Just Like the Pilgrims

By Jessica Lake

In my teens, I was too slow to realize how poor we were. Saying I was stupid was like saying New England winters are too short. When my dad was a kid, everyone called him Happy. No matter what, things were terrific.

“Life is an adventure,” he’d laugh, with a twinkle in one droopy eye. “Like the Pilgrims.”

I liked that—the idea of scrappy Christian souls living out a hardscrabble life in the middle of nowhere.

My father was very much like a pioneer: resourceful to a fault.

When the doorknob and latch busted on the front door, he tossed the hardware. Then he found a hank of rope, pushed it through the hole left in the door, and yanked the ends into a tight knot. After that, when I went outside in the morning, I’d pull the door shut behind me with that loop. Then I’d push it back through for the next person to leave.

“Better than new,” my dad crowed.

Spring and summer were God’s grace. Except, once the weather turned warm, we often had no electricity or water; without money, the utilities shut them off. What we did have, though, were buckets of sunlight and water from the Good Lord. Some of that water we used to flush the toilet; the rest we used for drinking and cooking.

For music, we had the peepers in March—tiny frogs, no bigger than the tip of your thumb, screeching their lungs out for a mate. With June came the glimmer of fireflies and the racket of crickets. By the stone well, we had a mulberry tree that blossomed with more berries than you could eat—that is, if you got there before the birds. We had a stand of decrepit apple trees laden with scabby fruit that not even the worms would touch. In August, the cicadas would be buzzing, carefree and coarse.

Rain was fun. We’d scatter pots and pans about the house in strategic spots to catch the drip or gush. It didn’t take long for the water to figure out what was up and start dripping somewhere else.

We hated winter like sin.

The upside was that once winter approached, the electric company had to turn the power back on so the poor wouldn’t freeze. That was the law—a safety net, Dad might say.

When the days grew shortest, snow matted the roof, melted in the sun, and coated the walls of our rooms. Come nightfall, the slick would ice up. Day after day, the ice built up to an inch thick. In the moonlight, it glistened and gleamed, as if we dwelled within a castle of purest crystal and rarest gems.

My brothers and I spent as little time at home as we could through the dark days. My sister had married young and had her own problems.

My mom’s room and its kitchenette were the only places in the house we kept warm with a kerosene heater. You would always find her hunkered down there. She slept on the couch and watched our tiny portable TV.

During the coldest spells, the wicked wind would howl and claw at the battered windows, squeezing itself past the caulk and putty around the glass panes and slipping beneath the bedroom door. When that happened, we would pop the door open on the electric stove in the kitchen and crank it up to high. My dad called it our pilgrim’s fireplace.

After getting home late, I’d have dinner with my mom and whoever else was about. Then I’d kiss her goodnight, tell her I loved her, and tramp down the dark hallway to my room.

I loved my room.

It was tiny and spare, with just an army cot and a comforter. I loved my writing desk with its fold-down top; it was worn and rickety, like General Washington might have Valley Forge.

Once there, I’d pull on my wool watch cap and dive beneath the covers. Keeping your clothes on meant you stayed warm when you went to bed, and when you woke up, you were already dressed. Once cocooned, I’d dial my electric blanket up like a favorite song.

The last thing I’d do before shutting my eyes was huff out a big breath. That huff would fog and swirl in the subfreezing air. My guardian angel watched over me from above—bless the Lord, my soul to keep. I’d laugh and think, Just like a Pilgrim. It was a joke I never grew tired of.

And that’s how we lived year to year, thanks to Connecticut being liberal and electric blankets being cheap.