The Shut-Ins

It was somewhere between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Mother was preparing for her yearly pilgrimage. The old hand grinder was clamped to the table with care and calling out the back door Mother knew I’d soon be there.

She had all the dates and fruit and whatever she put in her famous fruitcake waiting for me to crank away. None of those big lumps in Mom’s fruitcake, no-sir-ree.

I knew better then argue with my elders so I “debated.” And so I explained to her that I needed to finish the snowshoes I was working on, the trapline was ready to be laid out. I knew what was coming.

“They’ll be no if,...

 

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