An old wilting faded blue house built of two stories with a sagging dark gray roof stood by itself on a small hill surrounded by entwining black spruce, fragrant balsams and tall quiet poplars shiny with dew. The siding was painted cedar and the white window trim was chipped and cracked and a small wisp of smoke drifted from the chimney into the still cool morning. In front of the house was a thick bed of wood chips and an old faded chopping block with innumerable ax scars and a sloping stack of dried balsam and birch cut last year by Serpa Mekela and her husband Jukka. For three and a half decades they had kept the house very straight and in good repair but now its tired state perfectly reflected their own physical decline.
Illustration by Gabrielle Fogg.
The grass was still wet and nine year old Jeremy could see his breath in the sunlight and regretted not wearing something with long sleeves. He walked up the hill with a plastic bag and knew from the smoking chimney the Mekelas were awake. He heard his parents talking and everyone thought they weren’t going try to brave another boreal winter in the small Northern Ontario logging town, Suspan.
Serpa pulled open the crooked windowless wood door that complained and resisted and looked down at Jeremy with hard gray eyes. She always looked the same to him, always the same as far as he could remember; gray hair drawn back tight with long loose strands around her square masculine face and long wiry brows furrowed sternly. He looked up into her face and smiled but felt sad because of what everyone was saying.
“My mom said to give you this,” he said holding up the white plastic bag. She took it and smiled short, hard and meager, peering down at three frozen packages of moose meat wrapped in brown paper then turned and limped away on her bad hip, leaving the door open expecting him to wait without telling him. He felt the warmth from within meeting him and in it the smell of burning wood, musty clothing, sweet pipe tobacco and aging bodies. He didn’t think it was a bad smell. It was just the way the Mekelas smelled, like having blue eyes or big feet. He could see the back of Jukka’s gray head over an easy chair by the wood stove drawing on a pipe and he didn’t look back at Jeremy. She returned with another plastic bag and gave it to him with a curt nod.
“Tell your mother thank you,” she said with a thick Finnish accent and closed the door with abrupt noisy finality. And that was always the same with them. Just bits of expressionless communication and eyes that seemed to consider you but briefly and silently demanded you to keep your distance. It was the way he always knew them. He looked in the generously weighted bag of fresh blueberries picked on the rocky hills just behind the graveyard. There wasn’t a leaf or stem mixed with them.
Back home he put the berries on the table, rushed out the back door into the yard and stood beside his father. He was working on a distributor cap from an outboard motor on an old weather faded plank table.
“I’m getting the motor going and we’ll go fishing later,” he said glancing at Jeremy.
“Can Zeke come?”
He eyed his son briefly and nodded.
“Make sure he tells his mother,” he said with a cigarette in the side of his mouth.
“Dad?”
“Ya?”
“Do you think the Mekelas will be here this winter?”
He looked at his son removing his cigarette.
“Maybe …don’t know.”
“They did good last year.”
“They did, but it’s been rough for them for a long time. They’re pretty old to live here on their own. You seen him trying to start his snow mobile last winter. Could hardly pull the cord. He drives his pick-up fine enough around town but if he needs to get to the hospital the road Edison can be tricky, especially in the winter.”
“Why do they stay if it’s so hard?” Said Jeremy.
“I guess they like it here.”
The other kids didn’t pay much attention to the cranky Finns on the hill. You almost forgot they were there, just quiet fixtures on the land, seldom visited or visiting. The most people saw of Serpa was fussing around outside on her hill. Jukka was a little more venturous, sometimes sitting in the only general store listening and chatting in his subdued thoughtful way with older locals.
There was one spectacle Jeremy would always remember. Three years ago during the spring pickerel run Jukka and Serpa were at the river together. A sight he’d never seen before. It’s only a ten minute walk from town and lots of people were fishing from the river bank and it was almost impossible not to catch them they were so thick. Jukka would hook one and instead of reeling it in he’d walk backwards with his pipe in his mouth and she’d have her hand on his back laughing outrageously, slapping him, yelling in her native tongue and heavily accented English and everyone fished and watched them amused.
“Jukka bring it in, bring it in you fool!” She’d yell while he dragged the flopping fish up the bank and sometimes they’d get off and tumble and flop back in the water and she’d posture up admonishing him with her hands on her hips. His father shook hard with quiet laughter and had to wipe his eyes and that was the only time he’d seen Serpa laugh.
But Jeremy knew something about them nobody else did. Two summers ago he was swimming in the Mawgi River by himself looking for lost fish hooks. He was forbidden to swim alone but some tourist had been fishing the day before and he watched them lose several hooks on snags and he wanted to get them before anyone else. He dove under like an otter, coming back up for air and down again. After a half hour he found three but was determined not to stop until he had them all. Swimming in the cold currant was demanding and he had a sharp pain in his side. It was a cramp he never experienced before that steadily worsened until it was hard just to tread water. He tried to make his way to shore that wasn’t far but it might as well been a mile away. He started sinking and yelled out to the warm wind and swaying poplars knowing no one was there. He went down twice, struggling to get to the surface gulping water in a panic when a white circle came hurdling through the air almost hitting him. He grabbed at it desperately, pulling up as far as he could, resting his face on its smoothness while being pulled to shore.
Jukka was on the river bank. He’d thrown the life preserver with a rope and drew him in with strong sweeps. He picked Jeremy up, grabbed his face between his big hands and shook his head. Jeremy looked up cold and shaking into the old man’s eyes brimming with emotion and he yelled at Jeremy.
“You stupid boy, stupid stupid boy!” he yelled shaking Jeremy’s head firmly.
There was an old abandoned falling down boat house full of junk which included a couple of very old life preservers and he figured he must have been in there rummaging. When he was walking back up the river road the old man yelled.
“If I catch you swimming again by yourself I’m going to smack you. You hear me! And tell your father!”
The old man saved his life and Jeremy never told anyone. But he knew Jukka told his wife because of the way she smiled at him when he saw her after. It was stern and happy at the same time and she nodded once and he smiled back, and unlike his friends, he knew there was more to the Mekelas.
He knew they were good people just like you know the rattling dry hum of a cicada in the still heat of August.
When fall came he noticed the Mekelas hadn’t started gathering wood for the long winter. They just kept burning the small pile from last year.
“Dad?” Said Jeremy. They were finishing supper and he’d been quiet. His father had washed his hands hard but there was still dark stains of grease around his wrists from work.
“Yes?”
“Why aren’t the Mekelas getting wood yet?”
“They’re planning on moving to Edison. Jukka is going there to look for a place.”
Jeremy sat quiet for a while looking down and his father could see something was wrong.
“Jeremy? What’s going on son?”
And he told his father the story of being saved by Jukka, describing every detail he could remember and his father listened quietly. The next day he watched his father walking into the Mekela’s yard and he could see him talking to Jukka for a long time. He came back and stood in front of Jeremy sitting on the front step.
“Well…the Mekelas decided to stay for one more winter.”
He looked up at his father puzzled.
“Ya, old Jukka doesn’t want to leave,” said his father. “But me and you, we’ve got some things to do.”
“What dad?”
“We’re going to cut a pile of wood for them and split and pile it. You know how much work that is eh son? Are you up to it?”
“Yes dad.”
“And you’re going to help him keep his walk way clear of snow. You think you can do that?”
“Yes dad. What about going to Edison if he needs to?”
“We’ll make sure he gets there.”
A cool fall wind stirred the trees, pressing through the dry grass and in it was the fresh sweetness of fall and Jeremy was very happy because of the way things are.
*****
About the author: Glen Louttit was relocated from Thorold, Ontario at the tender age of 6 years old when his mother moved their family back to her home town in Northern Ontario. He grew up in Oba, Ontario where the population during his life time never exceeded eighty-five. It was shocking and beautiful and after a short time Glen forgot that he ever lived in southern Ontario. Always a writer, over the last two years Glen has written a collection of short fiction, most of it set in the North. Says the author, “I think some of these stories came out of a longing to be there. At fifty seven years old, living and working in the Sault, I look forward to retirement so I can go back.”
