A Carpenter’s Craft
Milo Bouchard carried a pail
with some bread and ham and a small ceramic water jug. As he walked towards the
barn he thought of his wife, Annie, resting peacefully in the bed they had
shared for over sixty years. He was a stout man with legs that bowed mildly,
causing him to walk with a rocking gait. In recent years, age had begun to pilfer
his height and his wife discretely tailored his pants while he pretended not to
notice; such was the nature of their relationship. His shoes were old but
polished, with metal crescent tips fixed to each heel to prolong the wear. They
tapped harmoniously with every stride.
Milo lifted the heavy latch and
dragged the barn doors open. Soft citrus light flooded in and illuminated rays
of dust. A pile of lumber rested on a low wooden workbench that took up a large
portion of the barn and Milo stood before it surveying the hefty pieces of
timber. A snorting to his side broke his concentration and a large Percheron
draft mare scraped her shoed hoof on the floor of the barn, soliciting his
attention.
“ I see ya, Emma.” Milo approached
and rubbed the horse just above her snout.
“I think we’re in for a long
day here, girl.” He rested his head on her cheek and she nuzzled him, exhaling
sharply into his crop of white disheveled hair.
Milo dipped into his pocket, and
pulling out a small red apple, he palmed it into Emma’s mouth. With a parting
pat on her neck Milo headed back over to his workbench. He circled the pieces
of wood and allowed his hand to reach out and gently caress the rough lengths.
His hands were a narrative of his years as a craftsman, with thick skin and weathered
digits. But his nails were trimmed and tidy, all nine of them; the tip of his
left index finger was missing as a reminder to a young apprentice not to force
the tool.
The previous summer, his wife had
helped him choose the timber and he had laboured over the design until it was
perfect. Then he had allowed the project to sit, putting if off and
procrastinating. He thought of how Annie had teased him, telling him he would
have to get around to it sooner or later. She worried that termites would get
into the wood and it would be spoilt. Milo had simply put his arms around his
wife and kissed her cheek, telling her there was still plenty of time.
“These things can’t be rushed,
love--” he would say with a smile.
“rushing is for the young.”
She would finish for him and then she would roll her blue grey eyes and laugh.
“But, darling, you never rushed then, either.”
His sleeves already rolled,
Milo set to work. He planed and sawed and sanded the planks until they were as smooth
as a fresh spring leaf. He fashioned the simple outline of a poppy flower on each
piece, then chiseled dovetail joints. Finally, he applied a thin film of
varnish. Laying the pieces out in the heat of the afternoon sun to dry, he
rested on a weathered tree stump and ate slowly.
Glancing up, he saw his neighbour
Marco ambling over towards him, and he watched as his friend turned from a
speck on the horizon to a large burly figure; his olive skin had darkened as
the summer took hold and had made his Italian heritage even more evident. He
carried a shovel over one shoulder and a heavy burlap sack over the other.
“So, you made a start, eh?”
“That I have.”
“I’d say it was time, Milo.”
“That it was.”
“You’ll be needing a hand
loading it into the cart.”
“That I might.”
With a nod, Marco headed off towards a large oak tree that
stood on the edge of their property line.
Milo raised himself bit by bit
and stood for a moment letting his body catch up with his thoughts. His hand
soothed his back as he inched stiffly towards the dried wood, limbering
gradually with every step; he carried the pieces into the barn. Back at his workbench,
he braced the sections and, measuring twice, he carefully hand drilled the holes
for the brassware. Next he pounded the pieces into place and lined up the
dovetail joins until they fit together seamlessly. He smoothed the sharp edges
with his plane, sanded them to a porcelain finish, and retouched each corner with
varnish. Finally, as a lavender
and crimson hue filled the barn, he set the brass handles and checked the fit of
the top.
Milo opened the door to Emma’s
stall and his mare dutifully stepped out. She stood with her back left hoof
resting on its tip as Milo arranged her harness tack, adjusting it for comfort
and fit. Milo led Emma outside and hitched her up to the wagon.
Marco sat on the stump outside
the barn smoking a cigarette; he made no effort to move. When Milo had Emma
secured to the wagon he went back into the barn and Marco took a last drag
before stubbing out his cigarette and following him inside. Silently they
loaded the chest into the cart and Milo led the wagon over to the house. Emma stalled,
as they got close, but stopped short of rearing up.
“We’re nearly there, girl, come
on now.”
Emma calmed and allowed Milo
to steer her to a stop in front of the steps that led up to the deck of the
small farmhouse. Marco, who had followed behind, helped Milo unload the chest. They
placed it on the deck and Milo entered the house.
He returned with Annie resting
in his arms. Susan, Marco’s wife, had arrived and was loosely lining the chest
with a soft cornflower blue blanket and a small silk pillow. Milo had left Annie in her nightgown.
She hadn’t wanted a fuss, nor to look like she was going into town.
“I want to look like I am
sleeping,” she had told him the previous year after the doctor had said there
was nothing more to be done, “because that is all it is.”
She had patted the top of his
hand gently, and nodded, but she had turned away quickly and wiped her cheek. His
resolve to be strong had begun to waver and he had fixed his stare on the floor
in a battle to maintain his composure.
Holding her tightly to him, he
sank to his knees and kissed her lightly on the forehead. He looked up to his
friend and gritted his teeth as raw emotion began to rise inside him, and he
shook his head, no. Marco held his gaze and gave him a nod, a signal that it
was time to let her go, and with that Milo tenderly lowered Annie into the
chest. Susan wrapped the blanket around Annie, tucking it under her chin and
stroking a strand of her hair behind her ear. She gave Milo’s arm a squeeze and
they helped each other up.
“It’s a fine casket, Milo,”
she said, “exactly like she wanted.”
They loaded the casket into
the wagon and Milo rode with Annie while Marco and Susan steered Emma up
towards the old oak. Friends had gathered. Flowers filled the bottom of a six-foot
deep cavity and rocks lined the edge. Once down from the wagon, the open casket
was covered, carried over to the burial site, and then lowered into the ground
with ropes. Earth clattered onto the timber lid as the first handfuls of dirt
were thrown down onto the coffin. Surrounded by friends, Milo wept quietly. Then
he walked home, with his familiar pitch, and waited for his sleep.
