Frontier Diaries

  A suite of erasures based on the personal accounts of homesteading women, 1867–2016   Labour I will always be here. I gave birth to a home. My choices are lumps in my throat: second daughter, sleep, start pushing. A gap in attention. Beans for years. Ascent The mountain advanced. I shed my corsets. Soon, I was panting. On, on, on, on. Don’t look down. Throbbing, hungry, fire in a deep snow. Winter I was flannel-lined, fur-trimmed and chattering. Sparrows hung above the mess hall. Seven women promptly moved to Toronto for recalibration. An emergency contingent of huskies seemed to sing of white gasoline. Growth The idea of building a husband broke in February. By October, he was warm. For comparison, our neighbour is growing children, and we hope to begin work on a solar system. For now, our tiny home is full. Holiday Christmas did happen. Cameron and Ted, one Gary, Joan. The kids give or take. This tradition hurt, but I was standing. I’m his mother. I love cinnamon. Today my joy is better, I think. Theft One day, I vanished. Was it Camp Robber, the child, the baby’s closest friend? Wolf or grandfather? Long-haired willow, canine teeth behind our cabin— Impossible. I could not venture outside the house. Faith This season is a white church, and my hair will get in all the crevices. I resign myself to a pale adventure. Real housewives remember every reason to be alive.  Father God of mischief. God waiting upstairs. Buckling, shaking, quivering God. God of ladies who never prepare. God is a total mess. He wants cheese and wool and pie. Every woman creates God with her hands. Luxuries Sometimes the grouse were shooting stars. Sometimes drowsy. The lake a guitar piled with oilskins, rain a tall evergreen or a fur robe. I contained a canyon of roaring horses and a small tent for rest.