Coughs of woodsmoke curled up from the cabin sitting beneath the shadows of several Douglas firs. It sat tucked between the woods and the sweeping pastureland of Manna Farm. The late December sun had been hiding for two weeks, and it grimaced now, peering out behind the clouds, at the ugly and frozen farm, its icy culverts, teary birches, and muddied slush where spikes of ryegrass shot up and shook their pointed fists at the sky.
“Don’t forget to turn the lights off before you leave,” Jim’s father said as he shut the door of the cabin and started down the lane toward the woods.
Jim sat in the mudroom, sticking worn, wool-socked feet into his leather boots. He flipped the light switches off in the living room, grabbed the chainsaw sitting on the porch, and clumped down the steps onto the sodden lane to join his father who walked further ahead.
Jim trudged along, slopping the ground as he went. He felt impatient to get back to his loft room. He had spent the past handful of years crammed in the loft, writing and writing and writing. Every inch of that space from floor to ceiling was familiar to Jim, and it was hard for him to imagine a time when it would not be. He could hardly remember what his life had looked like when he did not write. He had had a mother, but she had passed away when he was eight. His two older brothers were off on the east coast and had lost the habit of coming home for visits. He lived a solitary life up in the loft, disturbed only by schoolwork, farm chores, and his father’s kitchen clatter at meal times.
After half a mile, Jim’s father, a whiskered wiry man, turned round up ahead and said, “Bern told me the cedar fell near the property line. You made sure the chainsaw has enough gas?”
“Yes sir.”
His father nodded.
They walked on in silence. Jim’s thoughts turned again to his writing. On a recent assignment in his English class, the teacher did not believe he had written a poem he had turned in. She asked him where he had got it, and gave him a C when he insisted it was his own. He had worked hard on that poem and felt confused by his teacher’s response. The sound of snipping branches startled him from his thoughts. It was Bern’s niece, Shalom.
“Hello Mr. Snyder! Hallo Jim!” she said. “Off to chop some firewood?”
Shalom had dark eyes, dark hair, and bright red cheeks. She came to visit her uncle and his sizable family often, and the farm boys for miles around thought she was very pretty. She was also observed to hum aimless melodies or chatter to herself which gave her the reputation of being a bit batty. It was said that she knit granny-square quilts until her fingers turned pink. And indeed her fingers were quite pink for at this moment she was cutting sprigs of holly from a wild holly tree.
“These are for Christmas wreaths,” she said cheerfully, and laughed. She always laughed too loudly, too easily. “All right if I tag along for a bit?”
The threesome walked on as the lane wove through the forest splitting off into estuaries that puddled into different groves of alders and birches, spruces and firs. Jim kept thinking of his writing, of the poem he had turned in, of the “C.” How was he to become a successful writer if people thought he plagiarized his work? If his teachers didn’t believe him, who would?
“She is quite pretty,” he thought, side-eying Shalom.
The lane led them down further into the gloom of a thick twiggy part of the woods.
They crossed atop a frozen stream that ambled its way through the darkest part of the forest. Last spring Shalom had been wading in it, Jim remembered. It had been late April, calving season, and the herd of Hereford cows were up in the south pasture. One of the calves had gone missing and Jim was sent to the woods to see if he could find it. He had run into Shalom wading ankle-deep in the shallow creek, singing to herself as she tried to capture a water bug. He was surprised to hear his own laughter as her dark, twinkling eyes met his. He had walked away quickly to look for the calf.
“Not the nicest day to be chopping firewood!” Shalom said, chuckling as the dusky cedar branches scratched their faces, nipping at their cheeks and noses.
What business she had to be out chopping sprigs of holly was a mystery to Jim. It was the gloomiest of days to be out. He would far have preferred sitting in his loft to being out in the cold. Yes, she was strange; still, it would have been nice to be her friend. He would have liked to spend time in her uncle’s bustling warm house, tumbling over children. And perhaps he could have invited her up to the loft. But it was silly to waste time thinking on such things.
“We’re nearly there now,” said his father. They came upon an opening in the woods, cleared by the falling of a massive Western Red Cedar, toppled in a recent windstorm.
“Well, she is a beaut!” Shalom said, smiling. “I’m headed a bit further to find some fir boughs for my wreaths.” She waved a farewell and walked on.
Her friend! But all she knew was the warmth of family, the comfort of Christmas wreaths. Jim’s front door is hung with cobwebs; he will not touch the box that holds all of the holiday trinkets. He makes himself a bowl of oatmeal each morning in an empty kitchen. Most days when he comes home from school, he goes straight to the loft, often falling asleep at his writing table. He dreams of publishing, stories, and ink. His writing has started a twitch in his finger, and a crease bends his eyebrows together. His solitary life has aged and numbed him. What a disaster if he were to attempt a friendship now!
His father fired up the chainsaw and cut the cedar into thick table-like rounds. Jim chopped the slabs using a wedge and axe. Wood chips spewed and flew into the forest, lost in the dirty snow and the shadow of the trees.
Perhaps, he thought, if he asked a different teacher to read his poem? Surely, someone must see that he had a gift? He wished to be back in his loft, his finger itched for the weight of a pen. It was cold in the woods.
As the dusk began its heavy fall, the chainsaw revved one last time and let out a wheezing groan before yielding to the evening’s stillness.
His father nodded.“That’ll do for now. Let’s head home before it gets too dark.”
Jim took the chainsaw while his father sheathed and shouldered the axe and thrust the iron wedges deep into the pockets of his filson jacket. They turned and made their way back through the dense branches of trees, up past the laughing holly bush, and through crusts of snow, freezing again as night set in.
As they trudged up the lane, the house came into view, damp and cold but for one light in the kitchen. It glowed warm and welcoming, and there in the window stood Jim’s mother, beckoning him home. No, not his mother, but that window – she had stood there. He remembered: he was five or six, sent out to gather kindling. And he had felt so small beneath those terrible firs, it was dark and cold, cold enough to make your teeth sting. He felt like the only one in the harsh, empty world. But looking up in that window, he found his mother’s twinkling, thoughtful eyes watching him. She stared, kind and safe, holding him with her steady gaze. He hugged the kindling close, and the tight numbness in his chest had gone.
Jim’s breath caught at the memory, so vivid in the gathering dark. He blinked in the warm glow of the kitchen light on the frosty earth.
He had stopped walking. The chainsaw thumped dully against his leg.
“You left a light on,” his father said. “Don’t forget to fill ‘er up with gas before you come in.”
His father flicked on the porch light’s cruel iridescent glare, and the door shut after him with a soft thud.
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Merry Tamminga hails from Washington state and loves nothing better than a rainy day accompanied by a cup of tea. She hopes to share her wonder of the world around her through her writing.
© Merry Taminga, 2025
Halfway Down the Stairs 