Stella

The snow started spitting just as we pulled into the yard from seeing A Christmas Carol put on by the local community center. Our oldest daughter, Angela, who turned 12 in November, allowing her to be in the play, was in the crowd scenes and starred as the Street Urchin at the end who bought Scrooge’s goose after his epiphany. To this father’s eyes, she was the star. With charcoal smudges, Grandpa’s ratty chore scarf, and an old pair of Shelly’s buckskin gloves dyed black with the fingers cut off she looked the part.

However, Angie was not so keen on this venture to begin with to put it mildly. Shelly thought the kids needed some exposure to “the arts” so she blackmailed Angie to participate, as Moms do for the betterment of their progeny. When this opportunity arose and the negotiations began between these two females, I knew enough to not get in the way and stayed carefully and quietly positive walking the fine line between the love for my bride and the compassionate understanding of my soon-to-be-young woman/daughter. Angie would rather be with me in the shop doing things that needed to be done on a farm in the winter involving welders and heavy metal objects.

“Shelly, she isn’t gonna like it.”

She’s gonna like it, Bob.”

Okay, enough said. Ultimately, Angie did like it but to get her on board, my bribe dangled before Angie, in exchange for participating in the play, a shopping trip to town with just the two of them after Christmas when the sales were full bore. Angie liked tools but she also like the latest fashions if they involved Chuck Taylor Converse in fire engine red.

Her participation in the play bit us in the behind a little, because who knew she had to practice nearly every night for weeks which required a trip to the Community Building in town which required one of her parents, myself or Shell to drive her, along with her younger sister, MaryBeth. That alone, for the betterment of her artistic soul, would have been grudgingly laborious but add the fact her younger sister, MaryBeth, DID want to be in the play, but, alas, she was not old enough at only seven years of age. 

MaryBeth refused to understand the age thing but what she did understand was that we, the “dumb adults in the house”, did not understand how much she wanted to be in the play and the fact that she had to go to the play practice, “it’s called rehearsal, daddy doodoo”, about half the time when both of us were busy, was understandably noxious for our seven-year-old.

Being exposed to the “rehearsal” process only fired her up even more to the point she was volubly lecturing her older sister what she should be doing when she was on stage and how she should be saying her few words for the greatest effect.

These exchanges made for spirited rides home to the farm resulting in me or Shelly, escaping the car nearly before it had stopped, sprinting into the house and cracking open a beer, dashing up the stairs to the sanctuary of our bedroom and locking the door with the din of the arguing sisters closing in on the front porch. This artistic endeavor created a less than an artistic atmosphere in our house.

But, strangely, tonight on the way home from the performance it was Angie that was yammering away about the great performances and the audience and the cookies afterward. The only comment MaryBeth made was when Angie postulated she might like to do it again next year to which MaryBeth bitterly and succinctly pointed out, “only because you have a crush on Ted Lassen.” Which was true as far as this father’s eye could see.

Throughout the ride home, I sneaked glances at MaryBeth in the rearview mirror. Her unusually quiet demeanor intrigued me. I have found that MaryBeth can become very quiet when she comes across something that lives outside of her world. Maybe this is a fact of all seven-year-old girls but I only have MaryBeth and Angie to teach me. Angie, at seven, was always kind of quiet and anytime she had an observation, point, request or question, it was patiently made, as if she knew we would eventually come around to her way of thinking. MaryBeth was blunt.  

Angie jumped out of the truck and chased Rex, the cow-dog-that-never-was, and ran, burbling and bubbling to the dog about Scrooge and Past and Present and To Be, into the house, shouting for mom to hurry as hot chocolate and Grandma’s Shortbread were on offer. “Grandma’s Shortbread” as opposed to just “Shortbread” largely because of the butter fat content being extremely high. Shelly’s mom was never skimpy when it came to using any and all ingredients for holiday food. Her gingerbread castles are infamous at the kid’s ward of the hospital.

I had picked up a couple mineral blocks at the co-op for the horses and was taking them out of the bed of the pickup when I noticed MaryBeth had not moved from the backseat. She was just staring straight out the windshield, or so I thought. I stepped back to the tailgate where I could watch but not disturb her and let her have her time.

Soon, she crawled into the front seat and took a little stuffed skunk named Skunk off the dashboard. That was what she was looking at. I had acquired that little guy over 20 years ago on a road trip Shelly and I took to Seattle. The little fella has been my navigator ever since because that was the trip I asked Shelly to be my bride after a heartfelt ramble to Skunk while Shelly was in a rest stop rest room on Highway 2 in the Northern Cascades. (Why “Skunk” you may ask? That is the extent of my creativity when it comes to names. My white Ford pickup is called White. Shelly just rolls her eyes. The last one was called Blue…yeah. Shelly names the animals. The dogs names is Rex Bartholomew the Third. Hobart and Charlemagne are the goats and so it goes.)

Anyway, Skunk is about 8 inches long, including tail. The white parts were dirty and the black parts of were bleached gray from years of the sun through the windshield. I always kept him in whatever rig we had. MaryBeth had grown up with Skunk. Skunk was like a talisman, I guess, a protector of us as we traveled.

She picked up Skunk and crawled out of the pickup. The wind had picked up. She put Skunk under her coat.

“Pops?”

“Pops” was her name for me when she knew I knew she was going to get whatever she wanted no matter what. It slays me every time that little doll says “Pops”. The rest of the time I am “Dad” or “Unmentionable”, that being her name for me when she knows I know she is not going to get whatever she wants, as in, “Excuse me, Unmentionable, might I pretty please with whipped cream have a St. Bernard?” Tonight, it was, “Pops.”

“Is it all right if I take the skunk in tonight?”

The question kind of took me by surprise.

“What you want to do that for?”

“Its cold.”

The snow was stinging her little cheeks raw pink in a world that was turning white and dark. How could I not say yes?

 “I think that would be real nice. I think Skunk would like that.”

She snuggled her new foundling further down into her coat and started for the house.

“Mary, you want to come down to barn and help me feed the horses?”

She always wanted to do that with me but this time she was torn.

“Is it all right if I don’t this time?”

“Sure, it is.”

And she started to the house but turned to me and shouted above the gusts of wind.

“Her name isn’t Skunk.”

I looked at her and she looked back. It became obvious to me she was not moving until I agreed. I walked up to her so we wouldn’t have to shout.

“I didn’t know it was a girl.”

“She is.”

“Okay. What’s her name?”

Brow knit, my daughter leveled a look at me that contained all the seven-year-old-girl seriousness I have ever felt coming from that tiny slip of thing.

“Stella.”

The way she said it was a declaration with such conviction that had anybody suggested any other name, a losing tussle would have ensued.

“That sounds fine,” I said with a curious feeling in my face around my eyes.

She kept looking at me. It was a strange look for MaryBeth. It was a look that said thank you for taking me seriously, I think. I think she grew up a lot just then with that little nod of her furled, serious seven-year-old brow. Then she turned and marched up to the house leaving me with her tiny precious footprints in the snow.

“Stella” it was. That curious feeling in my face turned into a little tear that got lost in the flakes as I went to the barn. A glance back at the house showed me my little girl pulling the door closed against the stiff breeze with one mittened hand and an awkward kinda wave to me with the other assuring me all was well while nestling Stella inside her coat.

I looked at our house for a long time in the steady snow. I thought how full of love it was. How the girls in that house lit it up in the dark of the night. I knew Angie was reading Moby Dick on her bed before supper. Shelly was warming the leftover meat loaf and boiling spuds and peas. And who the hell knew what MaryBeth was up to. As of this snowy evening, she was gonna be a spitfire mystery. I felt blessed to have witnessed this butterfly emerge.

“What is that, MaryBeth?”

“What?”

“That tree with shiny things and lights?”

“That’s a Christmas tree, Stella. We have one very year. It’s Christmas.”

“Is Christmas the reason its warm?”

“Kind of, I guess. It’s kind of the reason I brought you in, but I think that is a different kind of warm. The fire in the stove is the real reason you can feel the warm.”

“Oh my! The closer we get to it, the more I can feel the heat. There are more lights on the ledge above the stove. Is that Christmas?”

“Kind of. Mom has lights there all winter when it gets dark so early. She says it chases away the gloom. I guess you have always lived in the gloom.”

“They are so pretty. It is always dark in the truck at night. And cold.”

“You won’t be cold ever again, Stella. And it’s been wrong that all these years you have been frozen in the truck at night.”

“Stella?”

“That’s your name. And you are a girl and I am going to take care of you.”

“What is that?”

“Stairs. We are going up to where I stay.”

 “Its so big.”

“What is?”

“Wherever we are, this place, this warm place. It’s warm everywhere.”

“This is called a house. I guess you don’t know what that is. I guess you have only seen it from the outside before. Well, now you are inside.”

“MaryBeth? Boots.”

“That’s your mother.”

“I know.”

“Shouldn’t you answer her?”

“Not yet, I want to show you everything. We are going up stairs. See, a whole ‘nother house up here.”

“Its so big. I am afraid.”

“Why?”

“What if I get lost? I won’t know where to go.”

“MaryBeth, you want some of Nonni’s shortbread?”

“In a minute, Mom. Stella, that’s not going to happen because I won’t let it and if you do get lost for whatever reason, but you won’t, but if you do, all you have to do is come into this room.”

I was about to head to the horses when I saw a light go on in MaryBeth’s room. In a blink she appeared in her window, still in her coat and probably her boots. She was talking right and left and pointing her finger here and there very emphatically. Though I could not hear her, I’m pretty sure she was laying down the law and letting Ned, her stuffed badger, her teddy bear, Willy and Agnes, the hen, know the new rules with Stella now in residence in her room.

“This is my room. And this is my teddy bear, Wilfred. Wilfred this is Stella.”

“I remember you from the truck when child here used to take me with her whenever she went someplace. Hi Stella. Are you going to stay with us?”

“I am not sure.”

“You are welcome and can call me Willy.”

“Yes, you are staying with us. And this is Agnes. She is very special. She is Golden Comet Chicken and she liked to be cuddled.”

“MaryBeth, do you think it is wise to have a skunk in the house?”

“Of course, it is, Agnes.”

“But a skunks likes to eat chickens.”

“I would never.”

“Agnes, Stella will not eat you.”

“But then there is the, you know, the…odor?”

“Oh. I had not thought of that. Stella, do you...you know?”

“Do I what?”

“Spray! Stink out your bum?”

“Who is that, MaryBeth?”

“That’s Ned, my badger. Ned, that was rude. Shame on you.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I don’t spray stink.”

“Ned this is Stella. I want you to be nice to her because she is going to be living with us.”

“MaryBeth, answer me!”

“I have to go to see Mom. Stella, I am going to put you here under the covers so you can be warmer that ever. I will come back soon, and we will all continue our getting to know one another.”

“MaryBeth, you didn’t take your boots off when you came in.”

“Sorry Mom, I will come down now. You all behave and Ned, be nice. We will all get to know each other after supper. And don’t you dare tell, Angie! I don’t want my sister making fun of Stella because she will make a big deal out of Stella being a skunk in the house and probably say she must stay in the truck. Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Promise.”

“Promise.”

“MaryBeth Denise!”

“Have to go. I will see you later, Stella. Are you okay?”

“I am. And it’s so warm under the blankets. MaryBeth, you are my hero.” 

Shelly met her daughter in the mud room.

“Who were you talking to?”

 “Ned, was being rude.”

“I see. Come on in the kitchen and hang up that coat. Get ready for supper.”

“Yes, Mom.”

MaryBeth couldn’t wait to get to her room after dishes. Shelly was a little concerned, but I winked at her and everything was as right as could be. I think I know why she was so anxious to get to her room. She and Stella had a lot to talk about with Ned, Agnes and Willy. I mean there was whole new hierarchy to be worked out and I am sure MaryBeth wouldn’t sleep until all of them knew how they stood.

Shelly came in from tucking in the kids just as I had just put my book down on the nightstand.

“You know, don’t you?”

“Know what?”

“She brought that skunk from the truck in the house.”

“Did she?”

“You know she did. That thing is filthy and she has it tucked under chin under the covers.”

“Maybe she will give it a bath tomorrow.”

“That skunk?”

“That’s Stella.”

“What?”

“It will all become clear tomorrow.”

“Grrrr.”

She turned out the light and put her cold feet on my back.

“Yeow!”

“Serves you right.”

I knew we would continue this conversation tomorrow. Until then, her feet were warming up on my back, the house was at peace and Stella was warm as she should be, as she should have been for all those years.

In the close darkness, I thought how strange and wonderful it was that a story about a misery money-grubbing old man and crippled child had such a profound effect on a little farm girl who loved all creatures and lilacs. That’s what Shelly meant by exposing them to the arts, I guess. It worked. I also thought how lucky the world was to have that little girl in it and my face started to feel funny again.

From our house to yours, have a wonderful celebration this Holiday Season. Blessings attend on you and may Peace fill our times in 2024. Thanks for reading.