Snowbound For Christmas

With Thanksgiving came the first snowfall. There was so much snow during early December that we called it our beautiful enemy. It made the miles that already separated us from our neighbors, friends and acquaintances seem even greater. How we wished our nearest neighbors, the stand-offish Aarons, who were new to the prairie, would be friendly.

Five days before Christmas a new storm descended. With each day, snow packed higher and higher around the cabin. The roof and north side nearest the hill were completely drifted under. Because Mama kept us shoveling, we were able to keep open our road up the hill and paths to the barn and the outhouse.

The countryside was under a blanket of white.

We had no hope of getting to Spokane Falls or even Spokane Bridge before Christmas. By the third day of the storm, even Uncle Willie, who had been faithful about getting to our cabin in his home-made sleigh, said he wouldn’t be able to come again until the weather changed. He checked our wood pile and our supply of staples and told us to use them sparingly.

“Snow this deep can be slow leaving,” he said. “And don’t be too sure that the crying you hear at night is coyotes. There’s talk of wolves coming down out of the mountains. Keep your gun handy, Henry.”

“How will we get the presents Grandma always sends us from New York?” Emmy asked.

“You’ll get them, but likely not in time for Christmas.”

“It won’t seem like Christmas without Grandma’s presents.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Mama said. “Christmas will be different this year. I doubt Uncle Ray and Aunt May will be able to come. And now it looks like even William won’t be able to make it here. With no friends or family in for a big Christmas dinner and no presents except those we’ve already made, and no church service to attend, Christmas will certainly be different.”

“We have the present we bought for you, Mama,” Thad said.

“And I have one I made for each of you — and you too, William,” Mama said. “We’ll make do.”

Uncle Willie pushed aside his coffee cup and stood up. “Thought to hide something I brought ‘til the big day, Addy; but I think the young ‘uns need it now, seeing the sour looks on their faces. It’s in my sleigh. I’ll get it.”

Thad jumped up. “I’ll get it, Uncle Willie,” he said rushing out to Willie’s sleigh in the freezing cold without bothering to put on wraps. He returned shivering but excited.

“It’s a sled! C’mon, put on your coats! Let’s try it out. The hill up to our cabin will be perfect. We’ll clear a sledding path through the trees.”

“Don’t sled onto the Mullan Road,” Mama said. “Those wagon trains going to the mines in Idaho wouldn’t be looking out for sledders.”

“Thanks, Uncle Willie,” we all chorused as we wrapped our feet in burlap and climbed into heavy winter clothes. “Having a sled makes today seem like Christmas.”

Hours later we came in to get warm and dry out.

“How was the coasting?” Mama asked.

“You should try it, Mama. Uncle Willie’s sled really works. I’m going to try to make one for myself if you’ll show me how, Uncle Willie,” Thad said. “It’s too long waiting for my turn with only one.”

“There’s somethin’ else you each should make,” Uncle Willie said. “Skis. Each of you should have a pair of skis. Skis come in mighty handy in this weather, especially when you’re hunting birds and small game.”

“We don’t know how to make skis.”

“Then I’ll like as not have to tell you. Thad, get out your Composition Book.”

“I’ll write down the directions, Uncle Willie,” Thad said taking his Composition Book from his pile of school books on the shelf.

“Some folks makes them from barrel staves,” Willie said, “but straight tamarack boards is best. You’ve got some mighty fine tamarack in your building pile. Saw it to size and sand it smooth. Bring it in and dry it out as best you can. The rest is simple. Boil the front end of the board in water for the better part of a day. When the wood is soft, curve it up and hold it curved with baling wire. Fix a piece of old leather harness to stick your toe in an’ you’ve got a pair of skis.”

“Sounds hard to me,” I said.

“I’ll try making one pair first,” Henry said, “and see how it goes.”

“I’ll help.” Thad said.

“Won’t hurt to cry; and without skis, you’ll have a hard time getting around.”

The snow continued. There was no way to get to Spokane or the Bridge for Christmas extras.

Christmas was a cold, blustery, homesick day although Mama tried to keep us busy.

We decorated Emmy’s favorite tree with suet and bread. It was covered with blackbirds Christmas morning. She liked that. The only presents were scarves and hats Mama had knitted for us and Uncle Willie, and the sled he made for us. There was no mail. Trains and the stage were not getting through. There were no visits from Uncle Ray and Aunt May or anyone else, not even from Uncle Willie. He had given us the dress we helped him pick out for Mama when we went with him to Spokane Falls earlier. He asked us to see that she got it.

“It’s just right for Meeting,” Mama said and kissed each of us.

“What about the secret in the letter from Grandma?” Thad asked.

“I think it’s time to let you know about that,” Mama said. “There won’t be a big package from Grandma this year, even when the mail does come.”

“Why not? Grandma always sends us presents.”

“She is sending one this year, too. But did you notice I said one? She is sending one big present for all of us.”

“I hoped she would send me a gun,” Thad said.

“This is even better. Grandma has sent Uncle Ray and Aunt May money enough to buy us the team and wagon that we so badly need!”

“A team!”

“A wagon.”

“Now we won’t have it until spring most likely,” Mama said, “but the fact that we’re going to get it will make this a happy Christmas, won’t it?”

“I guess so.”

“I wish the snow would go away.”

“I wonder how the Aarons are making out in all this snow and if Liza is better,” I said. “Mama, can we make a Christmas cake and take them some of it?”

But the eggs were frozen. We kept both the cooking stove and the Sively heater going morning and night, but the cabin was cold. I couldn’t help tears coming to my eyes when we sat around the table at dinner time in our wraps talking about past Christmases in New York.

How glad we were that we had put in a supply of hay for our cow, Molly, and Charlie, our mule, and feed for the chickens; and that we had a good supply of logs for the fires.

Out every window there was nothing but snow.

“Let’s have a Christmas program like the one we always had in New York,” Mama said as she cleared the dinner away. “Thad, get out your harmonica.”

“I don’t feel like playing it, Mama.”

“Thad, please, we want to sing some of Papa’s songs.”

“I don’t,” Emmy said.

“Thad, please.”

Grudgingly Thad went into the boys’ bedroom and brought out his harmonica.

“First, Teresa will lead us in counting to 10 in Chinook. We’re proud that she’s learning this new language and teaching it to us. Then, let’s say the Lord’s Prayer in Chinook. And then, Thad, you play your harmonica and and we’ll sing.”

I liked to show off my knowledge of Chinook. “Ikt, mox, klone,” I began. One by one the rest of the family joined in: “lockit, kwinnum, tah-kum, sinna-mox, stote-kin, kweest, tahthum.”

“And I know something else,” I said. I ran to the schoolbook shelf and took down my slate. On it I wrote: nika mika tillucum. “I’ve been saving this to say to Luke Aaron if he ever becomes my friend. Guess what it means.”

“We can’t guess. Tell us.”

“What does it mean?” Thad asked.

“I’m saving it for Luke,” I said mysteriously.

“We don’t want to know anyway.” Thad said.

“Teresa, it’s Christmas,” Mama said.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Emmy whimpered.

“If you tell us what that means, I’ll let you come along when I go to Jim’s,” Thad said.

“You’re promising I can go to the Devil’s Underjaw when you and Jim go?”

“If we go.”

“Then I’ll tell you.”

On the slate I wrote these words under each Chinook word: I you friend.

“Nika mika tillucum means I am your friend. Luke is the only one near my age around here. I want him to be my friend, but I guess he never will be.”

“No more sad talk,” Mama said. She repeated, “Nika mika tillucum.” That’s very nice, Teresa. Let’s pray the Our Father in Chinook and add that all the hostility between the settlers and the Indians will come to a peaceful end and both Indians and whites will say to each other, ‘Nika mika tillucum.”’

We all joined hands and said the Lord’s Prayer in Chinook. Then after we prayed for Grandma and our New York relatives, we prayed for all settlers and Indians and for the Aarons and I added, “Please, Lord, make Luke my friend.”

Lucky barked as though he were trying to say “Amen” with us. We all laughed and I hugged Lucky.

“Now for Papa’s songs,” Mama said. “Let’s bundle up and sing them outside as though we were caroling in New York City.”

And again like those first spring evenings on the prairie, the hills echoed with our singing, punctuated with the howling of coyotes … or was it wolves?

That was our first Christmas on the prairie, like no other before or since. At the time, it seemed no Christmas at all. Like so many things that are a disappointment at the moment, washed over by the sands of time, we now cherish the memory.

EXCERPT FROM NEW NOVEL This is a Christmas story adapted from Spokane Valley author Florence Boutwell’s new novel, “Teresa and the Coeur d’Alene Indians,” published by Millwood Publishing, a division of Arthur H. Clark Co. In this story, the author writes in the voice of Teresa, who is recalling her family’s first Christmas in their homestead cabin in the Foothills area. Illustrations for the story are by Valley artist Janet Ivie, who also illustrated the book.