pliers of his multi-tool to grip, pull and manipulate the piece of the shrapnel, then finishing her sentence, “…bleach, you use only three drops to a quart of water.”

  The manipulation of the fragment continued for another instant. He felt the chunk of metal slide from his buttock. The pain stopped in its tracks.

  Betty dropped the chunk onto the floor and said, “There; it’s out. I know that hurt. Are you okay?”

  Nash released his clenched jaw muscles, drew a breath, opened his eyes to look at the jagged metal on the floor beside him, and said, “That was a hell of a way to add emphasis to a lecture point. I’ll never forget how many drops of water to add to a quart of bleach. I’m glad that’s over.”

  Using a soothing tone, Betty spoke while pressing a folded, wet paper towel to his wound. “I’m sorry, but it’s not over. That was the easy, least painful part of this. You’re bleeding profusely. The wound needs closing.”

  To look at Betty, Nash lifted his head, twisting in his bent posture on the chair. “Hurt worse than that? You’re kidding… I hope.”