The Weight of Waiting

This short story (about 1000 words or four pages) is so out-of-character for me. Perhaps that’s why it’s a favourite: no vampires, dragons, or silver-haired ex-criminals. Just a resourceful wife managing while her husband is away at the war. Plus, there’s a cat.

Set in Ontario’s “Cottage Country” during World War II. (Note: What Canadians call an “eavestrough,” our southern neighbours call a “gutter.”)

The Weight of Waiting by Gina X. Grant

Snow looks magical… until you have to shovel it off your roof. Maddie sighed. The snow wasn’t going to shovel itself. And if she didn’t get to it before the next big flurry, the old roof might collapse on top of her.

She rose from her comfy chair, unsure whether the cracking she’d heard resulted from a burning twig in the fireplace or her knees. She’d put money on her knees; the odds were better there. At 39, with no children and her husband away, there were times she felt like excess baggage. Not really contributing. Just coasting through life.

Before the war, Hank had done all the outdoor chores. Men’s work, he’d called it. But now, with him off in Europe, it fell to her. At the front door, she stared morosely at her two pairs of boots. Even the taller ones only covered her calves. The snow outside was at least two feet deep, and up to four where the wind had blown it.

But what if… With that thought, she made her way to the basement. It was more of a cellar, with mildewed walls, the floor a thin layer of cement Hank had poured. Musty cardboard boxes sat piled against one dank wall. Finally, in the second-to-last box, her search was rewarded. Hank’s old hip-waders.

She tried them on. The boots were enormous. Even with a couple of extra pair of socks, her feet slid around in them. But they weren’t big enough to wear over her own boots like galoshes. Plus, she discovered a gaping hole in the sole. She could patch it with a bicycle repair kit, but when she checked, she found the rubber cement had turned into a hard black lump.

She had perfectly good boots and not-so-good hip waders. Hands on hips, she stared from one to the other. Then, using first a knife, and then switching to a pruning saw, she hacked the hip waders off at the ankles. Not only did that allow her to wear her own solid boots with the waders, but it also shortened them. She was a tall woman, but not nearly so tall as Hank.

“Well, Fancy” she told the fat old cat. “The sooner I make a start, the sooner I can come back and curl up by the fire just like you.”

The cat opened one eye, and having discerned no food was involved, returned to sleep.

Maddie added thick woolen stockings, and a heavy sweater she’d knitted years ago, before climbing back into the hip waders, followed by the boots. Lastly, she drew on her coat.

Snow tumbled onto the mat as soon as she opened the front door. Good thing the door opened inward, or she’d be trapped till spring. She remembered a winter as a child, when the snow had been so deep they’d had to climb in and out an upstairs window.

Well, it’s quite deep enough now, thank you, she thought, lifting her leg as high as she could to step outside. She headed for the ladder, each step a challenge. Hank had bolted the old ladder to the lowest spot on the roof, so it was always available. If it had blown over, there’d be no way she could dig it out and lodge it safely against the eavestrough.

Climbing the ladder was actually less arduous than wading through the snow. And shovelling a roof is easier than shovelling a walkway because gravity is on your side. In ten minutes, she’d cleared one side. Hot from the unaccustomed exercise, she stripped off her coat, tossed it down by the base of the ladder, and began working on the other side.

It really wasn’t such an onerous job, after all. She made a mental note to remind herself of that for the next time, saying aloud, “It takes almost as long to get ready as the actual shoveling does.”

Tossing the shovel down near her coat and she began to descend, being careful of her footing. She sang a snatch of an old song, feeling young again.

Once firmly back on the ground, or in this case, snow, she retrieved the shovel. It would not do to lose that! She was just reaching for her coat when a pleasant voice called out, “Evening, Maddie!”

Embarrassed at being caught in her husband’s hip waders, Maddie grabbed her coat, tugging it on even as she returned her neighbour’s greeting, “Evening, Winnifred.”

Of course, Winnifred wanted to know all about Maddie’s odd get-up. Women wearing trousers was scandalous, especially in rural areas like Muskoka.

“Why I could wear those under my skirts and no one would be any the wiser,” Winnifred said with a wink.

Before long, all the women in town wanted a pair. Some men who hadn’t been able to enlist did, too. With rubber being rationed, Maddie began to sew her snow pants out of heavy serge and woolen felt.

She made minor improvements. Padded straps to go over the shoulders. Lined legs. Smaller sizes.

“You should patent these,” Mr. Fraser, the retired lawyer, told her. “I’ll draw up the papers.” More than one manufacturer bid on the product, earning Maddie a tidy sum. She was thrilled to see “Maddie’s Snow-veralls” for sale in the Eaton’s catalogue that winter.

Then the war ended, and the men came home.

It was a good thing Maddie had become financially independent, because when Hank finally limped up the path, it was apparent he wouldn’t be returning to his job at the mill. Maddie sewed him his own pair of snow-veralls. Were they still a pair if they only had one leg?

She could now afford to hire someone to shovel the snow from their roof, but it was a job she enjoyed. She’d get Hank settled in front of the fire, saying. “It takes longer to get ready than it does to do the shovelling.”

Fancy the cat raised her head, looking at Maddie, before settling back by the fire next to Hank.

End