Chapter Seventeen
Saturday morning, I rose early, in spite of the late night before. While I quietly went about my morning routine, my sisters slumbered on.
I liked being alone in the morning, before everyone was up. I remembered my mother enjoying that time too. One time I got up earlier than I usually did and came into the kitchen to find something to eat. My mother, still in her curlers and quilted bathrobe, gave me a baleful eye from where she sat at the kitchen table. She’d been enjoying her coffee, cereal, and book, and didn’t relish the interruption.
I’d gathered my own breakfast and sat there quietly until, with a sigh, she pushed back her chair and brought her bowl to the sink. Only then did my shoulders relax.
I never came out early again. I’d lie in bed and go over every moment of the day before rather than risk that look from my mother.
When I had children of my own, I understood the sigh. Time alone was rare and treasured.
By the time the coffee was brewed, Diane had stirred in her sofa bed. I poured her a cup and placed it on the table next to her.
“Thanks,” she said, pushing herself up to sitting. “You’re up early.”
“I have my weaving class today,” I said.
“Oh, that’s right. I’m so glad you’re doing that,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t do enough for yourself. Now that I have a camera, I get how important it is to have time to be creative for no other reason than to do it. I don’t have to sell my pictures, they’re for me to enjoy. The time I take to learn about the camera, create a shot, or just get lucky with a bird settled at the right moment on a bare limb is precious. It’s almost spiritual.” She picked up her cup. “I guess it’s kind of the same feeling you get in church.”
I was about to protest, but then I got her point. It wasn’t all I got from church, but the feeling of connection to the world around me was definitely a benefit.
Did I get the same feeling from weaving?
In the past I’d used it as more of a defense. I could get people to leave me alone if it looked like what I was doing took brain power.
I suppose it was the same reason I liked fixing a tractor. People left me alone.
Other than that, weaving and tractor repair had nothing in common.
After getting ready, I waved goodbye to my sisters and left.
The drive to the fiber store was familiar since I’d been there once already.
The date with Rodrigo last night had definitely intensified the feelings I had for him. I had no idea where to go from here. Or what I was going to do with those feelings once we left.
It would take me a long time of getting to know him—or any other man—before I’d even consider a long-term relationship. After all, Michael’s problems hadn’t bloomed into full-fledged disasters until decades had passed. But if I looked back, I could see the genesis.
Michael had always felt one-down. It started right at the beginning when he was born the youngest. I guess it’s one of the reasons we took up with each other. We both knew the feelings of being an afterthought, and the humiliation wearing hand-me-downs could bring. Teachers who knew our older siblings and held out the vain expectations that we’d be like them were also terrifying.
He had hoped his father would reconsider the family’s long-standing tradition of deeding the ranch to the oldest son, but the process remained the same. Michael, who loved ranching more than anything else, was left out in the cold. That was the second reason he’d started dating me. He knew I had the best shot at running our ranch since neither of my sisters were interested in the least. As soon as I got my hands full of oil and grease and could tell one type of wrench from another, my dad told me the ranch was mine to run. He said that fixing machinery was an underrated skill; that sometimes it mattered more than knowing how to tend to the cows.
I pulled into the parking lot of the store, picked up the new loom I’d ordered as soon as I signed up for the class, and walked inside. The clerk showed me to the back room where five women and one man were already assembled. Their easy chatter made it clear they already knew each other.
The instructor, a woman who bore the same map of Ireland across her features that I did, was setting up her loom at one end of the table, and carrying on a conversation with the woman closest to her at the same time.
A pause occurred in the conversation when I came into the room, almost as brief as a comma in a sentence.
Then one of the women shifted her things on the table to provide space. She patted the seat of the chair next to her. “Come sit here between Don and me. There’s plenty of room.”
I put my loom on the table. “I’m Kathleen,” I said as I sat down.
“Wendy,” she said. “And this is Don. We’re happy to meet you. New in town?”
“No, I’m only here for a short while.” I explained the situation.
Someone else pushed down a spool of warping fiber. I pulled off as much as I needed and began to warp my loom as we talked. Wendy was new to the craft, while Don had been spinning and weaving for over two decades.
“I had some heart issues,” he told me. “Doc said to cut down on my stress. I’m not into sports or anything like that. I had an uncle who was a weaver, so I decided to take it up. Been at it ever since.” He patted his chest. “And my ticker’s kept chugging along just fine.”
I’d just finished warping my loom when the instructor introduced herself. She didn’t have to say much at all before her accent identified her as a New England resident: South Shore below Boston, to be exact, she informed us.
She’d come from a long line of fiber artists and sheep herders, and many of her relatives still raised the animals on the green hills of Ireland. She’d been there several times, and the way she described it made me long to go there someday. The thought of sitting by an old stone cottage with my small loom as sheep grazed on a nearby green was a tempting fantasy.
Maybe I could carve out a small part of the ranch to raise the critters. Of course, that would mean learning a whole new method of raising animals that had needs very different from cattle.
How did Rodrigo feel about sheep? Traditionally, cattlemen and sheepherders were enemies, especially in states like Texas.
But somehow, I could see myself sitting in the sun in Texas and weaving far more easily than I could see it in Montana. Maybe I could teach some of the younger generation. I smiled.
I brought my attention back to the class as the instructor began to show us how to set up for lace weaving. Soon, I was engrossed in the methodical rhythm of my shuttle back and forth, smiling as the threads began to form a pattern that somewhat resembled lace.
The class lasted a few hours, but the shop owner encouraged us to come back in the afternoon to use the room to continue to work on our lace. Wendy invited me to join her and a few other friends at lunch, and I took her up on it.
“It must be fascinating,” Wendy said. “Traveling the road with your sisters for a year.”
“I couldn’t do it,” another woman said. “One or more of us would be dead before the first month was out.”
Everyone chuckled.
“I’m not even sure I could do it with my husband,” another said.
“Now that,” I said. “I can agree on. If Michael wasn’t already dead, he would be by the end of the first week.”
“How would you do it?” the woman asked.
“Hmm,” I picked up the hamburger I’d ordered and took a bite. “It would be much easier on the ranch,” I said when I’d finished swallowing. “So many ways to die, from falling off a horse to being run over by a bunch of cows.”
“Dangerous occupation,” Wendy said. “Who’s taking care of the ranch now?”
“My son.” The answer veered us away from interesting ways to murder someone to the trials of raising children and the problems that occurred when they grew up and thought they knew what they were doing.
By the time lunch was over, I was as comfortable with the group as I’d been with my friends back home. The next few hours of companionship and weaving cemented the beginnings of friendships. It was also nice to have someone to turn to when I inevitably got stuck.
“Too bad you’re leaving,” Wendy said. “The local fiber guild is quite active. We’re even having a sheep shearing festival at a local farm in mid-April.”
“I’m sorry I’ll miss it,” I said, meaning it. After a lifetime of the narrow confines of my family and the church, I was happy to discover the unexpected joy of spending time with other women doing something we loved.
“Keep in touch,” Wendy said. “I’d love to hear your adventures.”
“I’d like that,” I said. We exchanged phone numbers, I packed up my things, and left.
On the ride home, I let myself enjoy the driving, the sights I was seeing, and the total feeling of relaxation the day had provided.
“How was it?” Diane asked when I came into the RV.
“Wonderful,” I admitted. I showed her and Liz the little I’d done.
“That’s going to be beautiful,” Liz said.
“What have you guys been up to today?” I asked.
“Figuring out the best route to get back to Butte,” Diane said .
“We took the list of things we wanted to see and tried to plot out a route. Here’s what we’ve come up with so far.” Liz rattled off an itinerary that would have made me excited to get on the road a few weeks ago.
Now it made my heart ache.
“If we’re going to do this,” Diane said. “We’re going to have to leave before we were planning.”
“How much sooner?” I asked.
“About a week,” Liz replied.
Both of them looked at me with sympathy.
“We can cut off some of the sights,” Diane offered. “And leave a little later.”
“No,” I said. “That’s fine. I’ll be ready when you are.” Leaving sooner or later wasn’t going to make me feel any better or worse.
Leaving Rodrigo was simply going to be bad.