COLD WINTER NIGHT
“And together
Laura and John
made it down
icy jacketed
Boundary Bald Mountain,”
says Pa.
We hear this story every winter
as the heat
from the crackling fire
lights and warms
our faces.
“Just one more story,”
I plead.
“Tomorrow
is another day.
The night calls now
for 13-year-old Beth Swain
to go to bed.”
“But the stars
shine too brightly,”
I balk.
“Never mind, Missy Beth.
You can hide
under the blankets.”
So warm, so cozy.
Disappointed,
I step on the creaky wooden floor of our little log cabin
off to a dreamland
of thoughts.
SUNRISE
Softly, slowly –
the sparkling bright sun
rises
as a small ray of light
seeps through the cracks
of our cabin.
Quiet, peaceful
Until….
Little Litty pounces –
my tiger-pawed
youngest sister.
Upon the bed she hops
hoping to open my eyes.
She wins.
Then strange sounds
I hear coming from outside.
What or whom could it be?
Rustling through the snow
the whinny of a horse
rings through the air.
Litty and I
step in sync
to the window.
A shiny golden mare
and
a man who dismounts
with a letter addressed to Ma.
Hattie, Jessie, Dick, Nelson, Jack and Litty
who are my sisters and brothers
and I
all rush to the door
like a stampede
of wild beasts.
Ma shoos us away.
We mumble.
We glare.
Curiosity weighs on our minds.
MORNING VISITOR
BOOM! BOOM!
Comes a heavy knock
on our small wooden door.
Pa opens it.
We see a mighty man
wearing
worn brown boots,
an old deerskin jacket,
and a big furry hat.
“For you
all the way from Newfoundland.
It’s been a long journey.”
He hands Ma the letter
and she motions him to the table
as if to say
“Please make yourself at home.”
Ma puts the letter down for a moment.
She sees the man is cold.
She puts up a kettle of tea
on the rusty metal hook in the fireplace.
We all gather ‘round the table.
Then Ma puts out some biscuits.
The visitor
with his giant hand
comfortably reaches out for one of them.
After a warm cup of tea,
Pa beckons him to a small room
to rest.
NEWS FROM AFAR
Ma picks up the letter
and examines it.
“Newfoundland,” she says.
I glance over and see it is from Grandpa Abner.
He never writes.
This can’t be good.
Ma opens the letter slowly.
She looks at the date.
It was written nearly three months ago.
Minutes pass.
Ma is silent.
Tears stream down her cheek.
A sad moment
A sad thought
THE LETTER
My dear children and grandchildren,
I hope this letter finds you all well.
Unfortunately, this will probably be my last message to you.
I am sick and dying.
Although Newfoundland is far from
your home in Maine,
please come for my belongings.
Enclosed is the key to my house.
With enduring love,
Abner
WHO WILL TAKE THE JOURNEY?
Pale cheeked
Wet cheeked
“We must leave immediately,” Ma says, hastily.
“Darlin’, you ain’t leavin’ that chair.
Somebody’s got to stay here
to care for the young’uns,”
decrees Pa.
“This is a job for a man.
A big strong man.”
Ma looks at Pa
with frustrated eyes.
“I shall concede,”
she replies.
LATER THAT EVENING
This evening,
when dusk falls
I help Ma clear the dishes.
But my mind is not clear.
What would it be like without Pa?
What would it be like without his shield?
What would it be like to journey with him?
How could I say I wanted to go with him?
How could I say I wanted to come along?
I crave adventure.
I crave the unknown.
How could I make him agree?
How could I convince him to let me come along?
CONVINCING PA
“Please Pa,
Won’t you take me with you?”
I ask,
as I take my place at the table
near the fireplace.
“Well, dearest Beth,
you know Ma would not approve,
for you have many chores to do
to keep this household in order.
What would Ma do without you?
And besides it’s a long voyage
and
a ship’s no place for a girl.”
“But Pa,
you know there’s no reason to have taught me
how to rig
and how to hunt
if those skills will never come to use in my life.”
“Darlin’ Beth,
that’s a clever reply
but it’ll take more than that
to convince your Ma.
I’ll see what I can do.”
MA AGREES
“Alright, alright
I’ll let you go.
After all
you are 13
and it is time
for you to venture out.
This trip will feed
your sense of
curiosity and adventure.
Not many girls
get this opportunity.”
So lucky.
So exciting.
So daunting.
PLANNING THE TRIP
“Big ship, I tell ya.
Big whaling ship.
The Voyaging Lady is her name,”
comes Pa’s booming voice,
as he pokes the fire.
“Big ship, I tell you.
Big whaling ship
But she wouldn’t go
without the unbreakable
Captain John Edward Williams.
Ma, better get a knittin’ –
for those cold winter nights
will be a comin’ –
and those blistery winds
will be a blowin’ –
and my darlin’ Beth
the waves will be a crashin’ –
and dry you must stay
so slickers we will be a bringin’.
SETTING SAIL
“Hoist the sails!
Get ‘em rigged!
We’ve got a mighty wind a blowin’!
Clean the deck!
Scrub that grime!
And watch for whales!
They’ll be a swimmin’
And a jumpin’
in that boundless sea of water.”
“We hear ya, Captain.
We hear ya.
Ten whole times during the first bell.”
“Heave ho!” grunt the sailors,
as Pa and I enter our tiny quarters.
Clammy, musty, grungy
Worried, nervous
I question,
Will we make it?
MEALTIME
The revolting smell
of fish, filth and foul air
fills the ship,
while my stomach growls
waiting to be filled.
Pa and I step into
the captain’s quarters.
It is the first time
I see the face of Captain Williams,
ruddy and wind-burned,
loudly slurping rice and beans-
taking big bites of salt horse
with his crooked yellow teeth.
A roach floats
in the small cup of molasses
set in the middle of a worn wooden table.
THE VOYAGE
WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
The water and wind team up
to make us wet and cold
and to move us closer to our destination.
WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
The water rushes over
the sides of the deck.
The curved crests
of the waves
remind me of the claws
of a great black hawk.
KEE-OCK! KEE-OCK!
screech the herring gulls
as they soar above us.
ARRIVAL
“THROW THE ANCHOR OVER!
HOOK THE LADY TO THE SHORE!
ALAS, MATES!
WE’RE HERE IN ST. JOHNS!”
The clanking and clonking
and hustle and bustle
are heard outside our cabin door.
Pa and I rush out of our cabin
Taking our small and simple trunk.
We’ve been travelin’
for days and days.
It feels like a lifetime.
I have made friends with the crew
so I feel sad to leave,
but I am excited
about the journey that lies ahead of me.
I wonder.
What will Grandfather’s house be like?
What will we find there?
How had he lived his life?
I will soon find out
or will I?
THE WARPED WOODEN DOOR
My sea legs and Pa’s
carry us off the ship’s gangplank
to the lively fishing dock
where we find
a horse and buggy
to take us to Grandfather’s house.
We pass open fields
and houses that freckle them.
I’m almost lulled to sleep by the rocking of the wagon,
but my excitement forces my eyes to stay open
as we near Grandfather’s house.
Abruptly, we turn onto a winding road
which leads us
to a shabby little house.
The horse stops.
The driver,
with his strapping arms,
helps us out
and places our trunk
on the ground
as we look at
the warped wooden door in front of us.
We’re here at last.
Pa takes out the key
that Grandpa sent,
leaving the trunk
where it was set.
Pa turns the key
in the lock,
lifts the iron latch,
and pushes the door open.
We enter
a lonely and sad atmosphere
with a stale smell and a drab look.
Lying on a table in front of us
we see a note
written on dusty, old paper:
To My Dearest Family,
who is here to inherit my belongings-
Please make yourself at home.
You will find what I have left you
in my bedroom
Take what you wish,
for no one else will.
May peace stay with you.
I remain yours,
Abner
THE BEIGE WINTER JACKET
After infinite dreams
and a breakfast of gruel,
we resume rummaging through the house
where we left off last night.
Rifles, quilts, family portraits,
Grandma’s spectacles –
And what’s this?
A jacket.
A beige jacket.
A heavy, beige, man’s jacket.
My curious hands
grope through the big, comforting front pockets.
THE CRUMPLED SHEET OF PAPER
In a pocket
I feel a piece of paper –
a crumpled piece of paper.
Curiosity bites at me.
I must find out more.
I know your life has not been a breeze
But nothing does come with ease.
For days and days you haven’t had a lot
But this treasure, I promise, will put food in your pot.
The cliffs of Freshwater Bay are no easy task,
But lying there is a treasure for you to unmask.
Left unfound, it will be there to bask.
Halfway down the cliff is a lone oak tree.
The branches curve like the crests of the sea.
“What can this possibly mean?”
I ask,
as I try to decipher the note.
We think.
Silent.
We think.
Hard.
This is not Grandfather’s handwriting.
Pa asks,
“Did he solve this riddle?
Is the treasure in this house?
Or must we find it?
What is the treasure?”
We think.
Silent.
We think.
Hard.
“We’ve searched the house
and we’ve found nothing more than
rifles, quilts, family portraits,
Grandma’s spectacles
and a beige jacket,” I reply.
“This note might be part of what he’s left.”
Pa agrees.
“This journey is ours.
Dear Beth, we must start our search
tomorrow at morn.”
DIRT AND CLIFFS
The sun rises
above the rippling blue waves,
as we climb up the steep cliffs
of Freshwater Bay.
My knees get
scratched and bruised.
Pa’s sweaty hands
cling to a projection in the cliff,
a large jagged rock
planted in the brush.
His hands begin to slide,
but he manages to anchor his feet
just in time.
We continue climbing.
The winds continue howling.
THE MAZE TO THE TREE
We reach a landing
in a cluster of trees.
Pa says,
“We shan’t find a lone oak tree here.
We must move on.”
I pull my hat down over my ears
and make sure my jacket is buttoned.
This is not going to be easy.
I must be prepared.
As the wind continues to scold us,
we trudge on.
We twist and turn
between tall tree trunks
as the wind stings my reddening cheeks.
I smell sea salt
and peer at the vast sea below us.
As I begin to look straight ahead,
I see something
like the claws of an eagle,
like the the crests of the sea.
Pa looks through his binoculars
and shouts,
“That’s it. That’s it.
We’ve found it, Beth.
The lone oak tree.”
We trek down,
my high spirits pushing me.
Pa’s grim face
suddenly glows with a smile.
I try to lower my expectations.
What if this isn’t the tree?
What if the treasure is no longer here?
X MARKS THE SPOT
Once again my expectations rise.
We have indeed reached the lone oak tree.
My eyes reassure me that this is the place.
The lone oak tree
whose branches curve like the crests of the sea.
“Where are we to start?
This could take us years,” says Pa.
“We don’t even know what to look for,” I say.
Suddenly I see a lightning bolt
and hear the anger of thunder.
The sky darkens
and abruptly begins to pour.
With no other place to go
we take shelter under the tree.
Rain and tears pour down my cheeks
drenching the ground.
The water and wind recognize us
making us cold and wet.
We are soaked and saturated.
As the rain wipes away the earth on the ground
I see something.
Not a gnarled root.
Not an eroded rock.
Not a knotted twig.
But a protruding corner of what looks like
an unmasked treasure.
WHAT IS IT?
We use our hands
to unmask the treasure.
Dig, fling, yank!
“Here it is!”
he says with his eyes closed
and a satisfied look on his face.
I’m impatient and curious as usual,
so I jerk open the lid of the tin box,
about the size of a bread box –
and like any other
impatient and curious
13-year-old,
I wonder what it will be?
At first I see nothing.
I look again,
and see,
tangled up, hidden in a corner –
a locket.
WHOSE LOCKET?
“Here? Why? How?
Abner’s been looking for this for years.”
“Don’t leave me clueless.
You know I’m a curious girl,” I say.
“This belonged to your Great Grandmother Josephine.
Beautiful Josephine-
Blue eyes, dark brown locks
and long, delicate arms
made to caress.”
”That makes this heirloom
even more special,”
I say.
The thick dirt
makes it impossible
to see what I think will be
intricate engravings,
but even with the thickness of the dirt
I am able
to find a place to pry the locket open.
Our gray surroundings
turn golden
as I peer down
at a blurred image
of a handsome young woman
holding a fine-looking newborn child.
“That’s your Great Grandmother Josephine,
holding a young Grandpa Abner.”
We treasure the locket
on our long journey back home.
HOME AGAIN
I sit in the flowered armchair
and think about
the sounds and scents of Newfoundland.
It seems so far away
and summer has come,
but the locket around my neck
leaves fond memories.
And this evening it will happen.
The locket will be cleaned!
I will soon see its beauty in detail.
I spin the clasp around,
undo it, and remove it from my neck.
I hand it to Ma who
in a nostalgic voice says,
“Josephine.
Beautiful Josephine!”
I don’t know what to feel,
I think to myself,
for I have never had something this special.
My six siblings and Pa gather ‘round
our old wooden bowl
to watch Ma clean the locket.
Little by little,
the dust begins to clear.
We all gaze
as details become more apparent
and we begin to realize
the value of the piece.
The oohs and ahs continue.
“Am I dreaming?” admires Pa.
“Not that I reckon.”
“Looks like gold, if I’ve ever seen it.”
“Could have some value.”
“Could trade it in for a pig or two.”
WHAT TO DO?
Days go by
as we speak of this matter.
“We could sell it,
but would that be betraying our family?”
“It really could put food in our pot.
“Nothing bad about that!”
“It would really help us out.”
“But it’s a keepsake, an heirloom!”
“What to do?”
“I would wear it forever,” I beg.
“We need more time to think,” adds Ma.
“Night falls on us
and we must all go to bed,” declares Pa.
“But the question is too grand
for us to set it to rest ‘til tomorrow,”
I plead.
What to do?
What to do?
What to do?
“Tomorrow is another day.
The night calls now
for 13-year-old Beth Swain
to go to bed.”
“But the stars
shine too brightly,”
I balk.
“Never mind, Missy Beth.
You can hide
under the blankets.”
So warm, so cozy.
Disappointed,
I step on the creaky wooden floor of our little log cabin
off to a dreamland
of thoughts.
What to do?
Sydney Allard
Age 12, Grade 7
Biting Writing
Gold key