1946. The war was over, but the wounds still raw, when Susan’s father fell ill and died. It hurt so bad she wasn’t sure she could carry on. Running the farm wasn’t the problem—the problem would be caring enough to stay and put up with the pain and struggle in the same place where there seemed to be nothing but struggle—that was the issue. She had always loved the farm, didn’t mind the work, managed to stay cool and hopeful through drought, frost, bugs, and all the other threats…but she was alone now. Her brother Roddy had died overseas only three years before her father, and it was all just too hard. She nearly broke in half.
But spring came, and with it, hope. Her heart swelled with gratitude when she found the parsnips had made it through the winter in the garden. A meadowlark’s silver trill gave her joy; a clump of crocuses was like a fresh bouquet ready for a celebration. The sun warmed the earth, and she began to heal and felt like she could, in fact, carry on. There were neighbours to help when she needed—not as many as before the war, but those who were still around seemed more eager than ever to stick together and help each other out. She could still raise a few chickens, she decided, and the fluffy little peeping chicks were another cheering squad urging her on.
It was her first time to handle seeding by herself, though, and she felt inadequate. How would she manage the repairs her dad had known so much about? She hadn’t realized she would need to know this stuff. Why hadn’t she paid more attention? Who would she call about a broken chain, a flat tire?
They say necessity is the mother of invention. Well, desperation is the mother of humility. When the tractor wouldn’t start and she had tried everything she knew to get it going, she went to the neighbours for help.
And there was Jim.
He was a cousin of the family on the next quarter, come to work for them in their time of need. He’d been spared the call to war because he had a bad leg, a poorly healed injury from an accident with a horse in his youth. He was otherwise very hale and hearty and would have been an asset to the army if they’d let him in, but fortunately for our heroine that didn’t happen. So, he was looking for work and his relatives needed his help, and west from Ontario he had come. When Susan arrived at the Brown’s looking for help, he was the first on the scene to see what she needed. He was all energy and eagerness; she was reticent and embarrassed and too humiliated by her seeming failure to even be very friendly. But he followed her over to the farm and somehow got the tractor going for her---this time she was paying close attention so she wouldn’t have to ask again. She was going to learn about carburetors and coils and battery cables; no more of this helpless female stuff for her.
This was the first of many visits Jim made to Susan’s farm to help her out. And he was just one of the assets that year presented. The rains came when needed and provided just enough moisture for the crops. The wind seemed to be on holiday, so they weren’t plagued with dust. The machinery, with Jim’s occasional tweaking, seemed more cooperative. The garden thrived and life seemed better than she’d dared hope. She looked back on last winter’s depression and felt a kind of curiosity about it, and a kind of gentleness for herself. Of course, she’d been knocked back and hollowed out by the pain. But she was better now.
Not better enough to notice what was happening. That Jim was at her farm as much as he was at the Brown’s. That he seemed to anticipate her needs, knew how to fix anything that dared to break when he was around, loved even the stupid chickens and improved their coop with insulation and ventilation and new nesting boxes. Why, they were as well housed as any chickens on the prairie.
Susan appreciated his help but was very guarded. She deliberately ignored the fact that he was strong and handsome. She was embarrassed that he refused pay, saying his family was going to help him get set up and he didn’t need much anyway. He whistled happily while he was poisoning gophers. He hummed as he hitched Daisy to the one-horse plow and steered her down the tree rows. The place looked pretty good for a farm that had come dangerously close to being abandoned. Susan was close to being as happy as she’d been before the war, before Roddy went overseas, before that awful telegram, before her father’s heart gave out. There was good in life again.
But she was plenty cautious still. As much as she appreciated Jim’s help, she was wary of anything more than that.
He, on the other hand, was falling in love and ready to do anything to crack the shell around Susan’s heart. He made careful little advances. She either didn’t notice or refused to notice. He brought little handfuls of wildflowers into the kitchen. He fixed the doorknobs and repaired cracked windows. He brought the mail in, offered to bring groceries from town. When harvest was over, and the pressure was off, he still hung around wanting to help. He even called on the phone when he hadn’t seen her for a few days, to see that she was okay. She still didn’t catch on. The neighbours did; the party line was a wonderful tool of communication, and the folks on the line were all waiting for some kind of action, some happy announcement.
Jim bided his time.
Then there was a fire. It was south, a few short miles away from their farms, but everyone who could sprang into action and came to help control it and save the neighbour’s house and barn. Susan was among the busiest and most compassionate of the neighbours. She prepared food, she carried water, she moved equipment, she was heroic in her efforts to save the place and fill any need she could. Jim had never seen her so confident, so capable, in full bloom. He was full of wonder. He made up his mind. He’d better ask before someone else found her and stole her heart.
A few days later, when they were rested up and cleaned up, he approached her in her kitchen. She was peeling potatoes, preparing supper. He stood beside her, but not so close as to bother her. The ring was in his pocket. He gulped. He didn’t want to stammer. He didn’t want to mess this up. He brought the ring from his pocket and showed her.
“Susan…I’ve known for a long time now what a wonderful woman you are…um…Susan, I’m here to ask you, will you be my wife? Will you marry me? “
He didn’t know what to expect, but the look on her face certainly wasn’t it what he was looking for. She was kind of aghast, kind of embarrassed, kind of amused, and very wary and uncertain. “J-J- Jim,“ she stuttered, “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t think I’m ready, you’ve been wonderful, you really have, and I am so grateful, and I’m so flattered, but I don’t know…”
She looked at the ring he was offering. Never dreamed it, deliberately did not dream it, and now it was happening…
“Jim, can I think about it? Can you give me some time? I don’t want to say no, but…”
Jim, with the tenderest love a guy can have, said “You think about it, but in the meantime, don’t take a ring from anyone else, you hear?” She laughed. He put the ring on the windowsill over the counter. He said, “I’ll leave it here, and when you’re ready, we’ll put it on your finger, okay?” She was on the verge of tears, so moved and so afraid. “Okay,” she said. He left, and she tried to eat her supper as if nothing had happened.
A few days later, she was pickling dills. Again, he came and stood by her side. “Need any help?” “Well,“ she said, “you could tighten the lids for me, my hand is still sore from that incident with Daisy.”
The ring was still on the windowsill.
He was putting the lids on the hot sealers of dills when the craziest notion came into his head and he did something so impulsive and stupid it would scramble his mind for weeks. One of the cukes on the top of the jar looked just the size of her finger. When she wasn’t looking, he grabbed the ring, put it on the little cucumber and sealed the jar. Why? Ridiculous. Now how was he going to find it again? There were a dozen jars. He needed to mark it so he could find it again. There was a crayon in a little dish of junk on the windowsill. Again, when she wasn’t looking, he marked the lid. When all the jars were sealed, he said, “I’ll take these down to the cellar for you.” She said she usually didn’t take them down until they’d cooled, but okay, since he was there and wanted to help. He carried them down. He placed the marked jar where he could find it again.
The next day she noticed the ring was gone. She was horrified. How could this happen, where could it be, what had she done? She searched high and low, swept, dusted, shone a flashlight into every corner, to no avail. She agonized over it, lost sleep over it, but she couldn’t tell him. He would come around every couple of days, even shared meals with her, but she didn’t say anything and difficult as it was, he just let her be.
However, in the weeks following, she warmed to the proposal. And she allowed herself to feel what had been building inside her, unacknowledged, for months. He wanted to marry her! By golly, she was coming to realize she wanted to marry him, too. But she hadn’t figured out how to tell him that she’d lost the ring.
Christmas was coming. Neighbours were inviting each other for meals and evening card parties and there was to be a concert at the school. She felt so different about Christmas this year, so different from the gloom and grief of last year, she began to prepare and got into the spirit enough to surprise even herself. She felt different about the marriage proposal too, and she was sure Jim could tell, and would ask again soon. She invited Jim to come for supper, along with a couple of the neighbours, ready to enjoy a festive feeling for once.
She was at the kitchen counter preparing the meal when he came, as early as he dared, and looked over her shoulder to admire her work. “What’s for supper?” There was plenty, it was going to be a feast, to be sure. “How about some pickles?” he asked. “Well,” she told him, “there are pickled beets and carrots, and cabbage salad.” “What about some dills though?” “You want dills too? Well, you know where they are.” He went down the old wooden steps to the cold room. He prickled with excitement and fear. Where was that jar? Had she moved things around? Lord, what if she--? Then to his great relief he found the jar he had marked. He carried it upstairs, breathless despite his youth and health. He took it to the cupboard, stood beside her again, opened the jar, and there it was, bright as his hopes. He wiggled it off the pickle, flicked the vinegar off it with his tongue, put one arm over her shoulder and with the other hand, held it up in front of her face.
“Well, lookee here!” he exclaimed. “Merry Christmas, darling!“
