A TREE BY THE SEA

The Mountain

Summer 1980

Her stomach is stretched and bulging, heavily protruding from the thin t-shirt she donned for bed the night before. There are wet spots along her side where her toddler’s cloth diaper leaked through and soaked the bedding. She kneels with her bare knees in the hard packed dirt poking the embers of a campfire summoning the heat needed to boil water for breakfast. The baby inside her grinds deep into her pelvis. A dull pain wraps around her low back and tightens across the top of her stomach. She shifts her weight uncomfortably and can’t help but grimace. Contractions have been coming stronger over the past weeks. The mid September arrival date predicted for this little one feels like an eternity away even though August is hurrying to an end.

A wooden apple crate sits beside her fire.  It is a cupboard for her clean dishes.  She gets two ceramic coffee mugs and carefully measures instant coffee into each.  The water has just barely come to a boil when she lifts it carefully from the metal grate that serves as her cook top. The steaming liquid is tempered by a bit of canned milk and granulated white sugar. She stands and adjusts her long skirt around her legs after brushing dirt and pine needles from where they pressed into her skin. She hands one of the cups to her husband.

He is leaning against the hood of a sedan, the once shiny paint now covered in a thick layer of powdered earth.  He smiles at her and she gets a glimpse of straight white teeth. His blue eyes are clear and concerned for her.

“Did you get any sleep?” he asks.

The young woman thinks back to a night squished between him and their babies.

“Yes, a little.” She responds stretching her hips with a slight rise alternating on the tips of her toes.

They sip their coffee wordlessly. They are both watching a curious chipmunk peaking from beneath a small pile of wood stacked against a pine.

“I better wake your brother up.” He says setting his empty coffee cup back down on the crate beside the fire.

She watches his tall lean figure as he walks to the doorway of a garden shed sized wooden structure built adjacent to a sturdy looking ARMY tent. He is dressed in a white shirt and faded ragged bottomed Levi’s.  His feet are bare and tanned.  She rarely sees him in shoes during the warm months. His hair is past his shoulders in frizzy untamed curls bleached blonde in places by the sun’s rays. Her eyes follow him as he disappears behind the heavy blanket stapled over the entryway to the cabin.

The sun now is just beginning to shine through the tops of the trees to the east of their small camp. The early morning is still cool, and the long forest grass is reflective with glints of sunlit dew. The child within her again shifts as her muscles tighten in another contraction.

Her younger brother steps from the cabin wearing the same work clothes he had on the day before. He smooths his crumpled t-shirt over his stomach and reaches for the steaming cup of coffee the woman is handing to him.

He grins boyishly at his sister, “Thanks for breakfast.”

Her brother is carefree and un-tethered. He came to join her odd and adventurous life out here in the Washington wilderness from suburban upstate New York a few years back. He alternates between staying on their property, camping in some even further fetched corner of the state, or sleeping in a cabin at whatever orchard he is working in for that season. Though she wonders what it is about this place that draws people from the ordinary ease of modern civilization, and holds them like inmates sentenced to a life of hard labor, she can see it has been good for her little brother to be here.

The men leave and now the woman is alone with her toddler, who stumbled from the tent shortly after the guys left. The child woke to the sound of the car engine roaring to life loudly.  It would have been quieter but the muffler meant to reduce such noise was lost to one of the especially deep ruts common on the road to town.  Her husband will re-attach it. Maybe. The car isn’t even theirs, but belongs to a friend of her brothers. He is letting them use it until after the baby is born.  Their own car currently isn’t running.  Her husband spent most of the summer hitchhiking into the valley, walking until getting to the county roads.  Harvest is coming though and they will be able to buy a new alternator once he earns more money picking apples.

She has already stripped the sheets and wiped down the mattress inside the tent with a wet rag. It will dry quickly with the sun warming the dark canvas and heating up the interior. Her little boy sits on the pile of blankets eating oatmeal with plump raisins re hydrated in hot milk, his bare butt freshly cleaned by the same damp rag. A red cotton shirt covers his round torso. He looks up at her through long straight bangs. He has his father’s clear blue eyes.

“Bee,” he says pointing to a yellow jacket buzzing against the forest green canvas in the top corner of the tent.

“Yes, bee.”

She looks at his little face that has changed from sweet contentment to a concentrated look of remembered pain.

“Owie.”

His voice is full of sympathy for his past self.

“Yes,” she repeats, “Owie.”

She catches the offensive insect with her rag and listens to it crunch as she smashes it between her cloth protected fingers.

“He dead,” her little boy states, a smile returning to his face.

“Yes, he is dead.”

The momma gathers up the urine soaked sheets, her shirt, and the wet diaper.  She carries them outside with her boy trailing behind her. She places them in a plastic five gallon bucket that she uses for washing. She scoops a small amount of detergent from the box of Tide that sits just inside the small wooden addition to their tent.  This wood structure though humble gives her so much peace and joy knowing that they will have more protection from the heavy snows that fall on the mountain over the winter.

She looks around the room.  There is a used couch acquired from one of the orchardists in the valley.  Her brother’s sleeping bag is still spread over the cushions.  There is a wooden cable spool that they’ve re-purposed into a table, and a small stump sanded smooth with a groove just right for her son’s little bottom carved out of the top beside it.  The walls are two by fours, but there is thick tar paper covering them to keep the moisture and wind out.  A few rolls of insulation are stacked in one corner.  There is a cast iron stove standing against the far wall with a shining new stove-pipe reaching up to a peaked roof. All her dry goods are on or under a simple counter fashioned of plywood and planks with their lumber yard markings uncovered by finishing.

The woman is startled by a sharp cry of pain. She turns quickly to see that her son has pinched her dog’s ear while trying to climb over the top of her.

“Ohhh,” he says looking sorry and slightly shocked that he made that noise come from the dog.

Her beautiful German Shepard stares up at her with sweet brown eyes.  She turns and licks her sons chubby hand.

“You are a good girl, Cherry.”

It’s a considerable effort but she bends to pat the dogs soft head.

She slips her feet into a pair of worn brown sandals and puts a small pair of sneakers on her son. She decides to leave his lower half unclothed thinking of the work involved in washing all those diapers. Besides he is potty training. She smiles to herself. Potty training here is really just getting her son to pull his pants down before peeing since there is no bathroom.  She does have an area that she can use for her needs but it is barely an outhouse, just a board over a 4 foot deep hole with a blue tarp nailed to the near trees around it for privacy.

“Creek!”

Her son shouts happily seeing his mother gathering up the laundry and a second bucket that she uses for hauling water.

They start down the path leading over a short hill to a thin creek that winds through a narrow draw along the eastern edge of their property.  Yarrow and Indian paintbrushes tickle her legs as she walks along.  Her son stops to pick a few late wild strawberries. The path into the draw is steep and requires careful balance and considerable effort as she slowly makes her way into the dense shadows of the forested ravine. There are dry pine needles that make her little boy slip a few times. She reaches out her hand to steady him.  Cherry looks back up at her.  She is walking protectively leading the little parade into the draw.  They reach the cool creek bank and the woman stops to catch her breath.  Another contraction.  This one lasts longer and is more forceful than many of the others have been.

“Oh, Jesus,” she whispers.

To some this is a curse but to her it’s a prayer.

Her son is already kneeling on a moss-covered rock with his hands in the water.  The smell of the fresh mint that grows naturally in the moist earth permeates the air. She takes a deep cleansing breath and gets to work washing the soiled clothing. When she is finished, she fills her empty bucket halfway with water to be used back at camp for washing people and dishes. The mosquitoes have noticed them and start to make her little boy miserable.

“Home,” he whines pointing toward the brush lined path out of the draw.

She treks back up the trail.  Carrying the heavy wet wash in one bucket and the other bucket of water takes all of her energy and tenacity. By the time the young mother and child make it back to the cabin she has had multiple contractions. She is afraid. I can’t be in labor she thinks. It’s too early. She is not prepared to have another baby alone. She looks at her son. She gave birth to him in an orchard camp by herself after her husband left to get the midwife and her friend stepped away to get supplies.

“Oh, God help me,” she prays.

She gets some cold water from the big barrel they have to haul into town to fill at a public spigot then carefully ration for their cooking and drinking.  She shares the cup with her thirsty son. The young woman relaxes onto the couch in the makeshift living area and counts time between contractions as her son eats a small dish of canned pears and granola at the little spool table.  Ten minutes, twelve minutes, now fifteen. They are getting weaker and further apart. She sighs with relief. Her eyes are growing heavy.  Her little boy crawls up beside her and stretches his chubby arm across her large belly. Soon they both give in to sleep.

The woman is awakened to the hollow knocking of a woodpecker posted on a branch of the pine just outside the cabin. She looks at her watch and it’s already four pm.  She is surprised that she slept most of the afternoon.  Her son stretches awake beside her.

“I’m hungry,” he says.

Her young family’s constant need for nourishment is a considerable portion of how she spends most days. The men will be home soon from their day in the valley, and she usually prepares a hot meal for them. There is an ice chest buried in the ground with a door facing upward. Painfully she crouches to retrieve supplies from the cool interior. A block of cheese and some bacon.  She slices a thick chunk of cheese and gives it to her son. He happily eats while she cuts onions and potatoes into chunks for a soup. She gets her campfire going hot again by piling dry logs onto the few coals left over from morning.  The heat becomes unbearable as the flames start to crackle competing with the warmth of the late afternoon sun. She has a large cast iron pot that she uses to brown the bacon and onions, then boil the potatoes to be thickened into soup with powdered milk, flour, and whats left of the cheese. She stirs together butter, flour, and more powdered milk to bake biscuits in a Dutch oven that she nestles close to some hot rocks in the coals at the edge of the campfire.  They are edible but as usual burned a bit on the bottom.

The faint roar of the car’s unmuffled engine and a cloud of dust signal the arrival of her husband and brother.

“Daddy!”

Her son squeals happily as contented children do at the arrival of their father.

The soup is bubbling on the campfire and the biscuits are cooling on a plate.  Her husband looks hot and tired but he smiles when he comes over to her.  They greet each other with a kiss. Another young man steps out of the car behind her brother. It’s their friend who owns the car. He decided to came back up the mountain with her husband so he could camp out on their property for the weekend.

“Pete Pikely is out of prison,” her husband says, “There is a party tonight over at Abe’s.”

Her heart sinks. A biker party. These are dangerous neighbors of theirs who she’s had more than one scary run in with.

“Abe, threatened to slit my throat last spring.”

She speaks lowly against her husband’s sweat stained shirt remembering the primal fear that filled her as she stood listening to her husband talk this violent man and his friend out of murder. He pulls out of their quick embrace and chuckles.

“Don’t be afraid. Abe’s not going to hurt you.”

Her husband is a man who doesn’t fear anything. He looks at a situation that is conquering him and figures out a way to conquer it. That’s why they live in a tent on this mountain surrounded by bikers and hippies. He plans to make this place cede to him.

“I think the baby might be coming soon.”

She tries again to change his mind. Her husband puts his hands on her swollen belly. He looks into her eyes.

“You will be fine, just quit giving in to your fear. This baby isn’t due for a few weeks yet.”

The woman knows from her experience that arguing with him is futile, so she once again lets her husband take the lead. His calm assurance seems somewhat logical and somehow stills her nerves. Soon everyone is finished with their dinner and the guys are laughing around the campfire. Her son is sitting on his uncles lap sticking pine needles carefully into his open beer can. She picks up the discarded laundry from earlier in the day and hangs it on a line close to the fire hoping it will dry by bed time. Another strong contraction. She bends over in pain. Her eyes meet her husbands. His returned gaze is annoyingly relaxed. She’s been having contractions for weeks, and with each one she anxiously reminds him that she doesn’t want another birth like their son’s.

His eyes are gleaming with the effects of a few beers and camaraderie when her husband lands on a genius plan.

“I’ll tell you what. If you know you are in labor take my shotgun and shoot it three times in the air. I will hear you from the party and come home.”

Abe’s house is only a short distance through the woods and gunshots echo loudly in the forest.

“What? No!” she says appalled and angry that her husband won’t take her more seriously.

“I can’t shoot your gun!”

“Sure you can. You have done it before,” he replies confidently.

She glances down at her abdomen. She has never shot it while nine months pregnant. She looks back at her husband half expecting for him to shake his head and admit he’s joking, but her brother and his friend are nodding along encouragingly. She can’t believe it, yet so many unbelievable things have happened in the few years they’ve lived on this mountain that she just concedes. Her husband is right, she probably won’t deliver this baby tonight anyway. She’s not sure what she would have to do to talk them all out of their planned revelry.

The men all drive away in good spirits. A getting out of prison party is an event that her friends and neighbors rarely miss. She is a little disappointed but also grateful to have the peace and quiet.  Her son has fallen asleep and is safely tucked into her bed.  The sheets never fully dried, so she swiped her brother’s sleeping bag off the couch to cover her mattress.  He won’t use it tonight anyway. If the party turns out like most, he will probably just pass out wherever he happens to be sitting when the amount of beer all the guys drink finally hits him. She lays down next to her little boy and listens to the wind rushing over the tops of the pines. The fire has died down to a few embers but she hears some faint pops of pitch bursting open in the dry wood.  She should get up, fasten the tent door shut, and make sure the fire is fully out, but her legs feel heavy. It is early but she just wants to sleep.

She must have dozed off because when her eyes snap open, it’s now the thick dark that is only experienced in the absence of electric lights.  She can see there’s a faint starlight giving substance to the trees against a clouded sky, but the fire is long dead. Her abdomen is tight and she feels like knives are being driven into her sides. She gasps. This is no false labor, the baby is coming. She waits for the contraction to end. She can’t see her watch to time them so she counts quietly to herself as she gets up and slips outside. A warm stream of liquid trickles down the inside of her thighs. Her water broke. The moon comes out from behind a cloud and she can see the shotgun leaning against the pine where her husband left it. Grinding across her back and low abdomen another contraction mounts a slow attack. Less than five minutes. She leans against the tree breathing in and out in slow controlled breaths waiting for it to release. Swallowing her rising dread she picks up the gun and braces the butt against the tree.  She is careful to point it away from camp out over the thicket of trees.

Bam! The first loud explosion of gunpowder makes her jump. She is more steady as she cocks the gun and fires the next two shots. Bam! Bam! The sound ricochets through the forest. She waits in the silence expecting to hear her son whimpering awake. Instead she hears the roar of bike engines in the distance.

By the time her husband gets there she has given into her emotions. Tears stream down her face.

“I told you I was having this baby! Take me to the hospital!” angry and shaking in pain she is still gripping the shotgun tightly with both hands.

She glares at her husband who though drunk is calmly assessing the situation.

He puts his arms around her, and gently loosens her grip on the gun.

“I will take you. You can do this. You have done this before, just don’t be afraid,” he is whispering to her and even through the alcohol on his breath she can hear a sobering voice calling her to stillness.

It is hard to be rational as the pain grips her again but looking into his serious face she has no other choice but to trust him. She notices that many of the guys followed her husband home from the party. They are all staring a little dumbly at her, helpless yet willing to do whatever this crazy eyed pregnant woman might demand. Her brother quickly agrees to stay at home with her son. He is already making his way into the cabin to lie down on the bare couch. Abe is even there looking concerned, and offers to drive the family down the hill. Her husband declines, but enlists their brother’s friend from the valley to ride along so he can keep an eye on her progress during the forty-minute trip to town. It is his car after all.

The young woman doesn’t even care who is driving at this point as she crawls into the beer can littered backseat and braces herself for the ride over winding washboard laden dirt roads. She is praying in between contractions.

The pain has been so fierce and coming in such relentless waves that she barely notices when the bumpy gravel changes to smooth pavement. The cool night air mixed with the scent of cigarette smoke blowing in from the open front windows washes over her sweat soaked face. Short breaths. An urge to bare down.

“Nooooooooo!”

She hears herself scream. She can’t keep from letting her body push this baby out.

“What is going on back there?”

She hears her husband urging their reluctant passenger to turn around.

“Pull over!” Her brother’s friend yells as he glances into the back seat with wide eyes just when she begins pushing.

Searing, blinding pain. Then relief.  She is lost in this moment, so she doesn’t hear the loud pop of the rear tire as it blows while the car is decelerating from a dangerous speed. The car slows to a wavering thumping stop in the small gravel parking lot of Dan’s Market, a beer run mecca, perched at an intersection just off the highway.

The back door of the car is thrown open and her now sobered husband is sitting at her feet. She reaches down and picks up the warm wet newborn. The baby is quiet. A street lamp shines an unnatural light on the scene. A perfect new human. A baby girl who is struggling to cry. The woman’s mind feels foggy with unbelief staring at this baby delivered into her own hands. There are a few small whimpers and then thick gurgling. The young mother starts to panic as she realizes the newborn is having trouble breathing. In all the excitement her birth kit with the suction bulb was left at camp. Without hesitation the father takes the baby and lifts her tiny slick face to his mouth. He places his lips over her nose and sucks in. There is no equipment to assist with delivery at this birth. He uses his lungs to clear his daughter’s airway. He lifts his head and spits the thick mucus that was choking her from his mouth into the gravel. The baby girl lets out a shrill cry.  Her lungs are forcing her first breaths into the night air.

The shocked parents look down at their new baby daughter now breathing freely. She is shiny with wet afterbirth, and warm and soft in her father’s ruff hands.  She looks intently into the hairy face of this man squinting against the bright light shining around him. He smiles and wraps a thin blanket around her placing her back in her mother’s arms.

The new father stoops to change the flat tire with the help of their friend who looks pale and is trembling after his night of carefree partying took such a drastic turn.

“Hey do you guys need any help?”

A concerned man delivering newspapers comes up to the car. Looking through the back window, his face contorts in disgust when he glimpses the gore of blood and birth. He offers to call an ambulance, but the new father waves him away telling him that they have it handled. With the tire changed they make their way toward the small town of Tonasket to complete their intended mission. The mother holds her newborn tightly against the warmth of her chest as the darkness of the early morning rushes past the car now driving at a more reasonable pace.

Nurses hurry out of the sliding glass doors under the brightly lit sign of the emergency room when they realize what the dusty car that just pulled up to the red painted curb contains. They scoop up the dark-haired newborn and rush her inside to place her under a warming light and do a thorough exam. The baby’s umbilical cord is properly cut and the mother is checked for excessive bleeding. Besides being a little chilled both mother and child are deemed healthy and within hours they are headed back up the mountain. Against the advice of the young doctor on call that night, the father decides there is no reason to stay in the hospital except to accrue a bill the couple would not be able to afford.

“Well make sure you bring them back down to be seen in my office this week.” The doctor knows this family from clinic and feels confident that the mother will do as asked.

The sky is pink to the east with the sun rising to light the stunning views of the valley as the car winds it’s way back up the hill. The couple returns home to find their toddler and his uncle still soundly sleeping.  The new mother lies down next to her son with his new baby sister and drifts into an exhausted unconsciousness. The little boy wakes later in the morning and squirms out of his predictably soaked diaper. Peeking over the curve of his mother’s hip, he is awed by this baby that appeared nestled in the blankets on the other side of his momma mysteriously in the night.

She doesn’t yet have a name but the young parents welcome their daughter into their imperfect world. A world that doesn’t have what many parents would think they need in order to bring home a baby. There is no decorated nursery. There are no stacks of baby books and toys. Her home will be a tent on the top of a mountain surrounded by others who for one reason or another have decided to dwell on the fringes of society. This wide-eyed newborn will hear the name Jesus whispered on the lips of her mother. She will watch her father stand when other men would succumb to fear. She will forever be reminded that her first breath came upon the lips of her father’s promise to love her and protect her despite his deepest flaws.