CHAPTER 3
Fifty feet from our “mansion” was the schoolhouse, closed during the long winter, in session only from May through September when the teacher occupied the house. George had been fortunate in renting it for five dollars a month through the winter with the stipulation that we vacate in time for the opening of the school. No other shack on the hill had been available.
The first morning George began what was to become his foremost daily task—to tunnel a trail to the indispensable “outhouse” which belonged to the school. It was one hundred feet from our back door. A rendezvous of winds from all directions built drifts as high as our heads. Often falling snow filled in the trail as fast as George could shovel it out. Frequently by evening the task began again. Aching with sympathy I could look out the window and tell where my husband was only by the scoops of snow flying over the banks from a source invisible as he neared his goal.
What a transformation had taken place in my dapper young college grad, impeccable in his tailored suits, modern hats, stylish ties, and polished shoes! My snowman wore cumbersome clothes, a black skullcap pulled tightly over his head under a visored felt hat, much too large and hiding his ears, a heavy jacket with turned up collar and sleeves dangling below his leather, fleece-lined gloves, his feet in awkward arctics, drops perpetually dripping from his cold red nose, shoveling a path to the privy.
While eating our first breakfast in our first home, George explained, “The companies object to people on the hill having supplies delivered often because the mules have all they can do to supply the mines with necessities to keep them running. And besides, if they deliver only a loaf of bread it costs seventy-five cents when an entire mule-load costs only a dollar-fifty. Most of the women order only once a month. You’d better make a list of everything you think we will need for a while. Then go across the trail to the stable, just a short distance away, and telephone. Fred Diener has charge of the stable and his phone is the only one on the hill except those in the mine offices. Tell the store you live in the teacher’s house and they will send the order to Ed Lavender’s depot. His pack trains start from there.”
George left for work at the Japan Flora Mine on the slope a quarter mile away. Already longing for his return I sized up our domicile.
The floors of the two rooms were clean but bare. The front room contained a heating stove, the bed, a small table, and one straight chair. The wardrobe was a curtain stretched along one wall hiding the nails on which to hang garments. There was no door between the two rooms. The kitchen contained a cooking range, a small table, two roughly made chairs, and one shelf for dishes. On a small bench in a corner was a tin basin. This was evidently for both dishwashing and bathing. I immediately put a second basin on my list of necessities. Beneath the bench was the “slop jar,” a five-gallon oil can.
One small window in front and back let in a little light in the daytime. One bare electric bulb dangled from the ceiling in each room.
The bed made and dishes washed, I hung our clothes on the wall and my housework was done.
I knew almost nothing about ordering food but we had to eat. We could have nothing fresh sent up, not even milk. That list! How I dreaded to make it! How many cans and of what foods? What sizes? Would I ever learn? My beloved husband was a glutton for meat. I must get plenty of that, and chocolate, which he enjoyed so much. I thought of what my mother used to send me to the store to buy—coffee, salt, butter, and, oh yes, a sack of sugar which came in ten pounds which was always heavy to carry. A loaf of bread was necessary. I had to learn to make my own bread. Mumbling to myself I continued writing. “That’s all I can think of.”
Bundled to the ears I stepped gingerly out into the snow and with mincing steps started to the barn, passing the schoolhouse and a small shack across the trail. A blond, pink-cheeked woman was slowly walking back and forth. Possibly one of the Finns of our community, I thought, and smiling, said, “Good morning.” She didn’t answer but drew her head deeper into the collar of her coat. I couldn’t tell whether she did not understand English or was a shy newcomer. Possibly she felt I was intruding.
The barn was only a short distance away. The doors were open showing five clean horse stalls along each side. In a cubby near the door, feet propped high on the iron belt of a pot-bellied stove, a man sat nodding drowsily but, hearing me approach, jumped to his feet, smiled, and said, “Howdee do.”
“How do you do? I’m Mrs. Backus. My husband works at the Japan Flora and we’ve just moved into the teacher’s house. I was told you would let me use your telephone.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Backus. Everyone uses it. I’m Fred Diener, the stableman for Rodgers Brothers. You came up with one of our drivers yesterday. He went back early this morning.” He pointed to a bewildering telephone on the wall. “You ring five times to get central and,” laughing, “sometimes she’s slow answering.”
On tiptoe I stretched to wind the knob at one side of the box and evoked a timid, tin-panny jingle. After a long wait, I gave the store number. After a longer wait the answer came and my voice sounded strange ordering all that food from my list. With that done I turned to thank Fred and instantly sensed that he was a “diamond in the rough.” My first impression proved correct. He was truly a gentleman, honorable, and a sincere friend to everyone. To have known him was a privilege.
The bald crown of his head shone through a scraggly fringe of sorrel-colored hair framing ruddy cheeks and clear blue eyes of a round, happy face. A moustache, thick and drooping at both corners of his mouth, exactly matched in color his fringe.
Old shapeless clothes, dirty and food stained, reeked of the stable. This tiny room containing the huge telephone was his entire abode: parlor, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. In one corner stood an old chair and a small table crowded with used dishes. His meals were cooked on the pot-bellied stove which now was hot with burning coal. The ash container was chock-full and spilling on the floor. On a box in the corner was an old tin basin for washing everything, including Fred. Suspended from the wall by two heavy chains was a replica of an upper Pullman berth, but it never was entirely closed because a mess of faded, worn rags that once had been blankets continually hung down the side of this bunk. As the saying goes, “clothes don’t always make the man,” neither in this case did his surroundings have any bearing on the fine personality of Fred Diener. This thought I carried back with me to our “spacious” two-room hut with its high-peaked roof, a blot like all the other shacks on the limitless white purity of the world about.
The storm of yesterday was spent and the sun on the snow was dazzling. Confident now that I could keep my feet on the trail, I quickened my pace to a point where the whole, vast expanse was a natural amphitheatre. In geological terms, it is called a cirque, formed by the sheer walls of the San Miguel mountains, a spur of the mighty San Juan Range that I surveyed from eleven thousand five hundred feet above sea level.
Without a break in its crest, it curved like a horseshoe from southwest to northeast, two thousand feet above our settlement, an unlimited, smooth-appearing backdrop of blazing white and sparkling as if sprinkled with diamond dust.
The road leading down to Telluride was obliterated by the snow, but I could trace it by the curves of the mountain round which we had ascended. Far beyond spread the lowlands, a vista in white.
My long skirts swishing through the snow, I went slowly home and found the place cheery, the fire still burning. A few minutes later, there was a knock and I opened the door for a lady, carrying a blanket-wrapped baby in her arms.
“I am Mrs. Batcheller,” she announced. Her voice, smile, and manner were charming. “I remember how I felt when we arrived here a year ago, so I came to help you in any way I can.”
“Please
