The huts

The smell of melted candle wax triggers the most pleasant memories of my childhood. When I take in the scent, I think of the log walls of one of my first childhood dwellings, flickering warmly with the light of candles. The candles were forced into the open mouths of glass bottles, which betrayed their age with layers of melted, misshapen wax formations. The candles sat around the perimeter of the round log hut, creating the only man made light for miles. We were told that black bear and mountain lions had been known to prowl the foothills, and the more noise that we made the less likely they were to wander into our dwelling. So us girls would often stay up until the sun turned the sky that mysterious color that marked the arrival of dawn. We would tell stories to one another, loudly emphasizing unimportant details and cackling unnecessarily at each other's jokes. But before we drifted off to sleep, one of the older girls would always make sure to blow out the candles. Cheryl had warned us very firmly (which was not a common thing for her to do) against leaving the candles burning at night. Our hut was made of wood logs, after all.

Cheryl was a smallish woman with dull brown hair that hung to her waist, warm eyes, and crooked teeth. Although she wouldn't have been considered a beautiful woman, her countenance had the power to lift anyone's spirit. She had a laugh that would have scared away any wandering mountain beast for miles. And she loved us. I remember feeling so greatful to be loved by an adult, that I could barely contain my happiness when I was around her. Sometimes she would suddenly pull me close to her and embrace me firmly, and for that moment all that I could smell was a combination of patchouli oil and her natural musk, and all that I could feel was elation.

Cheryl slept in the hut that rested in the nook at the bottom of the hill. The round hut that we slept in had been named the "moon hut", and the small, square dwelling that Cheryl and our mother slept in had been named the "sun hut". The sun hut was a square room, with a wood burning stove. Cheryl would use the wood burning stove to cook eggs and bacon in the morning. But this was only in the winter, when it was cold enough to keep the eggs and bacon fresh. When we would get too cold, sometimes we would trek down the narrow, winding, dug out dirt path that led to the sun hut so that we could warm our hands around the cast iron wood stove.

We had to stumble down the same pathway at night if we had to go to relieve ourselves. Half way from the sun hut to the moon hut, there was a crapper. When I say crapper, I mean it in the historical sense. This was an "antique" john crapper toilet, mounted on a wooden block with four log posts and a little wood shingle roof. There was a chain that hung above the toilet that acted as the flusher. There were no walls surrounding the toilet. Before we sat, we would need to brace ourselves for the almost unbearable chill of the seat, which was weathered and fully exposed to all of the elements. If we were lucky, a squirrel or small animal would pass us by and entertain us as we sat. As an adult looking back on the situation, I am amazed that whoever built this contraption was able to connect it to conventional plumbing, and I wonder how they were able to do it. I also wonder why they would do it. The most fascinating aspect of this subculture was that they still seemed to cling on to certain conventional ideals, while rejecting others.

The mountain squatters were strong and proud people. Their lifestyle seemed to be an homage to the gold rush driven pioneers that had inhabited the area in the 19th century. But it was also a form of rebellion against the normal, t.v. influenced society that they grew up in. I suppose that this is what my mother found most appealing. But she was never able to fully devote herself to the lifestyle (or anything, for that matter). Sometimes, she would disappear for days on end. During these times, Cheryl would always make sure that we were warm and fed. Somehow, she was always able to make me feel safe. She would make sure that I was dressed and prepared for school.

The trek to school was even more involved that the trek to the toilet. I would hike down the steep, treacherous hill to the paved road. I would walk for miles down the winding road to the bus stop. When I finally reached the bottom of the hill, where the rest of my schoolmates were waiting, there was an even bigger challenge for me to overcome - the children.

I was always humbled by their clean, pressed clothing and carefree, white smiles. I would have to make a point not to smile, since I had a hideous brown crack down one of my front teeth. I would stand very still, hoping that they wouldn't notice me. But they always did. They would make cruel comments about my dirty clothing, or call me stupid because I could never bring myself to talk. I would endure their comments, feeling relieved that they hadn't seen where I lived. I had learned that the more people know about you, the more ammunition they had to make you feel ashamed. So I never spoke or drew attention to myself in any way. Although I convinced myself that I hated them, I couldn't deny that there was a part of me that revered them for their confidence and their shiny plastic lunch boxes.

I would struggle through my school days. Each moment of every day was dedicated to making myself seem normal. I studied the children around me intently. I watched the way that they stood, the way that they dressed, and the way that they spoke to the teacher. I never dared to try to imitate them. But I observed them. I thought that if I could understand them, I could teach myself how to be normal.

The day after Christmas, after I had turned 7, I finally gave up the notion of being normal. The children stood around, goofing and joking as children do. They recounted their memories of Christmas day. They listed the gifts that they had received as if they were badges of honor. I was astounded at the amount of gifts that they had received.

As I listened in astonishment, I conjured the memories of the night of Christmas Eve. Our mother wasn't there. When I had asked where she was, Cheryl had said something about Christmas shopping. But her nervous eyes and awkward nature of her reply had told me that she was elsewhere. My sister, Sunshine (Cheryl's daughter) and I sat on the floor of the moon hut. The candles flickered warmly. Cheryl had asked us what we wanted Santa to bring us for Christmas. Having rarely received Christmas gifts, my sister and I had replied with a very resolute "there is no Santa Klaus". Our cynicism seemed unsettling to her. A wave of concern passed over Cheryl's face. She was silent for a few moments. Then, with a burst of energy that surpassed her size, her eyes wide with excitement, she said, "I KNOW THAT SANTA EXISTS!".

We jumped with surprise. Cheryl's excitement had shaken us out of complacence. Cheryl slowly rose, her small frame casting large shadows on the log wall. She told us a story about the night that she had seen Santa Klaus. She explained that she was just a small child at the time, and that his size and the elaborate decoration of his costume had struck her with awe and fascination. She exclaimed that each step of his large, shiny, black boot on the floor created a thunderous roar. She mimicked his actions, her hands on her stomach, laughing wildly. She told us that he emitted a jovial quality that couldn't be expressed in words. His laughter shook the room, and filled her with joy. After her story, she slowly lowered herself to the floor and sat cross-legged, at eye level with us. With a sincere expression, eyebrow raised, she said "So...what do you want for Christmas?".

Still awestruck and convinced by her performance, I meekly answered "a barbie doll". Considering that I didn't own a toy at the time, this seemed to be a large request. Cheryl nodded in understanding. "I'm sure that Santa will give you a barbie". Her assuredness outmatched my cynicism. I was was overcome with hope that I may be a normal girl, with toys, a bed, and a house. Santa would make sure that I received these things in the Christmases to come, if I only had the confidence to ask. I went to bed feeling elated, and slept soundly.

The next day, I woke to the sight of stockings hanging off of the rafters of the hut. I lied in my sleeping bag, staring at the red felt stocking with all of my might, as if I could have opened it with the strength of my will alone. Just as I thought that I couldn't contain myself any longer, Cheryl climbed up the steps of the hut, bending down to crawl through the small door of the hut. She saw that I had been waiting anxiously, and waved her hands enthusiastically towards the stocking, saying, "Go, go, see what Santa brought you!".

For a fraction of a second, I considered waiting for my sister and sunshine to wake up, but my enthusiasm kept me from such consideration. I rushed to the stocking and attempted to rip it down from the rafter. Cheryl recognized my childlike struggle, giggled to herself, and walked over to help me detach the stubborn stocking from the nail on the rafter. I tore through the contents of the stocking furiously. There was a variety of hard candy, which I shoved into my mouth enthusiastically. Then, as I reached the bottom of the stocking, I felt the hard, plastic limbs of a doll.

I carefully maneuvered the doll out of the stocking. Then I saw her in all of her splendor. Her hair was patchy and brown. I could see the holes in her head, where I could only assume the rest of her hair belonged. Her clothing was crudely sewn, and obviously constructed by hand. There was a smudge on her face. But she smiled her plastic smile at me as if she were unaffected by her surroundings. I felt an instant kinship with this doll. She was me.

Confused, I looked at Cheryl and stated "this isn't a barbie doll". Cheryl smiled warmly and said, "well, I guess that Santa didn't understand what you wanted, but her NAME is barbie". I laughed and drew my "barbie" doll to my chest. At that moment, I was so overcome with gratefulness for Cheryl's efforts that I didn't care that Santa didn't exist. I ran towards Cheryl and let her embrace me. Her musky, earthy smell enveloped me. "Thank you, santa" I said, looking directly into Cheryl's loving eyes.

Waiting at the bus stop, listening to the other children's Christmas stories, I felt lucky. Even observing their fine, clean clothing, and shiny lunch boxes. I realized that I was the one that was lucky. I knew the true spirit of Christmas.