Boil Up

My father was long out of the house. He had set his alarm for 5 a.m. and rose in the darkness with the slightest movements to ensure no one woke. He stood silently still at the foot of his bed sliding into his long johns. The dim sunlight adding an amber glaze over the bed. My mother was wrapped tightly, arms jammed up underneath her chin – the faintest snores coming from her, reassuring my dad that he was leaving her undisturbed. 

He walked down the dark hallway and into the kitchen. Placed the kettle on the oven, bread into the toaster. Every so often his eyes arose from his hands buttoning his shirt, making sure he caught the kettle at boil before it rang out. 

Toast mashed into his gob, tea slurped down, he snugged into his full piece snow suit and headed out to clear the driveway. He didn’t bother with the snowblower, in case the noise led to an early rise and my mother ended up with two tired youngsters alone in the house. 

As he shovelled, sweat grew on the nap of his neck and he unrolled the top layer of his snowsuit, letting it hang on at his waist. He took a moment to stand up and stretch his back, look up at the sky and get his breath. He took a glance at the bedroom windows to see if there was any movement yet. Two black windows starred back at him, unblinking and still. He returned to shovelling. 

Once my mother has roused, she came into my room first in a gentle whisper to check me and slowly coax me out of sleep. She made sure to put the kettle on first and prep her coffee, a steaming mug lay on the kitchen counter awaiting her. She then snuck into my brother’s room, faintly wishing him a good morning and crept away from him, waiting for him to rise on his own.

We all crawled to the table for Saturday morning breakfast. Feeling the house encased in snow, beams of morning droplets creeping through the cracks in the curtains. My mother snapped them open to light the room, sun streaks shone low in our eyes with dust floating sporadically. The radio was put on low, the dough was thrown into the frying pan, the coffee was brewed.

Once we had mashed down the beans, the eggs and the toutons, my brother and I still cozy and slow in leftover sleep, were shoved off to the bathroom to clean up. Long johns rested on our beds to adore underneath our jogging suits, we shovelled out to the living room where many layers of outdoor clothing waited for each of us. You had to be sure when it was time to start covering yourself, because if you went too quickly, you remained in the heat of the house sweating buckets as you waited for others to dress up.

My brother and I started at the same time, getting heated half way through. Heavy breaths puffing out of our mouths. Pauses to stand up straight and lengthen our back and then returning bent over to continue tying our boots. 

My father had completed shoveling and started  the skidoo, giving a few quick rips around the front yard to see how she was running. The scent of gas emerged through the front door. The bellowing noise interfering with mine and my brothers whispered complaints. My father re-entered the room, stood in the porch, removing his gloves and slapping them together. 

“Time to come on then.”

My mother doused her cigarette into the tray, a sleek puff exerting her mouth from the side and she extinguished the butt. She stood with her hands held in the air as if she had just painted her nails and didn’t want to touch anything, she looked around and headed towards her own laid out suit – the signal that it really was time for all of us to get fully dressed – rather than our current passive attempt. 

Outside my father stood with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, nearly dangling to be dosed in the snow below him. There was a significant difference between the way my mother smoked and the way my father smoked. She waited for hers with patience and planning. She sat at the dining room table following breakfast, a steaming cup of coffee in front of her, legs crossed, hand tilted upwards. If we dared to interrupt her morning cigarette, she simply shook her head no. She was elegant. I never saw her smoke while performing any other tasks. While my dad’s smoking was utilitarian, it was half out of his mouth at all times, while he sawed wood, while he walked, while he played darts, while he drove. He never took a moment to sit with it unless he was having a drink, even then the cigarette seemed more annoying and in his way. 

My dad’s one piece snow suit remained undone at the top and hanging over his hips. Both machines rumbling beside him, he nods to my mother “Ye ready to go then?” and she doesn’t bother answering him, knowing full well he won’t hear her over the engines. She gets onto her skidoo and turns to signal for me to get on the back and we wait for my father to stop smoking, and she grows inpatient and starts heading out. I turned back haphazardly, scared to lose grip and topple off the moving vehicle, my father was calling out to us but we couldn’t hear a sound, he looked like he was just mouthing words – though he was clearly trying to ask us where we were going in such a hurry. He knew my mother perfectly well, waiting to get somewhere for no reason made her just get up and leave – she wasn’t going to be polite for someone else’s dawdling. 

The ride is always forgotten after the winter is over, you remember a skidoo like a bike but when the snow is thick enough and you finally jump aboard, it’s liberating and exhilarating. Heart palpitations of the sincerest form. There is something to be said about wind in the ears and being completely unreachable. You can’t speak or be spoken to, it’s just speed and smiles. Every once and awhile you hit a bump or two that make you and the driver laugh, a second of frosty eye contact nodding in recognition of the uninterrupted fun you are both experiencing. 

We pulled off the main track and circling into the woods until my mother found an opening when she felt we could settle. My brother and father would take some time to check rabbit tracks in the woods on the way. My mother returned to the main road and left her skidoo out there, as a signal to my dad to find us at that spot. 

When she returned to me in the woods, she laid down two backpacks at her feet. “Time to gather wood then. Look for fallen pieces that aren’t sogged or rotted, bring them here to see if they will do. No wandering far cause you might get lost so stay within sound’s reach. Let me strap these snowshoes to your back in case you sink down. Remember every minute ‘er so yelp out to make sure I’m within ear’s length.”

I looked around for fallen logs, the trees above me like multiple broken umbrellas shielding the sun, small breakthroughs of beams bursting through. Once my arms were full I returned to my mother who was now working alongside my father and brother making a seating area around the soon-to-be fire.

“Aye Laura let’s see what you got, giver here now,” my mother stared straight at me, hand extended to receive the wood. Both herself and my father analyzed each log, telling me and William what tree it came from, why it won’t work for the fire or why it would thrive. 

“Luh sure you don’t think this one is wet but she’s gone through to the inside, luh.” 

Meanwhile William took out his pocket knife and whittled down tips on twigs he had gathered in preparation of roasted marshmallows. He stayed focused to create the perfect tip. Slivers flying from his knife onto the ground by his feet. His tongue pressed out, teeth biting down with concentration. 

My father started the fire, twirled open a couple cans of beans and set them on an aluminum pie tray above the flames. Flipping them randomly every once and awhile. A cigarette dangling out of his mouth, eyes scrunched from the smoke when he came near. He kept himself crouched and scooted over to tend to the fire or beans, then scouched back out of smoke’s reach. Every time he skirted back or forth, the snow crunched freshly under his feet. 

My mother settled herself on a log, taking out the thermos and pouring herself a cup of coffee into the cap, the steam washing her face as she took a sip. We all remained in position in silence for some time. My brother on sticks, my mother with coffee, my father on beans and me watching each of them.

We were able to remove a few layers in the heat of the fire, snow pants still on. William and I managed to get down a plate of beans so we could move forward with roasting marshmallows, the highlight of the day. We bounced between full-out black burned marshmallows or the long slow burn of a lightly toasted golden. My mother always remained focused on the amber light roast, never straying from her choice. Her eyes concentrated on the stick, leaning towards the fire, eyes squinted. 

She showed all of us the results proudly. Both William and I wanted a taste. 

“No no no, this is mine,” she’d smile and wag her finger at us. Rarely taking something for herself, defying us with this marshmallow. Setting boundaries with the simplest thing. She put the whole thing in her mouth while we whined in protest. She smirked at our sulks while her mouth was full. 

Eventually my father pissed out the fire. William and I pulled on and rezipped our snow pants and headed out of the woods towards the skidoos. The sun still felt bright on our eyes, but chill crawled up our skin. With helmets on and hands circled around waists, we headed home.