One
Girl
My name is Alice.
I live in the middle of nowhere, and the closest town is a small mining town named Sumter. I make a trip to town once every month, sometimes I'll skip a month, so I pretty much keep to myself. Some of the kids in Sumter like to spread rumors amongst themselves because of it. One of the rumors is that I'm a witch left over from the Salem witch-hunt days, but I don't really mind. Imagination's a good thing to have, I've always thought.
You see, I'm an author.
My editors seem to think I have talent, but I've always wondered if the books I've published weren't missing something. Day after day I pour over the first, second, and third drafts of my first books, but I always put them away with a shake of my head. It's very exasperating for an author not to find anything wrong when they feel there is. And I've been writing for about fifteen years.
Give or take.
I remember as a child craving paper and pen to write the story of my short life, but I didn't start writing until the age of 16 when a friend loaned me their manual typewriter. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before. Suddenly, a story was taking form at my fingertips. Characters were taking shape and plot lines were coming out of nowhere. I had finally found my calling.
A passion to write.
My family grew up outside Aurora, another small Oregon town with a population of about 540. We owned 30 acres of the most beautiful land, and we never ran out of things to do. During the winter it was more work than fun, but when I look back on it now, I wouldn't have traded it for anything. See, we had a fireplace instead of baseboards for heat, so each fall we'd help our father chop wood and stack it by the house. I was strong, for a girl, and all because my dad taught me how to swing an axe. Most of the time we'd use a maul, though. That's a tool that has an axe on one side of the head and a sledge on the other.
In the summer, we'd clean the build up of silt from our underground spring. It was fun because we saved it for the hottest days. That and the crawdads we would find for lunch. We used to haul hay for our animals, too, but only until I was in high school. Believe me, I could swing those bales of hay and sacks of grain right beside my brothers. Maybe that's why I never fit in during grade school or high school. It's not one of my greater worries, at least not anymore. When I was in my early teens it bugged me, but then I just accepted it as what made me special and didn't let it bother me again.
In fact, that might have been one of the main reasons I moved out here to Eastern Oregon. A love for the seclusion offered by small towns, you might say. I've been pampered now. When you live on your own without televisions or microwave ovens, I consider that pampered. Think about it for a second. You're by yourself in a house you chose and you can do anything you want whenever you want to. I'd say that falls into the pampered category. No time clocks to punch, no buses to catch, no deadlines to meet... Okay, so that one still exists. It's still better than anything else I've seen.
I smiled and pulled the sheet of paper from my typewriter to set it in the specifically labeled folder. Considering it was the first attempt at a somewhat-fictional autobiography, I thought the rough draft flowed pretty well. Of course, a long time ago my friends had begun saying my roughs were better than some people's finals. I believed it to be stuff and nonsense, but I wasn't going to argue. It made me feel great.
I hummed a unique and cheery tune as I rose from the old office chair, once again telling myself I'd invest in a computer workstation with my next royalty check. Only I had been making the same promise for years, and it had always ended the same way: no computer. What fun was it to write a book on a modern contraption like a computer when the only source of energy I had was a diesel generator stuffed in the basement?
Just enough power to run my washing machine, refrigerator, radio, a few lights, and the water heater in my bathroom. Mostly everything else I did the old fashioned way, such as my gravity fed shower. But, I did have a water pump in the bathroom for the toilet. No outhouse for me. I had no complaints and I liked the constant adventure.
Well, most of the time anyway.
I stretched a couple times, threw a large piece of the more slowly burning wood into the fireplace, and glanced at my watch. Usually I didn't head for bed for another couple hours, but I had to make a trip to town in the morning and the round trip took all day.
"Just don't forget your shopping list, Allison," I told myself.
Last time I'd made it clear to Sumter only to find I'd left my shopping list in my other pants. And wouldn't you know it? I couldn't remember all the things I needed. So far that had been the only time I'd needed to make a second trip to town in the same month.
I brushed my teeth, changed into my flannel pajamas, and crawled into the featherbed with a sigh.
I slipped out of bed at 4:30 the next morning with a yawn and a shuffle to the bathroom, my wool socks keeping my feet safe from the chill of the hardwood floors between area rugs. Looking at myself in the mirror, a laugh bubbled from my throat. A pillow crease marred my left cheek and my burgundy hair was pointing at the ceiling on one side. It only did that when I had it cut so short, but it was the easiest way to take care of it.
Shaking my head, I peeled out of my pj's, hopped through a quick shower, and dressed in record time. "Well, Allison," I asked myself, "are you going to top up your winter supplies now or next month?"
I ran a comb through my hair, spread a few drops of Aloe Vera lotion on those sections that were showing wrinkles, and then winked at my reflection. Allison, my girl, you don't look a day over 25. I laughed, my hazel eyes twinkling as I shook my head. Being 36 wasn't so bad, especially since I never acted my age in the first place.
"And not a single gray hair to give me away," I told myself as I pointed at my reflection. "Well, old gal, enough dawdling. Let's grab the list, the mailbox keys, and get out of here."
I grabbed the necessary items, threw my wool-lined jacket on over my beige Angora wool sweater, and slung my leather handbag over my shoulder. Taking hold of the small cooler that held my meals I packed the night before, I closed the front door with my foot and headed for my ugly orange K-5 Blazer. It had been my dad's before, as had the cabin, and were the only two things I had ever wanted. When he'd died ten years ago, I had moved out here and been happy ever since.
Humming to myself, I loaded the things into the passenger side of the 1971 Blazer and then climbed in and headed down the old path I called a road. There were a lot of things to be done before I would be ready for the winter. There was wood to be cut and stacked in the basement and water to carry from the hand pump in the kitchen to the insulated storage bin in the basement as well. Sure, my pipes were well insulated, and the cabin was built directly over the well, but I'd rather be safe than without a drop to drink. There were other things, too, but I'd wait to make a list when I got back home later that night.
A deer bounded across the trail and I smiled, stopping the Blazer to watch it disappear into the trees. I had been seeing sites like this for the entire 10 years I had been up here and I still stopped to watch. Some people would say it was because I was lonely, but hadn't I been proving them wrong for ten years? I wasn't lonely. I just watched the deer because they were beautiful.
Shaking my head, I began to hum again as I continued down the trail. I didn't understand that one thing about the people in Sumter. Why did they think there was something wrong with me just because I kept to myself? Why did they think it was unnatural? I shrugged. Maybe they didn't. Who could tell? It just seemed that the stares I got were longer each time I came down. Maybe they were just checking to make sure I didn't have a wart on the end of my nose with gray hairs sticking out of it.
I laughed, the sound ending with a high-pitched squeak that always reminded me of a hiccup. I shook my head, the smile still on my face as I thought of the small mining town and it's people. They could never imagine how much I enjoyed living in one of the last places truly called 'the frontier'. It had given me many inspirations for story lines and characters that hit the New York Times bestseller list. I didn't think they'd been that good, but then again, I almost never did. Maybe that was why I continued to design more and more plot lines. Maybe I was struggling to find that perfect story.
"Does it even exist?" I voiced.
I dismissed the worry with a shrug and started outlining my latest project in my head, coming up with new ideas for future books as I did so. I pulled over, brought my notepad out of my purse, and jotted out the vague story outlines so I could work on them when I got back. I read over the notes, muttering along with them as usual, and then slipped the paper back into my purse.
My editors were amazed at how easily I came up with a story line that simply seemed to flow straight from my head to my fingers, but writing was a gift, plain and simple. As long as God kept giving me such great plots, I was going to write them. Why not? It was what I loved to do.
"What would you do if the ideas stopped coming?" I asked.
I pushed my lips to one side and then shrugged. Hey, if God wanted to stop giving me book ideas that would mean He had something better in mind. Who was I to argue? I hoped He didn't make the ideas stop because I loved writing so much, but what else could I do but follow where He led?
"My editors wouldn't be so happy, either," I said, chuckling.
But what can they do? Sue? I laughed. I had brought them fifteen years of punctual manuscript producing. They had no reason to sue. Besides, I could probably talk them into publishing books of my poetry that had comments written about why each was written. In my opinion, it would be dry reading, but the editors seldom listened to me in the first place. What did I know about what I wrote, right?
My eyes twinkled as I smiled. Life could be so funny. If someone had asked me fifteen years ago where I'd be at this point in my life, I would have painted a very different picture. I had always pictured myself as a successful author, yes, but not as famous as I was. Nor would I have ever thought that I would spend my days by myself, far removed from a public that hounded my publishing house for a book signing tour. And what about the fact that I carefully kept my identity a secret from Sumter's small population?
"Maybe I'm losing my marbles," I pondered suddenly. I slowly smiled. "Cool concept."
I laughed again, and the high squeak that reverberated through the warm cab of the Blazer made me laugh harder. If anyone had seen me, they would have sworn I was madder than a hatter. Who knew? Maybe I was.
It would make a good plot.
While pulling into Sumter, I noticed the lack of kids running around...
"School's started," I blurted as I parked in front of the tiny post office. I unbuckled my seat belt as I opened my door, patting my jeans pocket to make sure I had grabbed my mail key. "Those poor kids," I muttered to myself.
A couple walking by sent me an odd look. I smiled at them. They looked away and hurried a bit. Hm Weird. I shrugged.
"Come on, Allison," I said absently. "Let's get your mail."
I heard a couple sniggers, but shrugged it off as I entered the small post office. My hair was probably messed up again.
"You never remember to bring a comb and mirror," I scolded, and I intercepted a few more stares with my usual smile. "Good morning."
They all looked away without a word.
I shrugged and stepped up to my mailbox and opened it up to sort through the stacks of paper within. Like clockwork, the record of the direct deposit for my royalty check was first on the pile, as well as a bundle of fan letters that the editors believed were important enough for me to read.
"I'll sort the rest later," I informed myself. "Next stop: grocery store."
I left the post office and walked the little distance to the store, turning back to my truck halfway there when I decided to stow my mail. "Goodness knows you have enough to carry without holding the letters, too."
I tucked them safely in the glove box and made my way back to the store, my lips moving as they always did. How else did someone remember the things they were buying when they didn't want to take the time to pull the list out of their jeans?
With a shake of my head, I conceded defeat and dug the list from my pocket as I entered the small general store.
"Allison," I told myself, "I bet you a candy bar you'll have to head to Baker for your supplies."
I meandered through the store and only caught glimpses of a couple items from my list. Paying twice didn't appeal to me, so I left the store and made my way back to my Blazer. Now I had to drive another 45 minutes to Baker City, which meant I wouldn't get back until way after dark. I shrugged.
"If there were rumors of a coming snowstorm, you'd be concerned, but it's still too early in the fall." I climbed in and spouted "No worries, my girl," as I started the truck and headed out of town.
I drove to Baker quite a bit to get my supplies, so it wasn't any big surprise. I just liked giving the store in Sumter the benefit of the doubt each month. The storeowners probably thought I was crazy because I usually came in and left within 30 seconds.
Give or take the occasional pause to glance through an article in a tabloid.
I began humming to myself, as I always did. I wasn't hurting anyone by being eccentric, and if I had ever once thought I was actually crazy, I would have taken care of it.
I began to whistle. Maybe I'd never know the difference.
Baker bustled with activity, as usual, and amazed me again at the different types of people that hurried along. But the fact that they were always rushing every place made me even more glad that I had a home far away from man-made technology. What I had was good enough. People didn't seem to realize that they were losing their humanity because they weren't taking the time to smell the roses and listen to the wind in the trees.
I made my way to the auto-shop with a sad shake of my head. Every month I brought the Blazer in for a check-up. That meant the hoses were checked, the entire transmission, the oil and transmission pan, the radiator, suspension, brakes, tires, alignment, exhaust. If the mechanic could name it, I had them check and service it. The Blazer was my only source of getting from point A to point B, besides my two feet. Do you know how long it would take me to hike to and from Baker? Not to mention the supplies I'd need to carry. I was hardy, but not that hardy.
Once the Blazer was given a clean bill of health, I paid the man and left to go over and get the diesel fuel for my generator. I had the young man fill up the appropriate number of canisters with diesel, then had him fill the Blazer's tanks with unleaded. I paid the clerk, then climbed in to the Blazer and headed for the parking lot of the super market.
I found a spot to park, not really in front of the store but close enough, and climbed out. I looked around while taking in a deep breath. Being in the city always made me feel a little claustrophobic. That and, unlike Sumter, I didn't say much. There were just too many noisy people around. I was probably afraid I wouldn't be heard and, if there's one thing I hate more than not finishing a story line, it's repeating myself. I view it as a waste of time. Of course, it depends on what kind of mood I'm in as well.
I turned and grabbed my purse, slung it over my shoulder, and slammed the door shut with a sigh. I looked up at the storefront as I headed in. You'd think I would have gotten used to it after the several years I had been shopping here. But each time I came, a feeling of dread settled in my stomach. It never left until I was soaking in the tub at home with water I had heated on my fireplace. Boy, was I looking forward to that!
With a wistful smile, I dug my list out of my purse and began the adventure of high finance as I guided the large cart through the store.
It took me about an hour and a half to get all the items on my list - as well as the Baby Ruth candy bar I had 'lost' to myself at Sumter - and load them in the back of the Blazer. I looked down at my watch, decided I had enough time to stop at the local bookstore, and headed down the street. After another fifteen minutes of browsing the book stacks, I came out with a big selection of titles to read and about half a dozen more book ideas.
I paused outside a building advertising a great deal on computers and began fantasizing about the different ways I could use one. Oh if I only had power wired to my house. I sighed, told myself that I wrote the more creative way, and went the rest of the way to my Blazer in melancholy silence.
A prime example to one of the main reasons I dreaded coming to town. Wishful thinking was a powerful tool. Once I got home, the awesome beauty of God's wilderness would perk me right up.
"And a nice long soak in the tub sounds spectacular," I told myself as I climbed up into the cab. I made sure the books were stacked in such a way as to prevent a spill, then buckled myself in and started the engine. "Okay, old girl, let's hit the road and high tail it for home."
I made good time, but only because I took the risk of adding grey to my head of dark burgundy hair by going well over my top 'path' speed of 15 miles per hour. I could have sworn I'd seen my life flash before my eyes several times, only to discover it had been a stand of trees on the edge of a cliff as I turned a corner. So, I pulled up to my house an hour late instead of the expected two. But late for what?
I smiled and slipped down out of the Blazer, made my way to the back for an armload of groceries, and hurried to my house. I fumbled with the latch, and then pushed the door open with my foot. Making my way to the kitchen counter, I set the bags down and made my way back out for another load. It was times like these I wished for another set of hands or arms. Someone who didn't mind helping unload the groceries.
Or chopping wood.
Or hauling water.
I smiled, letting God know that I had made my request for the month, then put it out of my mind as I hurried back out for the last load of groceries. I scuffled back in and set the bags on the counter. Now I just needed my books and mail.
After I finished sorting the perishables from the non-perishables, I placed the sack with my writing supplies by my writing desk, laid a loving hand on my faithful old typewriter, then headed out to the Blazer for one final check. I slung my purse over my shoulder, balanced the books in one arm, and rescued my mail from the glove box. On my way back up the stairs, I noticed a piece of my writing paper tacked to my door with a thumbtack.
"Hello. What's this?"
I came across your house while on my hike and thought I'd visit. I'm sorry to have missed you. I briefly used a few of your facilities and, in payment for your hospitality, you'll find fresh venison in your freezer as well as fresh cut wood and a fresh fire. I hope to thank you one day in person.
Keith Tyler
I took the note down and read it again. I never locked my doors, so it hadn't been necessary for the guy to admit he'd even been there. I appreciated his honesty. As for leaving venison and starting a fire, that had been beyond the call of duty and left me wishing I could have done something more for him than just let him use the cabin. I shrugged it off, sent a prayer to heaven for the gentleman's safety, and placed the note on my writing desk.
I yawned.
"Well, Allison, I think the bath will wait till tomorrow."
I added another log to the well-built fire, double-checked the fact I had put away the perishables, and then trudged off to bed.
I was so tired that I didn't even take the time to undress.
*
The next morning, I shuffled sleepily into the kitchen after finishing my ritual cleansing. Unpacked bags of canned goods beckoned to me, but I didn't feel much like finding a place for them. I wanted to play hooky and soak up the sun before the call of winter forced me to work.
"Well, Allison, I think you can spare a couple of hours for a morning hike up to the ridge."
I slipped into my jacket, tucked my leather gloves into my pocket, and grabbed my walking stick.
"Don't forget your fanny pack."
Last time I went on a morning hike to the ridge, I hadn't stopped to go back and get it once I'd realized I didn't have it clicked to my person. You see, my fanny pack held my first aid kit as well as my trail mix. There were also slots for two water bottles. The day I forgot it had, of course, been the day I slipped and bashed my knee on a rock.
So there I was, about a two-hour hike from home with no way to wash my wound, or even numb it so I could get back without too much pain. After about ten minutes of feeling sorry for myself, I'd picked myself up and limped home. In fact, I think that had been the only other time I had wished for an extra set of hands. A shoulder to lean on - instead of my walking stick - would have been right nice.
"Some day, Allison. Some day," I assured as I clipped the pack around my waist.
I filled the water bottles from the hand pump in the kitchen and grabbed a small notepad from my desk. When I did, my pen and a piece of paper fell to the floor. I picked them up and crammed the pen into my pack while staring down at the paper. It was the note from Keith Tyler.
"Now that is a nice man, Allison, and you don't find too many of them out here."
I smiled, set the note back on my writing desk, and headed out for my hike.
Hoping to catch you this morning, I left early. Apparently it wasn't early enough. I noticed you hadn't put all your supplies away from your trip to town, so I did it for you. I was going to wait for you to return, but thought it might be a little rude to abuse your hospitality a second time. This is the first time I've met someone who's made their home up here besides me, and I wouldn't want to press my luck.
Keith TylerP.S. I was admiring your selection of books and found one that sounded interesting. I hope you won't mind.
I smiled as I read, and then walked into the house to set the second note on top of the first. I stripped off my jacket. So, he's a fellow wilderness dweller. I wonder which part of this wild hillside is his? I was sorry I had missed him, but glad he'd made his way back here. Remembering his comment about the book, I made my way over to the large bookshelves to find the hole.
"Well look at this. He took one of my earlier books. Hm."
I headed over to the kitchen, a little curious to see how he'd found his way around my kitchen to put all the supplies away. I had always thought my system of filing the supplies the type to be understood only by me. Looking through the cupboards, though, I found that he'd done a great job of following my logic.
"This guy is just full of surprises, isn't he?" I smiled and gave another "Hm", and then sent up another prayer for the thoughtful man named Keith Tyler.
"Oo. Bath."
I rubbed my hands together with an eager giggle as I headed for the bathroom.
The soak was wonderful, and when I had comfortably dressed in a pair of old sweats, I sat at my desk and started typing.
Some people ask me, "Alice, don't you ever miss the city?" and to that I have a firm answer of 'no'. I was raised in the country from the moment I was born, so why would I miss what I never had in the first place? Still others ask if I ever miss my family.
I stopped typing and stood, going into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water from the pitcher I kept in my refrigerator. Finishing the glass, I set it on the counter and spun it with my fingers as I stared down at it. How often had I asked myself that same question? Too many times to count, and the answer always came back the same. No. That answer bothered me. I had considered myself to be close to both my brothers and my sister, but I never thought of them unless I received a letter. To the content life I led, this one concern was enough to be considered a pothole in a new road.
If I thought about it, though, they probably didn't think of me that much either. My younger brother had changed his reserve standing in the Marines to an active one and was stationed overseas. My older brother was still a bachelor living in Oregon City with our elderly grandmother and managing the local Kmart. He was a great guy, but his ambition was a little... well, low.
My sister - lead singer of a band with her husband and three others - was busy finishing her fifth album in time for the contracted release date. She constantly sent me autographed copies, just as I sent her signed copies of my books. It was kind of an inside joke. We'd once promised each other to do that once we hit the big time, never taking the other seriously until it had happened.
I scowled and went back to the typewriter. There was no reason why I should miss my family when I had made a life for myself. I had been out of the house and on my own for over fifteen years. I had become accustomed to them not being around, and there was nothing wrong with that fact. It was life.
I took in a deep breath and sat back at the desk to just stare at the piece of paper. Sure enough, plot lines were thrown for a loop. It didn't happen very often, but when it did, I was usually out of sorts for a while. The time on my watch decided me to go out back and chop some wood.
"Come on, Allison. Let's work out your frustrations."
I slipped my jacket on, grabbed my leather gloves from the pocket, and headed out the back door for the woodshed. Like usual, the 8-pound maul sat upon the two nails I had driven into the inside wall. I took it down and looked at the two cords of wood waiting to be split, as well as the half a dozen bolts.
"How mad am I?"
I set the maul against a support beam and rolled a bolt over closer to the center of the shed. Once it was satisfyingly even, I grabbed a piece of wood, set it on top of the bolt, and picked up the maul. Throwing my weight into the movement of my shoulder, the maul came down with a wood splitting crack. I smiled and chucked the pieces into the wood cart to my left.
"I'm feeling better already."
I set another piece on the bolt and brought the maul down with a grunt. The wood went flying and I left them. I set up another chunk.
"Allison, why is your family such a tender spot?"
Thump. The maul missed, and I grumbled under my breath.
"Are you still upset about the argument?"
Crack. Two more pieces of wood went flying.
"No."
Crack. More wood tumbled.
"Allison, don't lie."
Thump. I missed again and struggled to get the maul out of the bolt.
"I'm not."
Crack. More wood fell.
"Really."
Crack. I set the maul against the support beam again and stacked the wood into the cart.
"I don't know what my problem is."
Before I had come to live here, my family and I had unfortunately been involved in a disagreement about my decision to move permanently to the cabin. Both my sister and mother had said I was running from something. In fact, my sister and her husband had said that I was running from them.
I grimaced and picked up the maul, set up another wood piece and gave it a hard heave. Crack. Two pieces went flying and a healthy split appeared in the bolt.
"That can't be it," I mumbled.
I shook my head and forced the whole scenario out of my head. I brought the maul down with another grunt, and then stacked the remaining pieces of wood in the cart. After placing the maul back up on the two nails, I grabbed the handles of the cart and wheeled it out to the back door of the house. Propping the door open, I took a couple armloads to the box by the fireplace, and then wheeled it back to the shed. I closed the door behind me, slipped off my jacket, put my gloves on better, and took the maul down once more.
"Allison, my girl, you've got some wood chopping to do."
I stopped by this afternoon to return the book I'd borrowed, but you were nowhere to be found. I put it back where I'd found it, stoked up the fire, and put some water on heating for your coffee or tea. I also borrowed another one of your books. So far, you have excellent taste!
Keith
I sat at the barstool in the kitchen as I wiped the sweat from my face with a damp paper towel. I smiled. The note had been found on the kitchen counter set under a freshly carved figure of a doe.
"What a sweet man," I breathed as I stared at the delicate piece of work.
I felt as if a man I had never even met courted me... well, maybe not courted, but definitely wooed. The feeling was strangely welcome and comforting, as well as a little exciting. I shook my head in wonder, set the doe off to one side of the kitchen counter, and stood to place the letter on the slowly growing pile.
"Hm. I wonder..."
I sat at the typewriter, pulled out a fresh piece of paper to insert in place of the former one, and quickly typed out a reply. I read over it with a grimace.
"Allison Campbell, you're a writer and that's the best you can do?" I clucked my tongue at the first attempt and filed it in my scratch paper drawer. "Now get out your pen and paper. You're doing this long hand."
Keith,
I never expected to receive a first letter from you, not to mention a third, but I must say I appreciate your honesty and help. You're welcome any time to raid my book stocks, or to sit at my fire. What good is a house if not to share its warmth? The doe figurine is beautiful. I only wish I knew how to repay your kindness. Again, I thank you and hope you enjoy my hospitality further.Allison Campbell
AKA Alice Kreyssler
I gave a brusque nod and set it aside. Then I prepared a label and folder for Keith's notes. I tucked the folder into the appropriate letter slot of my filing cabinet, stood to set my note under the doe figurine, and then went to take a shower. When I got back, I would curl up on the couch with a cup of hot herbal tea and pretend Keith had handed me the cup. I smiled and closed the door to the bathroom.
"A harmless fantasy never hurt anyone," I said.