[Canadian West 01] - When Calls the Heart (14 page)

Daily I felt frustrated by my lack of materials for teaching.
If only I had.... I often started thinking. But I didn't have, so
I tried to make up for the lack with creativity.

At the end of the classroom time. I lingered for a few moments to correct work and plan the next day, then rushed
home, made my cup of tea and rested for a few moments in my
overstuffed chair. All the time that I sipped, my mind refused
to relax. It leaped from one idea to another, from plan to plan.
As soon as my cup was empty I returned to work in the classroom, trying to put my ideas to work.

By the end of the week I was physically weary, but I was
perhaps the happiest I had ever been in my life. I had planned
to work on the footstool on Saturday, but instead I asked my
students if they knew of anyone with whom I could ride into
town. The growing list of items that I might find to assist me
in the classroom prompted this request. I dreaded another
long trip to town in a bumpy wagon, but I couldn't very well hand the list over to someone else and expect him to do the
shopping for me.

To my delight, Sally Clark brought word on Friday that
her folks were going to town on Saturday and would be happy
to pick me up at eight o'clock the next morning.

True to their word, the Clarks arrived at ten to eight. My
list and I were ready to go. I did not plan to make a weekly trip
to Lacombe, so I had tried to think of all that I might be needing in the near future.

One of the needs came to my attention when I discovered
that I was not living alone. How many other occupants the
house held was still unknown to me, but it was easy to tell by
the evidence that I found on several mornings that I was sharing my home with a family of mice.

I guess the mice felt that I was the intruder; it was apparent that they assumed the entire place belonged to them.

The first morning that I saw the evidence, I was frightened.
I had never lived with mice before. What if they were to climb
into my bed and nibble my fingers or, horrors of horrors, become tangled in my hair? What could I do about them? How
did one go about getting rid of mice? I added mousetraps to
my list, but I wasn't sure what I was to look for. I had never
seen a mousetrap.

The next morning I had found a corner nibbled from my
fresh loaf of bread. Now I was angry-the nerve of the little
beasts! There was no way that I was going to share my home
and my food with rodents. I boldly underlined mousetraps on
my list.

Before I went to bed the next night, I placed all my food
stuffs in the cupboards, out of the rodents' reach. On the
fourth morning of my busy teaching week, I found evidence of the mice having romped over my dishes-right in my cupboards! I was furious and repelled. I took all of the dishes from
my cupboards, washed them in hot, soapy water and scalded
them with boiling water from the teakettle, all the while
breathing vengeance against those nasty creatures. Indeed,
something had to be done. I thought of sending a note to Mr.
Laverly with one of the students who passed by his farm, but I
stubbornly rejected the idea. Surely I could handle a little
problem like mice.

So, as I traveled to town on that overcast Saturday morning, sitting on a makeshift seat in the Clarks' wagon, I thought
about my unwelcome tenants. After today I would be rid of
them, for I planned to leave traps throughout the house. I felt
no pity whatever for the creatures who would be caught in
those traps.

As soon as the Clarks dropped me off at the general store, I
set to work on my list. I could find only a portion of the items
that I had desired for the classroom. In a few instances I made
substitutions. In many cases I was forced to do without.

I purchased a large washtub-the biggest I could find, determined that I would have a decent soak when I took my
bath.

I carefully selected all of the food items that I felt I needed
and added a few metal containers to store them in. No more
would mice be sharing my loaf ' of bread while I waited for my
traps to do their job.

"Now," I said to the long-nosed clerk, "I need mousetraps
-the best that you have."

I don't know what I expected him to show me, but certainly not that little bit of wood and wire.

"This is a mousetrap?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Is that all you have?"

"What did you have in mind, ma'am?"

"Well-I'm-I'm not sure. I've never needed-but I
thought . . . How does that catch them-what holds them in?
There's no cage."

"No, ma'am." I think that he smiled, though he turned too
quickly for me to be sure.

"Why don't they run off?" I persisted.

"They don't run off, ma'am-'cause they're dead," he answered me, his face solemn but his eyes twinkling.

"Dead?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"What kills them?"

"The trap, ma'am."

I looked at the small thing, bewildered.

He finally picked up a trap and, as though speaking to a
small child, proceeded to show me.

"You place the bait here, ma'am-just a touch. Then you
pull this back and hook it, gently, like this. You place it carefully in the path you think the mouse will follow. He comes to
steal the bait"- he reached out with the pencil from behind
his ear-"and-."

There was a sharp bang. and the trap sprang forward-and
I backward. The pencil was snapped in the firm grip of the
trap. I staggered over bails of twine that were stacked behind
me on the floor and nearly lost my balance while color flooded
my cheeks. The clerk bent his head down as he freed his pencil
from the trap-and, I imagine, composed his face.

"I'll take ten of them," I said with all of the dignity that I
could muster.

"Ten?" He cleared his throat and blinked. "So many?"

"I have no idea how many mice there are."

"One trap is usable over and over, ma'am."

This was further news to me.

"You just lift the wire," the clerk explained patiently, "release the dead mouse and reset."

It sounded easy enough.

"Fine," I said. "I'll take one."

He put the trap with my other purchases.

By the time the Clarks returned to pick me up, I and my
new belongings were ready for the long trip home.

There was still daylight left when we arrived home, so I
started to work on the footstool. Rather than piecing material
from the bits and scraps in my sewing basket, I had decided to
purchase some sturdy material in town. I had even bought some batting so that the footstool would be padded.

Humming as I sewed and tacked, I found this project challenging and gratifying. I was pleased with my first attempt as
furniture-maker. I even had enough material left to make a
small pillow to match the stool.

By the time I had sorted my purchases, placing those in
the schoolroom that belonged there and the others in my
house, it was late and I was weary.

I dragged my large tub into my bedroom, poured the water
that I had heated and enjoyed my bath. It wasn't like our fine
tub at home, but I could at least sit in it and splash the water
over the rest of me.

It had been a good week, I decided, as I crawled into bed. I
felt that I had made progress in the classroom. The children
were learning. I had a tub big enough for bathing, and 1-1
hadn't set the mousetrap! I climbed out of my warm bed and
re-lit the lamp, burning my fingers on the still-hot chimney.

It looked so easy when the man in the store had demonstrated it. It wasn't easy at all. I rubbed a small portion of butter on the metal bait piece, and then stretched the wire
back-back. I was trying to fasten it down when-"ping"-it
snapped together and flew from my hand across the floor.
Shaken, I went after it, feeling as if it were capable of attacking me. Again I tried and again it snapped. The sixth attempt
got my finger, and I cried out in anger and frustration. I wasn't
sure what I was the most angry at-the homesteading mice or
the offensive trap.

Finally, on about the tenth try, I managed to secure the
wire, and I gingerly placed the unruly bit of wood and metal on
the floor by the cupboard. Eyeing its location, I decided to
move it over just a bit with my foot when-"ping"-it sprang
into the air. I jumped and struck my hip against the stove.

Almost in tears, I again went through the procedure. Eventually the trap was set and placed on the ideal spot. As I inspected it now, I couldn't see any butter left on the little projection intended for the bait, but I refused to touch the thing
again.

I blew out the lamp and crawled back into bed. My finger
was still smarting and my hip throbbed from its encounter with the hard iron of the stove. I snuggled under the warm
quilt and tried to think of things more pleasant than mousetraps and unwelcome guests.

I suppose that it was about one o'clock when the sharp
"ping" of the trap brought me upright in my bed, staring toward the open door of my bedroom. In my drowsy state, I did
not understand where the sound had come from, but I then remembered what had taken so much of my time the night before. Well, at least it had worked. Maybe now my problems
with unwanted roommates would be over.

I snuggled back down but I couldn't go to sleep. The
thought of an animal out there in my kitchen, all tangled up in
the metal of that trap, disturbed me. What should I do about
it? Should I go and release it at once? Was it already too late?
But I couldn't bring myself to face the situation by the flickering light of my lamp.

The dawn was approaching when I finally was able to doze
off.

When I awakened again it was full daylight. At first I felt
alarmed, realizing that I had slept long past my usual waking
hour. Then I remembered it was Sunday and settled back to
enjoy the comfort of my bed for a few more minutes. I planned
a leisurely day, thankful indeed that today there would be a
church service in the schoolroom. I had sent the message home
with all of the pupils that I would be only too happy to share
the community school with a Sunday congregation, and the
service had been set for two o'clock.

I wasn't used to an afternoon service, and it seemed a long
time to wait, but at least it was something to look forward to.
Surely I would be able to somehow fill the long morning hours
with productive activities while I waited. I began to take a
mental inventory of what I had on hand to read.

I crawled out of bed, stretching and flexing my muscles. If
I didn't lie just right on my mattress, I could wake up with
some stubborn kinks. This morning I seemed to have several. I
wasn't concerned. I had all morning to gradually work them
out.

I slipped on my robe and slippers and headed for my stove. I'd make the fire and start the coffee.

In my early morning reverie, I very nearly failed to notice a
small object on my floor. I was just about to lower my right
foot on it when I jerked back with a gasp. My mousetrap had
jumped halfway across the floor from its original position.
There it lay, and securely clamped to the wood base was a
limp, dead mouse.

I shall not describe further the sight that met my eyes or
my revulsion as I looked at it. My first thought was to run, but
I soon stifled my panic and convinced myself that the trap and
its victim could do me very little bodily harm.

My next thought was not a welcome one-it was up to me
to care for the furry corpse in my pathway. Somehow I must
remove the mouse from the trap if I were to have the trap for
future use, as the clerk in the store had indicated. The thought
of touching it made me shudder. I couldn't. I knew I couldn't.
At length I took the broom and dustpan and swept the whole
thing up. Holding the dustpan at arm's length, I marched outside and across the clearing. The helpful clerk had said to
simply release the dead mouse and reset the trap. How
clever-and how impossible.

I walked resolutely on, trying to keep my eyes from the
contents of the dustpan. I neared the two small buildings at
the far side of the clearing. Glancing furtively about to make
sure that no one was watching, I headed for the one marked
"Boys." I did not want to share even my outhouse with the
dead mouse.

As quickly as I could. I stepped into the building and
dumped the mouse, trap and all, down the hole. I then hurried
out, again glancing about as one committing a crime, and
headed back to the house.

I took a scrub pail and washed the floor where the mouse
had lain, my dustpan, and even my broom; and then I began
to scrub my hands. I never did succeed that morning in makng
them feel really clean, so I didn't bother fixing any breakfast.
Instead, I poured a cup of coffee (I didn't have to actually
touch that), picked up my Bible and headed for the classroom.
I would calm myself, read and pray, and wait for the afternoon
service.

Not too many had arrived at the school by two o'clock. The
Petersons were the first to appear. Because the day was cloudy
and cool, Lars was allowed to build a fire in the big stove.

The Dickersons came and then the Blakes, the Johnsons
and a family by the name of Thebeau. They had two teenage
sons who would not be in school until after the harvest-if at
all.

Mr. Dickerson was in charge of the service. We sang several
songs and read scripture. Mrs. Thebeau gave a Bible lesson for
the children, then Mr. Dickerson gave some thoughts on a
passage of scripture. It was not a sermon, he clarified, because
he was not a preacher. He voiced some worthwhile insights,
and I appreciated his direct approach. I even found myself
thinking that it was a shame he was not a preacher.

As we stood around visiting after the short service, other
teams began pulling into the schoolyard. My first thought was
that they had misunderstood the time for the afternoon meeting and were arriving late. What a shame!