CHAPTER 34

Christmas 1935

IN DECEMBER, THE SUN BARELY CLEARED THE MOUNTAINtops by ten in the morning, and set again before Terpsichore walked home from the bus stop. Sometimes, the wind blew snow into enormous drifts against the sides of barns and houses, and neighbors helped each other digging out. Every evening, Terpsichore made her way out to the chicken coop to rub glops of Vaseline into the combs and wattles of each chicken so they wouldn’t get frostbite. She had to protect her source of eggs.

A week before Christmas, the whole family trooped out to cut the spruce tree the family had scouted out months before. Presents started appearing under the tree. Terpsichore was ready. She had bought Shirley Temple paper dolls for the twins—her only store-bought present—and made bookmarks with summer wildflowers she had dried and ironed between layers of waxed paper for her mother, a felted yarn ball for Matthew, and a knitted ear-warmer for her father.

Pop tantalized everyone with the promise of a big surprise at Christmas, and although there were little presents wrapped in funny papers under the tree for the children, he had nothing there for Mother.

While other families had been ordering whole dining room and living room sets of furniture from the Sears and Montgomery Ward catalogs, Terpsichore’s father had been firm: They would not run up debt to buy anything not necessary for survival. If her father had gone against his no-unnecessary-debt rule, what had he bought?

• • •

On Christmas morning, everyone opened gifts of knitted sweaters or mufflers from Mother.

Pop had made a wooden train set for Matthew—an engine and three cars with wheels that turned and doors that opened. He bought books for Cally and Polly: Doctor Dolittle’s Return for Cally, and the latest Nancy Drew mystery, Message in the Hollow Oak, for Polly.

Terpsichore’s present was also shaped like a book. She peeled off the cellophane tape holding the paper closed and as soon as she saw the cover, she jumped up, clutching the book to her heart. “Little House on the Prairie! I didn’t know Laura Ingalls Wilder had written another book!”

“It just came out,” Mother said. “Your grandmother wrote to tell me she had read a newspaper article about it and we knew . . .”

She didn’t get a chance to finish, because Terpsichore was smothering Mother and Pop in hugs. She wanted to go upstairs and read more about Laura right away, but she was still curious about Pop’s surprise.

Now that all the other presents were open, Pop grinned and said, “I’ll be right back.”

Terpsichore, Cally, and Polly huddled at the window and huffed on the glass to melt peepholes in the frost. Pop tromped the path to the barn that he shoveled every day. He left the barn door open, disappeared for a moment, and reappeared at the barn door with a large shipping crate balanced on the rims of a wheelbarrow.

Still clutching her book, Terpsichore raced to be first to the door. “What is it, Pop?”

“What is it, Pop?” echoed the twins.

“What on earth?” said Mother.

Pop laid the box carefully on the table. Matthew toddled over and banged on the sides of the crate with his palms.

“This present’s for everyone, but mostly for you, Clio,” he said, and kissed the top of Mother’s head. “Close your eyes for a minute while I take apart the box.” He took out a crowbar, claw hammer, and large serrated knife he’d stowed in the broom closet. Terpsichore resisted peeking, even at the mysterious creaks and squeaks of nails being pulled out of the crate and the rasp of a knife on cardboard.

“Ta-da!” he crowed. “You can all open your eyes now.”

Mother turned and approached the object on the table. Her hands hovered over the black enamel finish on the playing arm. A smile widened as she looked up at Pop. “A Victrola,” she breathed.

“Well, you had to leave your electric record player behind because we won’t have electricity up here for a while, but you still hauled up all those heavy records.”

Mother broke off Pop’s next words with a kiss, then bustled to the closet by the front door to drag out a tattered cardboard box too heavy to lift. She undid the flaps and took out records to spread them on the floor around her. “What shall we play first?”

“Something Christmasy,” chimed the twins as they knelt on the floor beside their mother to find the record album they wanted.

Cally and Polly took turns paging through the sleeves in the storage album Mother had labeled CHRISTMAS. “‘Silent Night,’” Cally crowed, “the one with Bing Crosby and Paul Whiteman!”

Mother continued sorting, intent on finding something else. She took out another album of records bound together like a book. “We can start with ‘Silent Night,’” she said, “but then we’re playing Handel’s Messiah.”

With no rugs or curtains yet in the house, Bing Crosby’s mellow voice gently echoed on bare walls and floors. The music cocooned Terpsichore and warmed her like a quilt. The Johnson house was insulated with drifts that shut out the rest of the world. They would have a silent Christmas night.

Mother replaced the Bing Crosby record in its sleeve and reverently placed the first record for Handel’s “Hallelujah” chorus on the turntable. At the opening hallelujahs, her father joined in to sing the bass part, the twins sang first soprano, and Terpsichore sang alto with her mother so the strength of her mother’s voice would guide her own voice toward the right pitch. As they sang, voices blending in joy, she treasured the feeling that she was part of something bigger than herself. Together they created a sound that no single voice, no matter how perfect, could create on its own.

• • •

With yet more snow, Terpsichore didn’t know if Mr. Crawford would be able to make it to dinner, but at three o’clock, she heard the bells on his sled and the enthusiastic clamor of his dogs. She opened the door to let him in. “We’re so happy you got here!” Terpsichore told him. “Come on in.”

“It’s the popcorn man!” Cally and Polly each took a hand to lead him on into the house, but Mr. Crawford stayed just inside the door.

“Need to take care of my dogs first,” he said. “Who wants to help?”

As Terpsichore started to follow Mr. Crawford, her father interrupted. “I’ve heard sled dogs can be dangerous.”

“Not these dogs,” Mr. Crawford said. “I treat them like family. In fact, they are my family. The only thing Terpsichore would have to worry about is getting her face licked off.”

Terpsichore bundled up, but Cally and Polly stayed by the woodstove.

“I hope I’m not being too forward,” Mr. Crawford said, “but can I invite myself and my dogs to spend the night in the barn? They could easily run the twelve miles home—it only took them an hour or so to get here, but I’d rather run them in daylight.”

“Don’t even think about running home tonight,” Pop said. “We’ll move the settee in front of the woodstove for you, and Clarabelle and Smoky won’t mind the company of your dogs in the barn.”

Mr. Crawford herded the dogs into one of the empty stalls, removed their harnesses, and checked their booties. Pop and Terpsichore found buckets for thawed water and broke open a fresh bale of hay for the floor of the stall.

“Guess who I saw in town?” Mr. Crawford said. “It was Mendel with that dog of his. Mendel was on skis and Togo was pulling him into town so he could load up his backpack with supplies. Looked like they were both having fun.”

“At least Togo was doing something besides scaring cats,” Terpsichore said. “Do you think Togo will grow up to be as helpful as your dogs?”

“She’s off to a good start,” Mr. Crawford said. “You know,” he continued, “as I get older, I’m beginning to think living in town has its advantages: movies, hospital, more friends . . . It gets lonesome on the far reaches of the Butte.”

He looked up from removing the booties on a dog that, true to prediction, wouldn’t stop licking Mr. Crawford’s whiskers.

Terpsichore leaned over to pet the dog and giggled when it licked her face too. Its tongue was softer than a cat’s. “I promise to save you scraps from dinner,” she said.

“They’d like that, Miss Terpsichore,” Mr. Crawford said. He stood and watched his “family” explore the confines of the stall and settle down in a cozy heap.

After dinner, Mr. Crawford pushed back his chair. “This dinner is the best Christmas present anyone’s given me in years. And now I have something for you. Knowing this family’s penchant for books, I hope it’s something you’ll enjoy.

“Before my first winter here I wrote down to Shorey’s Book Store in Seattle and had them send me up a crate of books to stave off cabin fever.” He opened a leather rucksack and drew out several books: Robert Service poems, Jack London stories, Ben-Hur, and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. “Let me know when you’ve finished these and I can loan you some more.”

“Thank you, Mr. Crawford,” Mother said. “You’ve been so good to us.” She reached over to look at the Twain book. “My mother used to like Twain.” She replaced the book in the stack. “I wonder what she’s doing this Christmas, without us.”

“Maybe she could come up and visit,” Mr. Crawford said.

“She may be here at the end of summer to take us home with her,” Mother said. She sighed and ran her fingers over the embossed cover of A Connecticut Yankee.

“Maybe she’ll surprise you,” Mr. Crawford said, “and decide she’d like to live up here with you in Alaska, instead of taking you back to Madison.”

“She’d never adjust to a life like this,” Mother said. She turned to Terpsichore and the twins. “Can you imagine your grandmother hauling water for her bubble bath? Or living without a radio or her piano? I still have a hard time picturing her now without a cook and chauffeur.”

Mr. Crawford was subdued. “It sounds as if your mother married well.”

“It depends on what you mean by that,” Mother said. “My father did well with the railroad until the crash. We had a fine house, but I’m not sure they were happy in it.”

“Sometimes we don’t know what we want most until the chance of getting it has passed us by,” Mr. Crawford said.

What Terpsichore wanted most was to stay in Alaska, and she wasn’t going to let any chance to make that happen pass her by.