Read Online Back Roads to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #6): A Novel by Ruth Glover - Free Book Online
Authors: Ruth Glover
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jist show me the papers, provin’—as required by an Act of Parliament—ye have lived the necessary twenty-one days in Scotlan’ . . .”
Canada, 1898
P arker Jones chunked another piece of wood into the big range that dominated the “living room” area of his simple home in the Canadian bush. Outside, winter was obviously far from over, though it was April. Chickadees, not finding much to eat in a landscape long picked clean, were eagerly chipping away at the generous slab of suet Molly, on her last visit, had fastened to a tree just outside the window. As Parker well knew, Molly, even more so than the birds, was impatient for better weather. Then and only then would the men of the church begin to enlarge his present abode, transforming it into a parsonage fit for a wife to preside over.
How good it will be to have a proper home again , Parker thought as he looked around at the rough, though snug, cabin. Various church ladies had done what they could, but itremained, at best, cheerless. His glance rather sourly settled on the ubiquitous pot of beans on the back of the range, and he thought dismally of another skimpy supper scraped together and eaten alone. After all, one could only drop in, unannounced and hungry, on one’s parishioners so many times—gracious though they were and willing to add another plate to the table—without becoming a nuisance.
But winter was no time for building, though the logs for the enlarged house were even now stacked in the yard, cut to size, and weathering, a constant reminder that better days were ahead for him.
Though Molly would have done so gladly, there was no way he could ask her to settle into a cabin and from there carry on the ministrations of a bush pastor’s wife. She had been a small girl when her parents had come to Bliss from Scotland. Her family had been accustomed to a life of deprivations while they were bringing their land to production, and Molly had declared herself ready to live in a dugout, or house of sod, and happily, if it meant sharing it with Parker Jones. But dugouts, Parker thought with a shudder, were places of last resort; soddies, however, were plentiful, dotting the prairies by the hundreds, perhaps the thousands, and many a wellborn lady lived in one, having followed her man to his claim of free land. But here, in the northern bush country, soddies were replaced by cabins built from trees on the settler’s own land—an abundance of trees, a veritable shroud of bush, a tangle that intimidated some folks and turned them back from the massive task of clearing enough land, in enough time, to satisfy the Lands Office.
Trees for building, trees for burning; Parker Jones opened the draft, and the fire flared to life, roaring up the slim stovepipe and throwing out a blast of heat into the room.
He automatically stirred the beans, replaced the lid, and turned, with the enamel coffeepot in his hand, to the slop pail beside the door. Into it went the remaining dribbles of his morning and noon coffee and, after a vigorous shake, the meager grounds. With more care than usual, he measured newgrounds, dipped water into the pot from a nearby pail, and set the coffeepot on the hottest lid of the stove to boil.
Next, he turned to the open-shelf cupboards, clearly of the handmade variety, and contemplated his crockery, a mismatched conglomeration of castoffs gleaned from the homes of his congregation. He congratulated himself on having washed his dishes earlier in the day and felt something akin to a housewife’s satisfaction in what seemed to be, to his uncritical eyes, a neatly ordered cupboard. No board member should go home shaking his head over the pastor’s disgraceful housekeeping practices, to have his wife look at him with accusing eyes and remind him that the “poor man” needed a wife and was only waiting for the board to do something about it.
Parker figured he would need five cups but could not, for the life of him, match them up with the
Canada, 1898
P arker Jones chunked another piece of wood into the big range that dominated the “living room” area of his simple home in the Canadian bush. Outside, winter was obviously far from over, though it was April. Chickadees, not finding much to eat in a landscape long picked clean, were eagerly chipping away at the generous slab of suet Molly, on her last visit, had fastened to a tree just outside the window. As Parker well knew, Molly, even more so than the birds, was impatient for better weather. Then and only then would the men of the church begin to enlarge his present abode, transforming it into a parsonage fit for a wife to preside over.
How good it will be to have a proper home again , Parker thought as he looked around at the rough, though snug, cabin. Various church ladies had done what they could, but itremained, at best, cheerless. His glance rather sourly settled on the ubiquitous pot of beans on the back of the range, and he thought dismally of another skimpy supper scraped together and eaten alone. After all, one could only drop in, unannounced and hungry, on one’s parishioners so many times—gracious though they were and willing to add another plate to the table—without becoming a nuisance.
But winter was no time for building, though the logs for the enlarged house were even now stacked in the yard, cut to size, and weathering, a constant reminder that better days were ahead for him.
Though Molly would have done so gladly, there was no way he could ask her to settle into a cabin and from there carry on the ministrations of a bush pastor’s wife. She had been a small girl when her parents had come to Bliss from Scotland. Her family had been accustomed to a life of deprivations while they were bringing their land to production, and Molly had declared herself ready to live in a dugout, or house of sod, and happily, if it meant sharing it with Parker Jones. But dugouts, Parker thought with a shudder, were places of last resort; soddies, however, were plentiful, dotting the prairies by the hundreds, perhaps the thousands, and many a wellborn lady lived in one, having followed her man to his claim of free land. But here, in the northern bush country, soddies were replaced by cabins built from trees on the settler’s own land—an abundance of trees, a veritable shroud of bush, a tangle that intimidated some folks and turned them back from the massive task of clearing enough land, in enough time, to satisfy the Lands Office.
Trees for building, trees for burning; Parker Jones opened the draft, and the fire flared to life, roaring up the slim stovepipe and throwing out a blast of heat into the room.
He automatically stirred the beans, replaced the lid, and turned, with the enamel coffeepot in his hand, to the slop pail beside the door. Into it went the remaining dribbles of his morning and noon coffee and, after a vigorous shake, the meager grounds. With more care than usual, he measured newgrounds, dipped water into the pot from a nearby pail, and set the coffeepot on the hottest lid of the stove to boil.
Next, he turned to the open-shelf cupboards, clearly of the handmade variety, and contemplated his crockery, a mismatched conglomeration of castoffs gleaned from the homes of his congregation. He congratulated himself on having washed his dishes earlier in the day and felt something akin to a housewife’s satisfaction in what seemed to be, to his uncritical eyes, a neatly ordered cupboard. No board member should go home shaking his head over the pastor’s disgraceful housekeeping practices, to have his wife look at him with accusing eyes and remind him that the “poor man” needed a wife and was only waiting for the board to do something about it.
Parker figured he would need five cups but could not, for the life of him, match them up with the
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