Part of a memoir
By Suzanna Leigh
It all came crashing down in early February.
There was magic, living in the chicken coop on Maury Island. There were still a few cabbages in the big garden in December, when five year-old James and I moved in with Davey, Phil, and Phil’s girlfriend.
There was no electricity; we cooked on an old blue camp stove. Dinners after dark, we gathered around the table with light from the kerosene lantern reaching only as far as our faces. It was cozy. A wood fire in the 50-gallon drum kept the room warm in the evenings. The bare wood walls and oriental rug on the floor gave the place a homey feeling when daylight filtered through the windows. We felt like pioneers, pumping water with the old iron hand pump from the well a few feet up the hill. Even trudging through the snow to the outhouse was an adventure. I loved it.
True, it was cold in the mornings. Water left in the sink overnight was frozen in the morning. I slept with my clothes under the covers to keep them warm enough to dress in. We ate our oatmeal quickly before heading out for the day. Davey and Phil cut cord wood and sold it by the truckload uptown or in the city. I took a hot shower at my friend Lindy’s house in town before heading to the nursing home to cook for the old people. We still had a nursing home on the Island then, before it was torn down to build the Care Center, which has now gone out of business and is being remodeled for a new purpose.
James stayed with Lindy while I worked.
The coop was solid and clean; I doubt it ever had chickens in it. And it was spacious. The back room was as big as the living area and used only for storage. Set on a hill in the woods, the front door was level with the ground while the back hung over the slope and was held up with poles, leaving space for chickens and goats under it. Perfect for the farm I always wanted. This is where I am, I thought, so this is were I will have my farm and goats.
We spent Christmas there with little or no celebration, just a small cedar tree I believe we cut across the road, or perhaps the guys brought it out of the woods. In early February, Davey decided to insulate the walls, so he began nailing up blankets.
And then we were asked to leave. I never did find out why.
That night, Davey and I went uptown, Davey to the tavern, and me to Lindy’s house a few doors down. Davey got drunk. Lindy read me a letter from our friend Ananda, who was in Hawaii. Lindy and I decided we needed to go to Hawaii.
I wanted to be warm.
I wanted to go back to school and finish my college education, which was interrupted when I got pregnant with James and married his father, a low-ranking Navy man (perhaps I will tell you THAT story someday).
I wanted a closer walk with God. I wanted to raise my son in a Christian Community.
James had been born in Pearl City, on Oahu. I had started my college education at the University of Hawaii. Hawaii called me, and I wanted to go back.
Davey told me I could store my stuff at the chicken coop, but I declined. Another boyfriend gave me contact information for his brother in Honolulu. I gave my notice at the nursing home, sold Ladybug to Davey, and with my last paycheck, bought plane tickets for me and James. I had $200 in my pocket.
We ended up staying almost a year in Hawaii.
