Catch the Wind: My Journey with Caroline

Since Caroline surely has chores waiting, I agree it’s time to head back toward Sackets Harbor. Before we go, she takes one last look at her papa’s fish camp, reminding herself, the way her grandmother always does, that moping never helped anyone, which sounds exactly like something Mom would say.

It seems like we’ve been walking for a long time when Caroline says we should move faster. Storm clouds are moving in. I try to speed up, but my shoes keep sliding. They’re harder to walk in than my hiking boots.

As we go, Caroline explains that her papa taught her to always watch the sky, a habit that’s kept her dry more than once. I tell her it’s almost like he’s still looking out for her, and she likes that idea.

That gets me wondering whether Mom ever passed down some tradition of her own I could keep alive while she’s away. Baking snickerdoodles together comes to mind. We used to bake together, but now I can do it all pretty much by myself. Mom just keeps me company. I’ll bake cookies every week while she’s gone. Maybe I can even mail her a batch as a surprise. In fact, maybe it’s finally time to let Sasha and Britney help, even though they’ll slow things down and make a mess.

Speaking of food, I’m starting to get hungry. So I’m relieved when we reach a small cabin, where a girl newly arrived in the area shares cornbread and dried fish with us. Around here in 1812, helping a traveling stranger without a second thought seems to be just how things are done.

Eventually the woods thin into an ugly stretch of stumps. Caroline tells me Sackets Harbor used to be a quiet little village before the war brought hundreds of soldiers and sailors flooding in. Between all the new ships they’re building and new buildings, the town has had an endless demand for lumber. They use it for storehouses, ships, homes, and lookout posts. Every sawyer and carpenter has been working nonstop.

We keep walking. I glance back at what’s left of the forest, and think about how where I’m from, forests are considered precious and special. I wonder if Caroline thinks of forests like that, or if they’re so abundant that she thinks of them like commodities.

By the time we reach Sackets Harbor, the clouds have really started stacking up. First we stop at the shipyard so Caroline can explain to her mother why we left the navy ship early. Then we climb the hill toward the Abbotts’ two-story house, its garden fenced in behind the lawn. Caroline pauses at the gate to look down over the harbor, full of masts. She says it’s her favorite view. She always imagines seeing her papa sail into the harbor to come home to them. I tell her I hope that happens soon, already imagining the day Mom’s own ship finally comes home, too.

Caroline leads me past the vegetable garden to the back door, where her grandmother, Mrs. Livingston, a small woman who leans on a cane, is waiting in the kitchen. Once we’re inside, the older woman studies me without a word, and I try hard not to squirm, hoping she won’t press too much on exactly how I got “lost.” There’s no way I can tell her the truth about where I actually come from.

Worry is just about to start creeping in when Mrs. Livingston stands back and welcomes me to Sackets Harbor. While Caroline launches into the whole story of our sail with Lieutenant Woolsey, I get a chance to take in the kitchen. Iron kettles hang inside the fireplace, pewter and china dishes crowd the table, and a tall, narrow butter churn stands off in the corner.

Once the story’s done, Caroline flops onto a bench, grumbling that nobody even knows yet whether Lieutenant Woolsey caught the British ship. Mrs. Livingston calmly assures her that word will reach them soon enough, but Caroline insists waiting is torture. Peering down her nose, Mrs. Livingston asks whether Caroline plans to keep complaining or find something worthwhile to do instead. With a sigh, Caroline agrees to make herself useful, and I offer to pitch in, too.

Caroline’s grandmother nods toward a small wooden door set into the brick wall around the fireplace, mentioning she’d been just about to bake bread. Caroline insists on wrenching the heavy door open herself. Her face wrinkles with exertion as she pulls it open and sets the door on the ground. A rush of heat and smoke reveals glowing embers inside a blackened brick cavity. I watch as Caroline scrapes the coals down into a hidden slot below to cool. It dawns on me that a fire must have been burning there not long ago.

Caroline asks me to hand her the peel. I’m baffled until she points to a long-handled wooden paddle leaning against the wall. I pass it over, and Mrs. Livingston uncovers six round loaves of dough waiting on the table. Six loaves seem like a lot to me, but Caroline explains that the oven only gets fired up once a week. My face flushes at having asked, and I hope it just looks like heat from the fire.

With no pans at all, Caroline’s grandmother sets the first two loaves of dough directly onto the peel. Caroline slides them into the oven. They do this three more times until all six loaves are inside.

With the bread baking, Caroline’s grandmother suggests we take on some chores, maybe sewing. But Caroline eyes the clouds outside and figures the rain might have cooled off the air to make it nice for gardening. Perhaps we could do that before the rain starts.

I’ve done a little sewing myself, though probably not well enough for Mrs. Livingston’s taste. And pulling weeds in my own family’s flower beds has taught me gardening is no easy chore either. On top of all that, my legs still haven’t recovered from our long walk home.