by Susanna Brennan
I, Little Bear, always scramble out of bed and get dressed when I hear my daddy, Poppa Bear, putting on his shoes in the morning. We rent a 300-year-old tenant house, former slaves’ quarters, on an old Maryland estate. The estate is still a working farm, with cows and chickens, and corn fields. Our home has wavy glass windows, and thick stone walls, spackled inside with horsehair plaster. We have a tin roof that makes tinkling music when it rains. Our ancient lumbering furnace was once coal fired, now converted to oil heat, and it’s a bit persnickety. There are just two closets upstairs, added in the last century. My daddy’s closet is just outside my bedroom door, tucked in an alcove at the top of the stairs, so I can hear when he’s up. He works as a staff member for a DC senator, and is going to law school, so my time with him is short. I learned from an early age that if I awake with him before dawn, I can steal some one-on-one time, before the rest of the family rises.
It’s Sunday, a much-coveted day on my calendar, because he will not be headed to work or school. I hear the whir of the coffee grinder in the kitchen, as I pull on a turtleneck, long johns, my OshKosh B’gosh overalls, and heavy socks. I reach on top of my dresser, and pat my hand, finding a barrette. I made an unfortunate attempt a few weeks ago to cut my own hair, and now there’s a chunk that falls in front of my eyes. I tuck the barrette into my pocket as I walk into the hallway. I move carefully down the steps, holding tight to the railing. They are steep and narrow, and my socks are slippery. I round the corner to find my daddy.
As always, Poppa Bear looks surprised and pleased when I toddle into the kitchen, wiping sleep from my eyes. Unlike Mom, who would have sent me back upstairs to brush my hair and teeth, and wash my face, my daddy leans from his seat at the kitchen table to pick me up and pull me into his lap. He kisses the top of my head, and says, “Good morning, Little Bear.”
I retrieve the barrette from my pocket, and hand it to my daddy. He lifts the errant chunk of hair and secures it with the barrette. We sit quietly at the table as the first pot of coffee brews, and a pan of milk simmers on the stovetop on low. He shifts and turns me a little to the side. I put my arm behind his back, and lean my head against my daddy’s chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat and the rise and fall of his chest. We listen to the coffee pot perk and burble, and we breathe in the aroma. The steam in the coffee pot putters, which I know means the coffee is done. He rises, puts me in my chair, the seat bolstered with a thick phone book with a small pillow, and pulls out Mom’s favorite cobalt blue mug from our brightly painted kitchen cabinets. He makes her a cup of coffee, two teaspoons of sugar, a little warm milk, and turns to carry it upstairs.
I know the routine. First, he goes to their bedroom to put Mom’s coffee on her bedside table. I hear his soft footfalls as he walks from their bedroom, into my little brother’s room to check on him. I imagine my daddy straightening my brother’s blanket and softly brushing the hair from his forehead. Then I hear Poppa Bear head to my baby sister’s room, and I imagine her sleepy coos as he changes her diaper and carries her into their bedroom and tucks her in Mom’s arms.
My daddy comes back down the stairs, followed by our newly awake and very exuberant Labrador, Breda. She is ready for her morning patrol of the backyard. She dances around his feet, her tail circling madly, as he makes his way through our rear kitchen door. The door leads to our back room, where my daddy has his wood shop. There’s a washer and dryer, and our ancient furnace. Thankfully, it’s rumbling steadily this morning. He goes to our back door and lets her out, and I hear a soft woof as she greets the quiet of the early morning.
Poppa Bear bustles back to the kitchen. He pulls down two more mugs from the kitchen cabinet. Mine is a small tin cup, bright red enamel with a small chip on its lip. He makes me a cup of cafe au lait, mostly warm milk, lots of sugar, and a splash of coffee. My mom does not approve, but this is our ritual. He places my mug in front of me, and I lift it with both hands, blowing softly on its surface, and wait a bit for it to cool. His cup sits empty for just a bit longer.
He walks to the pantry, takes out Cheerios, pulls out two bowls from the cabinet, grabs two spoons and a butter knife from the drawer, and pours us both some cereal. He selects a ripe banana from the fruit dish on our kitchen table, pulling down the peel, and after picking off the stringy bits, lays the peel atop his palm, with the banana cradled above, and then slices the banana into rounds and adds it to our bowls. After he tosses the banana peel in the trash, he adds a bit of warm milk to our bowls and puts our breakfast on the table. Finally, he makes himself a cup of coffee. His mug is large, moss green, brown, and black, with a drip glaze. My mom made it for him in pottery class. He pours himself his cup, black, with a half a teaspoon of sugar. He returns to the table, and we sit quietly, waiting for the sun to rise. The only sounds, the muffled crunch of our cereal, and our soft sips as we drink our coffee.
As the sun spills over the horizon, Breda scratches at the back door. My daddy pops up quickly to pick up her food bowl and let her in, and as she dances around his feet, he dodges her paws and makes his way to the pantry to scoop a heaping cup of kibble for her. He opens the fridge and pulls out a carton of eggs. He cracks an egg on her food, and then adds the last of the warmed milk. He grumbles a bit as she tries to rush him, nosing his hands as he lowers the bowl to the floor, before she pounces, devouring her food in under a minute, pushing her bowl across the floor, chasing every last crumb. Once finished, she meanders over and sits by my chair, resting her head on my ankle. I lean over and stroke her velvet-soft ears. They feel like my mom’s fancy clutch purse she carries on date night. Breda reaches her nose up and swipes a lick of my chin. Part kiss, part Cheerios and milk reconnaissance.
While I pet Breda, Poppa Bear puts the eggs back in the fridge, picks up her bowl, and carries our dishes to the kitchen sink. I slide off my chair and walk to the pantry, and I drag my step stool over to the sink and climb up. He turns on the spigot, wets and hands me the sponge. I hold it as he squeezes a bit of dish soap on it. As he rinses our dishes, he hands each one to me. I scrub and rinse each one and lay them on the drain board. We repeat the cycle until all the dishes have been washed. He turns and pulls the dish towel from the oven door, flips it under his arm, and holds my hands and runs warm water over them, and then dries both our hands. I drag my step stool back to the pantry. My daddy hangs the dish towel back on the oven door.
The sun is now pouring her light over the fields outside our kitchen window. The birds are starting their morning cacophony. My daddy smiles, and says the magic word, “Walk?”
Breda starts dancing around our feet as we head toward the back door, her tail circling. My Poppa Bear likes to build things with wood. There is a coat rack he made by our back door with a bench seat that opens where we stow our boots. It has a high back with hooks to hang our coats. Above the hooks, there are cubbies where we store our hats and gloves and such. I open the seat, and my daddy takes out our boots. I close the lid. We sit, and he takes off his sneakers and pushes them under the edge of the bench. We put on our boots, and then stand to put on our coats. My daddy takes my coat down from the hook, and holds it out, and I slide my arms in. He bends to zip my coat. He puts on his own coat, black and red wool plaid. He calls it his “hunting jacket”, which I find funny because I have never known him to go hunting. He reaches up and takes a small hand trowel from the cubby and tucks it in his pants pocket. He pats the breast pocket of his coat to make sure he has his pocketknife. He turns the worn knob on the back door, and the three of us step outside.
Our back yard is enclosed by a tall lattice fence. In the summer, climbing rose bushes, bursting with crimson blooms, cover most of the fence. A huge oak tree casts shade over one corner, with a tire swing hanging from a low branch. There is a fire pit, surrounded by Adirondack chairs. Near our back porch, stands a redwood picnic table, with two long benches, the legs of which are riddled with toothmarks left by Breda as a puppy. This morning, the rose bushes and oak tree are dormant and bare, just a few dead leaves fluttering from the branches. The tire swing and fire pit have been waiting for the return of warm weather. In a line along the fence dividing our yard from the neighbors, forsythia bushes are just starting to push out pale chartreuse buds. There is a smattering of bright green grass blades poking from the dull winter lawn. Breda noses the fresh blades and tastes a few leaves. She then circles the yard, looking for a spot to do her business. Once, done, she rakes the grass sharply with her back feet, sending showers of dirt and dead grass into the air. Poppa Bear pulls out the hand trowel and flicks her poop into the bushes. We walk to the backyard gate. He lifts the latch, and I push the gate open. He calls softly to Breda, “Heel.”
She immediately cleaves to his left ankle, and we step out of the backyard. My daddy pulls the gate closed and fastens the latch before we head out for our walk. We cross the front lawn to the driveway and turn down it toward the road. My daddy takes my hand as we approach, and we stop at the edge. He makes a show of looking both ways, as Breda sits patiently at his heel. He proclaims, “All clear!”
We stride quickly across the road, and into a fallow corn field. We step gingerly across last summer’s rows, working our way toward a woody copse with a sleepy stream. I stop and pick up a shiny chunk of rock and hold it up for my daddy to see. “Quartz, white quartz, metamorphic.”, he tells me.
I lift the edge of my coat, and tuck the rock in my overall pocket, and we continue our walk. I see another small shiny flat piece of rock and bend to pick it up. I hold it up to him. “Mica”, he says. “Sedimentary.” He takes the rock from my hand and shows me how if you slide your thumbnail between the layers, the rock peels apart. He hands the rock back to me. I toss it back into the cornfield. I have a few of these already in my collection at home.
We continue toward the steam. Now at the edge of the copse, my daddy tells Breda to sit. We pick our way to the edge of the stream, and we crouch down. The water is a few inches deep and is moving slowly. Bright green watercress leaves peak from the water. My daddy points out small gelatinous globules with tiny black specs floating on the water. “Frog eggs”, he tells me. I pick up a long thin stick, and gently probe them. He takes the stick softly from my hands, and says, “Leave them be.”
We stand, and my daddy calls Breda to his heel. We follow along the bank until the stream narrows. He motions toward some flat rocks poking from the water. “This is a good spot to cross. Breda, stay.”, he says.
The water is shallow, clear and moving quickly. It makes a soft, burbling sound as it rolls across the mossy bottom. My daddy holds my hand, and we pick our way across, stepping on the raised rocks as we go. He climbs the bank on the other side, then reaches down to help me up. Breda waits patiently until we’re standing on the bank. He then calls her, and she crashes into the stream, dancing and splashing joyfully, gulping a bit of water before she scrambles up the bank to join us on the other side.
Suddenly, Breda freezes. My daddy and I follow her stare. There is a young deer standing just a few feet from us. “Breda, stay.”, my daddy says firmly under his breath.
We all watch as the deer turns and slowly picks her way back into the woods. I notice her fur is patchy, and she is very thin. I ask my daddy, “Is the deer alright?”
He says, “It has been a long winter. Spring is coming. There will be plenty of food for her soon.”
There is a marshy area on this side of the stream, with a line of bushes along its edge. I follow my daddy around the edge of the marshy area until we are in front of the line of bushes. “The pussy willows are blooming!”, he says.
I reach out to touch their soft furry buds. “They look like tiny cat feet!”, I exclaim.
“You’re right! The blooms are called catkins. We should cut some branches for Mom.”, he says.
My daddy walks from bush to bush, looking for one he likes. We squat down beside one of the bushes. He pulls his pocketknife from his shirt pocket and lays it in my palm. He folds my hand around it. He moves my thumb to a groove and uses his thumb upon mine to press to release the blade. I wince a bit as the blade pops open. He waits for me to settle. He turns the knife and adjusts the position of my hand, so I am grasping it with my forefinger on the blunt side of the blade. I am nervous, but excited. I have never touched a pocketknife. We squat together quietly for a minute, as my heart rate slows.
My daddy says, “Are you ready to cut some pussy willows for Mom?”
He releases my hands. I am holding a pocketknife for the first time on my own. He grabs a slender stalk of pussy willow and places his hands a few inches apart. He directs me to cut the stalk between his hands. I squat frozen, nervous, my hand hovering above the stalk. He gives me a moment, but I am still hesitant, unsure of what to do.
Poppa Bear gently takes the knife from my hands. He holds the knife in the proper way, turning his wrist so I can see. He asks me to help him hold the pussy willow branch. He moves my hand down the branch and places his hand above mine, leaving a gap. While we hold the branch, he shows me how he holds the blade at a slight angle. He saws through a spear, and we lay it on the ground. He flips the blade closed.
Then we start anew. My daddy hands the knife to me again. He asks me to open the blade, and I carefully turn the knife in my hand, and press the groove with my thumb to release the blade. After a few breaths, I turn the knife, and place my finger on top of the blunt side of the blade. He grasps another stem and bends it toward me. I saw slowly against the stem, as it cleaves from the plant. The pussy willow branch is free. I breathe a sigh of relief. My hand aches a little. It is hard work cutting pussy willow! I carefully turn the knife in my hand, and close the blade, and hand the knife back to my daddy.
He says, “Good job. How about you help me hold the branches while I cut a few more?”
He cuts another, and another, and we have a small pile of branches. He gathers them up from the ground, and hands the bundle to me, and I tuck them in the crook of my arm and hold them against my chest.
We turn back toward the stream. Breda has been sitting patiently. “Go on, girl.”, my daddy says.
Breda bolts toward the water, jumps from the bank, and lands with a splash. She romps around a bit, and then stops for a moment to take a few laps of water. She hops up on the opposite bank, shaking the water from her coat. She looks very pleased with herself. Her tongue is lolling from her mouth. She turns and sits waiting for us.
My daddy helps me down the bank, and we cross back over, as we had come, stepping carefully on the rocks. We stride up the gentle slope on the other side of the stream, with Breda at my daddy’s heel. We pick our way through the trees, and step back into the corn field and start to make our way back to the road. The sun is now full in the sky, and our heavy coats are starting to feel a bit too warm. As we continue, I am hot, and my arm is starting to ache from the weight of the branches, and I slow my walk. My daddy notices. We stop for a minute, and I lay the bundle of branches on the ground. We both unzip our coats, and pull our shirts away from our necks, letting in a bit of cool morning air. My daddy bends down and scoops up the willow branches and tucks them in the crook of his own arm. I lean against his hip. He chuckles softly and asks if I am worn out. I plop myself down on my bottom in the middle of a corn row and let out a sigh. He sinks on his haunches beside me, and says, “We are almost home.”
He stands up, and says, “OK, Little Bear, let’s roll!”
I grumble a bit, but then push my palms against the dirt, scramble to my feet, and say, “OK, Papa Bear!”
I brush my hands against the legs of my overalls. My daddy brushes the dirt off my backside. I take his hand, and we clomp through the corn field, headed for home, with Breda at our side.
Susanna Brennan has always enjoyed writing, and shared this piece in honor of her late father, to memorialize the fifth anniversary of his passing.