Weaving the Dry Water's Edge

A thin veil of frost silvered the mound of green glass Coca-Cola bottles rising four feet above last year’s brown weed stalks.  Nearby a tangle of dried grasses and vines covered a tumbled pile of bricks.  Paint in a variety of faded colors silently peeled from wooden window frames stacked along the inner wall of the tall board fence.  On the side facing the road, green letters proclaimed this was “Stark’s Salvage Yard,” though the proprietor, Benjamin Stark, had been in his grave for six years.

In the middle of the enclosure, wood smoke curled sluggishly from the chimney pipe of a small cabin.  The front door opened just far enough to allow a stocking-capped head to peer cautiously out into the yard.  Seeing nothing to alarm her, Clara Stark stepped out of the shack.  She was wearing a blue knitted sweater buttoned closely over a green and red print dress which stopped at her knees, revealing a longer brown dress worn underneath.  Gray woolen stockings and a pair of men’s work boots covered her feet.  She used one of the keys suspended on a dingy cord around her neck to lock the cabin door.

In the gray dawn, made gloomier by the deep forest, a porcelain toilet glowed eerily, standing on the frostbitten grass next to an overturned bathtub and a jumbled heap of old sinks, pipes, and faucets.

Clara threaded her familiar way past Bennie’s “Bath and Plumbing Department,” to the gate that opened onto Pipestone Road.  She used a second key to unlock the padlock on a heavy chain.  Still clutching the chain and lock, she cautiously pulled open the gate.  Seeing something unfamiliar on the other side, she quickly drew back and slammed it shut. 

With both hands planted on the rough boards, she leaned against it.  One minute passed ..... two. 

Birds were beginning to call to one another in the forest.  She heard a car rush past on the roadway.  A bright red cardinal flew from the woods and lit on the fence, just visible in the dim light. 

“Redbreast isn’t scared,” she muttered.  Slowly she opened the gate.  Something metal, shiny, standing upright on two wheels, wearing a bright red ribbon tied in a festive bow.  Clara circled the object warily.  She gripped the top experimentally, watching the wheels roll back and forth.  Her red-tipped nose sniffed the air as she turned slowly around, looking in every direction.  Cackling with glee, she pulled a folded brown paper bag from under her sweater and fastened it to the shopping cart.  Clara chained and locked the gate before turning to follow the fence all the way around to the back of the property, the cart bumping along behind her.

Walking along the road would have been easier.  Following the railroad tracks that passed directly behind the former salvage yard was shorter.  Clara arrived at the cemetery on the edge of the village exasperated with her companion, the cart.  “Redbreast wasn’t scared.  You shouldn’t be scared neither, dragging your feet all the way to town,” she scolded.

The cart apparently took heed of her admonishment and began to roll along quite willingly on the hard-packed earth of the cemetery drive.  Clara paused to pat its handles, to show it she approved.