Getting There By Alan G. May

I took the turkey off the counter and headed out to the cutter. Dad was there and already had the horse harnessed with a fire going in the small stove that would keep us warm on the half hour trip to my Grandparents house. The breeze had picked up some, bringing with it a soft sifting snow that slowly found it’s way down the back of my neck. I stood with my back to the wind waiting impatiently for him to open the door. I was finding this big old turkey growing heavier with every passing second. It was only when I was sure I could endure it no longer that he turned to relieve me of my heavy burden.

I sat down on the seat wrestling the turkey into my lap. I was much more comfortable, now that I was in out of the wind and sitting near the stove. After one last check of the harness dad climbed in closing the door, then with a flip of the reins and a quick hop from our horse we were underway.

Our poor old cutter had seen better days. I guess its slow demise hastened to a great degree by the purchase of our first car. Pieces of canvas or old rags covered the holes that would have been patched with great care only a few years before. It saddened me some to see it in such a state, as I had spent many hours in our little one horse cutter in my short time on this earth. Countless trips spent with my family while our aged old mare ambled along through the snow.

I peered out through one of the two small windows and found that I could hardly see beyond our horse. I looked up at my father, the worry I’m sure etched upon my face, and was happy to see his warm smile. That reassured me some, although many times we had turned back in less weather than this. Our horse plodded on though, seemingly as unconcerned as my father. So my thoughts now drifted to the day ahead, the warm fire that awaited us, the laughter that would fill the house and the smell of turkey cooking in Grandma’s wood stove. At some point during the day Grandpa would appear from the cellar with a dusty old bottle of wine made from fruit he had pirated in some year past from Grandma’s garden. Slowly, carefully dusting it off then holding it up to the light, finally uncorking this little treasure, much to the delight of my father.

I reached into the small bucket and pulled out a piece of coal, then opened the door to the stove and flipped it inside. The chill was slowly creeping in around us, now that we were out in the open. The canvas patches offering little protection from the wind. The snow sifted in on top of us, I watched as it landed on the stove, and instantly turned to tiny droplets of water, then almost as quickly vanishing completely. I felt the cold now and with a shiver added still another larger piece to the fire, marveling at the red glow it produced in the metal of the old home made stove.

We almost seemed to be in our own little world out here, The wind gusting hard enough that it could be felt right to the core of our leaky little cutter, the snow sifting in around us, and our humble little stove doing it’s best to give back the warmth stolen by the winter winds.

The fields around us so rich with life though the three seasons, now seemed like nothing ever could have lived out here. The golden oats that stood there only three short months ago were now replaced by a barren white world that not even the hardiest birds could tolerate. I can just imagine them, hidden away in the thickest parts of the forest to escape this bitter wind, feathers all fluffed up, those little feet hanging on so tight to the branches. They dare not venture out on this wild and windy winter day. So then it is us and only us,….. us and our trusty old horse.

I ask my father how old our cutter is, his reply, older than he. My great Grandfather had formed the stove in his little shop, then welding it on his forge. The stove was then placed in this cutter, a sturdy little shelter that he had built many years before. I had to wonder about the journeys it has seen. Barely tall enough for me to stand, and rather cramped with the stove, it certainly wasn’t made for trips of any length, or for that matter hauling much of anything other than a few groceries, or the mail back from town. He said it had carried him to school on many a day, miserable days when it was too cold to walk, and that their horse knew the route off by heart, slowly plodding along placing it’s hooves in nearly the same tracks each time. He explained that the trip home got more exciting the nearer they got to the barn. With a pail of oats and a nice warm stall the old nag couldn’t seem to get there fast enough.

I stared at the turkey, remembering a summer of hauling feed out to the coup. Seemed like a thousand trips, and every time they would nearly run me over, each wanting to get that first precious beak full. What a peculiar bird they were, almost looked like some flightless vulture. Boy if that didn’t spoil your appetite. Right through till fall I had complained about those horrible birds, but when the time finally had come to make ready for the feast I couldn’t watch, so when dad picked up the axe and headed out behind the barn, I busied myself with a few needless chores elsewhere in the yard. I had got used to them, I suppose, though I wasn’t likely to admit it…… Oh well, they sure do smell good cooking in Grandma’s oven, and the stuffing is to die for.

Again I looked out the window and was glad to see we were back in the trees. Even though I know better it seemed like the storm wasn’t so bad here. The snow that had been piling up on the branches since the last big wind now rushed out at us from all directions, the limbs of the big spruce moving around like giant flailing arms. Looming out of this white world was Grandpa’s threshing machine, every other day nothing more than just a big pile of metal and pulleys, now it seemed like some huge iron dragon ready to pounce on any lesser beast that passed within it’s grasp. Isn’t it strange how the storm changes the way we see things.

My thoughts drifted to our Christmas tree, each year a new adventure. We all went out to find it each year, even our old dog came along. Dad always walked behind the horse, with the reins draped over his shoulder, we, not able to tolerate their slow progress plowed ahead, as if the trees would escape us if we left them out there even one minute longer. We found just the right one down by the river. It was almost perfectly rounded, like it had been trimmed just for this purpose. Each year though it was the same, we would look and look, the whole family discussing the particular virtues of each one, then, in the end deciding on a tree we had seen when we first had started out. The dog during this important outing would wear it’s self out, sniffing a rabbit trail, or barking at a squirrel, it never stopped moving, darting this way and that. Well not until we got home that is, where just inside the door by the fire she would flop on her side and fall fast asleep, feeling content that her job was done and all were safe from those menacing creatures that had kept her so busy.

The barn loomed up before us, we stopped, unhitching the mare, and dusted the snow off her back, wiped her down, then topped up the oats in the bucket and headed for the house. The warmth from the stove hit us in a wave, and all the smiling faces made us forget so instantly the storm that still raged on outside.

This day like all the Christmas’s before and since was a very special time, a time for family, and a time to reflect. The turkey I carried through the storm, was everything I had imagined, and while it cooked I sat listening to all the sounds that floated through that old house…...

All the sounds of Christmas.

Merry Christmas 2002