Spoonwood (11 page)

9

APPLE WOOD

T
he next morning I can tell by the sharp crunch of my footfalls that the temperature is well below zero. It is minus thirteen. Before doing my chores I listen to the quiet. It's like that moment when everyone's left the house and the TV is blaring and you shut it off and suddenly you and sweet silence are one.

“Birch, I think from here on in winter is going to be my favorite season,” I say.

Winter in New Hampshire is the best time of year to be outside. No tormenting mosquitos, black flies, picnic ants, or no-seeums. With the leaves off the trees, you can see way into the forest. I've planned to make snowshoes from ash wood, bending rived sticks in a steam box, but there is no need, because our road becomes a highway for the latest North Country craze—snowmobiling. I like the way the machines pack down the trail, which makes walking without snowshoes easy, especially when I'm pulling a sled full of firewood. But the idea of recreational snowmobiling strikes me as frivolous and in bad taste. I don't like the noise and speed, disruptive to the meditative spirit that resides in the forest; I don't like being hemmed in by humanity, an exaggeration, I suppose, when you consider that we might see
half a dozen bands of snowmobilers on a weekend and few or none on weekdays. What really worries me, though, is that the word will spread to the owner of Forgot Farm that somebody is living on his property. I've become attached to this place.

I've read the trust charter and it bars all motorized vehicles. Either the trust board or perhaps Persephone herself has given the Darby Snowmobile Club permission to use the trust lands for recreation. The snowmobile trails spill over into neighboring trails and eventually go right by Forgot Farm. Part of me is amused thinking about the Squire in his special place in hell, the grinning Devil delivering the bad news: “Your conservancy appears to be serving a constituency you did not foresee.”

During the cold wave I make spoons by the fire. Every cut, every flying shaving, gives me a little thrill. For the first time in my life I can say to a lie detector that I am content without watching the needle fly off the paper. Even so, I have much to learn before I master this craft. I have the tools, the eye-hand coordination, the aesthetic sense, the (accidental) practice in knife work from my whittling days, and the sharpening knack, but I lack experience in the particular problems posed by spoonmaking. I test each spoon and discover that most do not satisfy me. I cut the bowls too deep, or they do not fit the hand well, or the proportions are wrong. And then there is the matter of design. The wood makes its own demands. One piece wants to show the knife nicks, but even these subtle imperfections must harmonize with each other. Some want to be perfectly smooth, and one slip of the knife ruins them. Sometimes I misjudge the grain of the wood, and my hewing hatchet splits out a piece that wants to be part of the spoon.

I cannot bear to look at my rejects and I burn them. The spoon with the charred handle, my first spoon, a perfectly made thing, came my way not through my skill but from some mysterious agent in fire. The sight of it makes me humble and reverent. I will learn the craft of spoonmaking through work, study, trial, error, and prayer. I start writing down all the facts I can remember about the making of a spoon, from the nature of the wood to my own mood at the time. I call these little essays Spoonwood Documentations. They are my prayers.

I test various woods. Oak, which splits easily and makes wonderful table furniture, is too open-grained for most kinds of spoons. Maple and birch make serviceable spoons, but the wood is often bland. I look for imperfections in color and grain to highlight. It is in imperfections that one sees beauty. Cherry is lovely, but not very hard, so it makes spoons that attract the eye but are fit for only moderate use, such as salad tossing. I wish to make spoons to last a lifetime.

When the cold snap ends I take Birch for a long walk—no wind to sting the cheeks and water the eyes, bright sunshine on the snow, like the beach. We go to the ledges. We've been here in the summer and fall, but not in winter. From the top of the cliff we can see across the Connecticut River to the Vermont hills and beyond the Green Mountains, where at this moment thousands of people from downcountry are skiing. They might as well be on another planet for what I have in common with them. They and their forest-stripped mountains intensify my loneliness. I am glad. I value my loneliness because it is so real.

The lean-to I built as our love nest and where Lilith died has partially collapsed. I cut maple saplings and rebuild it. I cover the saplings with hemlock branches and birch bark. I resolve to maintain the structure. I'm following a directive that comes from someplace within, inaccessible to the likes of Old Crow or even my conscious, functioning self.

While Dad talks to me at the ledges I look up in the sky at a great bird, circling. Maybe it's an eagle or an osprey or a hawk, or some bird of my imagination. I cannot say. All I know is that for a moment, Mother, you take my hand. For a moment I am the great bird. Below me I see a young thing, a possible meal, if only the parent would put it down and wander off to fulfill some desire, as a parent will.

I show Birch the tiny hemlock tree that Lilith loved so much, because it grew out of a crack in the ledge with no more than a cup
full of soil for sustenance. I tell Birch that sad story all over again, how the world lost Lilith and gained him on this spot. I tell him Lilith's spirit resides in the little hemlock tree, and that she comes into the lean-to at night to stay warm and to remember him.

“‘It's a tough little tree, a good tree—a good tree,' she would say,” I tell Birch. “And look at this. Something new, scarred bark, where a buck deer scraped the velvet from his antlers.”

We're about ready to start down when I notice the bushes that cover the ledges—mountain laurel. I remember that some of the oldtimers referred to mountain laurel as spoonwood. I cut a piece and bring it with us.

That night I make a spoon from mountain laurel, and with the first shaving—dark and firm—flying off my knife I know I have found what will be my favorite spoonwood.

Dad takes long walks with me to gather spoonwood and just to behold. He reads dramas in the snow and relates them to me.

“See those tracks of a bird in the snow, maybe a crow,” Dad points. “It came down right here, walked a ways, flew six feet, and landed again. Then we have these other tracks, a ferret, I think. Note where they come together.”

I see a blood spot in the snow, a few iridescent blue-black feathers, tracks of the ferret moving off. Dad is trying to teach me something about death, but I was born in death so I already know.

It's a nice winter day and I've set up the shaving horse outside. I should buy groceries but I'll wait another day or two. We walk to town less and less, only when in dire need of necessities and to return and take out library books. I always make a mental note to stop in at the town office to check the tax records to look up the owner of the property we are squatting on, but I never seem to find the time.

“The truth is you're afraid,” says Old Crow.

“Just cautious. I don't like government entities.”

“I think Dot McCurtin, our town clerk and premier gossip, intimidates you,” says Old Crow.

“That's true.”

“That was too quick an admission,” says Old Crow. “The real reason you don't want to think about who owns Forgot Farm is because there's nothing you can do about it. You're living on meager savings; you have no job, no income, and no collateral to get a loan to make an offer on the land.”

I'm so preoccupied talking to myself that I don't hear the snowmobiles until Birch screeches (his latest sound). My strategy is to ignore snowmobiles. If they stop I go on with my work and pretend they don't exist; by now the local people have gotten the hint and they zoom right on by. Not today. The snowmobilers pull into our yard.

They wear matching orange and blue insulated jumpsuits, the new velcro-buckled boots, shiny silver helmets, and faceplates that conceal their identities, though the curves in the suits tell me that one is a woman and one a man. I try to turn away but can't help watching long black hair cascade out onto shoulders with a shake of the head as the woman removes her helmet. It's Katharine Ramchand. She leaves the helmet behind on the seat of her machine, but her companion, Garvin Prell, carries his under one arm like a jet pilot.

I'm thinking that somehow Garvin has gained control of Forgot Farm and he's come to serve papers. I prepare myself for the worst; instead, his friendly demeanor knocks me off balance.

“I don't believe how much he's grown,” Garvin says, looking at Birch.

“Care to come in for a cup of Ovaltine?” I say, in spite of myself.

“Great,” Garvin says.

“Give me a hand,” I say, grabbing the shaving horse. It's Katharine who takes an end. Garvin puts his helmet down and picks up Birch.

“You're already involved in an unnecessary conversation,” Old Crow says.

“Why don't you shut up.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't hear what you said,” Katharine says.

“Nothing—nothing at all,” I say.

I hadn't built our unique home to impress people but out of need and to please myself. The look of surprise and delight on Katharine's face is sweeter than sugar on snow.

“Beware—your guard is down, Frederick,” says Old Crow.

Garvin hands Birch to me, and I put him in the indoor playpen; he resists, shaking the bars.

“He wants to be part of the action,” I say.

“I'll play with him.” Garvin pulls Birch out.

“Okay,” I say, hypnotized by the man's good cheer.

Garvin crawls around on the floor with Birch and makes funny faces, and Birch pulls his hair.

Katharine sits on the stick chair at the stick table. I serve her Ovaltine and I sit on the shaving horse.

“We have come to inform you that I will be studying the stone wall on this property,” she says.

“Why this wall?”

“For my doctoral thesis.”

I repeat my question. “But why this wall?”

“Because stone walls are impacts of geology, artifacts of culture, and, of recent, aesthetic concerns regarding walls have been raised.”

“Your diction,” I say.

“Because I love this wall,” she says.

“Okay, I believe that,” I say. She breaks eye contact and rises. There's something she's not telling me.

Garvin returns Birch to the playpen.

“I heard Persephone left town,” I say to Katharine.

“She's in Tasmania for the winter.”

“You housesitting?”

“You could call it that.” Katharine looks at Garvin.

“Maybe Persephone will like it down under so much she'll stay forever,” I say.

“She will return,” Katharine says. “She has a business deal to conduct.”

“Please!” Garvin says sharply.

Suddenly, things are different. I'm alert, ready—no, eager—to fight.

“We mustn't spill our guts, such as they are, to the Hermit of Lonesome Hill—that is what they call me, isn't it?” I'm talking out of some gremlin in my head. I have no idea what the townsfolk call me. “Hermit of Lonesome Hill” just popped into my mind. It's the kind of unbalanced thinking that plagues me when I feel pressured.

Katharine ignores me and gives Garvin backtalk in the easy way of people intimate with one another. “There's no reason to be secretive about this, Garvin. The papers have been filed and are public information.”

“Our host enjoys his peace and quiet around here. No intrigue. Isn't that right, Frederick?”

I pretend Garvin does not exist and I address Katharine. “What papers? What business deal?” I hate the sound of my voice, so strident.

Katharine looks at Garvin, turns back to me. “The matter will not affect you or your lifestyle,” she says in her beautiful and formal accent. “I should not have spoken.”

“Thank you,” Garvin says to Katharine.

Birch is calm now, hypnotized, the way I was minutes ago.

“You have any business with me?” I say to Garvin.

“Persephone's offer still holds, if that's what you mean.”

“I have no use for her money.”

Garvin pauses, chooses his words carefully, delivers them in a friendly tone. “Frederick, you can't live on property you have no legal right to.”

“Is that a threat?”

Garvin shakes his head as one might at the antics of a troublesome child. “If I wanted you out, you would be out. Okay?”

“We should leave,” Katharine says. “Thank you for showing us your home.” She's stoic, dignified, a mystery, as if a statue of an ancient goddess has come alive.

“Goodbye, little feller,” Garvin says to Birch.

Off and on for the next couple weeks Katharine shows up alone at Forgot Farm to photograph the wall, scrape samples from the surfaces of rocks, take notes and measurements. Every
afternoon I listen for the sound of her snow machine. I want to talk to her, and at the same time I don't want to talk to her. Not that it matters what I really feel, since she avoids me. Her presence is so disturbing to me that every time she arrives I leave and visit my orchard.

By now I've cut down scores of small pines so the apple trees can have some light. I haul the small pine logs to Forgot Farm by sled; split and seasoned, they will make good fat wood for the cooking fire. My goal is to bring back the orchard so the trees produce apples and there's grass underneath where one can lie down on a summer day and dream. I'm figuring on a five-year project.

Meanwhile, thoughts of Garvin playing with Birch and his sly reference to my status as a squatter eat away at me. I picture him with Lilith, and then I have to work to shake the picture out of my head. What was the real reason he came to my place? Is he working for Persephone? For himself? Finally, I overcome my fear of government and check the property tax records, where I discover that the owner of Forgot Farm is a Walter Sturtevant Jr. of Delray Beach, Florida.