When the Cherry Blossoms Fell (9 page)

The children looked at each other. A couple of them shrugged.

Then one boy spoke up. “I thought the new people in town were Chinese.”

“I'm telling you they're Japs,” George said.

“How are we supposed to know the difference?” a girl asked.

Michiko wrapped her arms around her waist, her stomach in knots.

George waved the roll of paper in his hands with glee. “I was hoping you'd ask,” he said. He smacked it into the palm of his hand. “This is what I want to show you.” He turned the roll sideways and opened it. “My dad brought this home from the city.”

The crowd of boys and girls surged forward.

“
Two men are picked up by a patrol
,” George read out loudly.

“What's a patrol?” one of the girls asked.

“It's a military word,” George barked. “Stop interrupting.” He began again. “
Two men are picked up by a patrol. One man is Chinese, and one man is Japanese. How do you tell the difference?”
He stopped and eyed the crowd.

“Who cares?” Clarence called out loudly.

Everyone turned to see who had spoken.

“We all care,” George retorted. “We don't want a bunch of Japanese here.”

“Maybe they don't want to be here,” Clarence remarked. “Did you think about that?”

“Maybe they need to go back to Japan,” one of the boys offered.

“Maybe they're Canadians,” Clarence said. “Maybe like most of us, their parents were born in another country, not them.”

“Shut up, Clarence,” George warned. “Just because your parents are from Ireland doesn't make everyone else's parents foreign.”

Michiko looked down at the bundle in her hand. Today she had brought chopsticks. No one else would have chopsticks. How could she use them now? She felt ill.

Michiko moved out from under the tree and headed toward the road.

George spotted her leaving. “Hey, Millie,” he called. “Where you going? Are you going back to one of those little houses in the orchard?”

Michiko stopped walking. She could feel every pair of eyes on her back.

Clarence walked up to George and snatched the pamphlet out of his hand.

“You know, George,” he said with a smirk, “you're not as smart as you think you are.” He stuffed the roll of paper into his back pocket. “Millie lives at the old Nelson place.”

The crowd looked first at Michiko then at George.

Clarence spoke again. “Yesterday, Millie and I went
fishing on the Carpenter.” He hooted. “She caught a fish bigger than anything you ever caught.” He scuffed at the dirt with the toe of his boot and looked up. “How are you going to know the difference between Japanese and Chinese, when you can't even recognize a Kootenay Indian?”

The whole crowd erupted into laughter, just as Miss Henderson came out. She smiled at the scene of the children enjoying a good joke and rang the school bell. They all moved into line.

Clarence beckoned Michiko back with a nod of his head. The heat of the summer filled the classroom. He took his seat in front of Michiko and stashed the roll of yellow paper in his desk.

George glared at her. “So what's the name of your tribe?” he asked.

“My tribe?” she repeated.

“Yeah,” he snarled, “your tribe.” He raised his palm to the back of his head and waved his fingers. “If you have Indian blood,” he said searching her face, “you should know the name of your tribe.”

Michiko thought for a minute then whispered, “I come from a long line of people that hunt and fish.” She lifted her head and raised her voice. “My people know the importance of boats.” She thought about George's silver bicycle leaning against the brick wall, shining in the sun and continued: “We know boats are more much more important than bicycles.”

“Boats will never be more important than bicycles,” George said loudly.

Miss Henderson looked up from her desk and
rapped the side of it with her wooden ruler. George stopped talking.

Michiko crossed her arms and laid her head on top of them. How could this boy think that she was his enemy just because she was Japanese?

Over her arms, she saw the roll of yellow paper stuffed in Clarence's desk was within easy reach. Michiko formed a plan. As soon as the class stood for “God Save the King”, she knocked her books to the floor. When she crouched to retrieve them, Michiko pulled the roll from Clarence's desk. She stuffed it deep into the pocket of her sundress.

We need to move this piece of linoleum,” insisted Michiko's mother. “I can't sweep the floor properly.”

“I'll hold up the corners,” said Sadie. “Just sweep underneath. We don't have to move the whole thing. “

“I need to do a proper job,” Eiko argued.

“You better give us a hand,” Sadie called to Michiko. “You know how fussy your mother is about cleaning.”

Michiko helped tug the big black linoleum square across the room.

“It looks better over here, actually,” said Sadie.

Michiko, like her aunt, surveyed the room. The Singer treadle machine stood under the window, a long narrow table beside it. Ted had built it especially for sewing. He had nailed a wooden yardstick along one edge and small wooden boxes for pins and buttons along another. Folded neatly at one end was her mother's futon. Once again, several of the gold rectangular patches of the quilt were in need of repair.

Geechan had repaired one of Mrs. Morrison's old rocking chairs. He had painted it blue, the same colour as the kitchen chairs. Now everything matched. They even
had a vase for flowers on top of an oilcloth. Mrs. Morrison had brought them one day to replace the jam jar.

There were curtains on the windows, shelves along the walls and benches below.

Outside Ted had attached a woodshed to the kitchen to keep the wood dry. A wall of kindling waited inside. There was even a rain barrel at the end of the verandah to collect water for washing their hair.

Everyone worked hard at making the farmhouse home
, Michiko thought. She felt good when she thought about it.

When Michiko's mother turned to retrieve the broom, she gasped. Sadie and Michiko followed her gaze, and they gasped as well.

In the middle of the kitchen floor was a small, square wooden door. A black iron ring fit into a carved wooden pocket. The door and the handle were flush with the floor.

“It's like the secret passage to a beaver's house,” Michiko squealed in delight. She was the first to kneel beside it.

“Ahh,” murmured Sadie, “this must lead to the lost gold mines of the Aztecs.”

“There weren't any Aztecs around here,” Michiko said.

“Ahh,” Sadie continued, “but there were plenty of silver mines.” She lifted the handle and gave it a tug. It wouldn't open.

Everyone tried, but the door wouldn't budge.

“We will have to wait until Ted comes,” Michiko's mother said. “Maybe he can jimmy it with a tool.”

A knock on the door made them all look up. “Only me,” called out Mrs. Morrison as she let herself in.
“Looks like you've found the root cellar,” she remarked, seeing the door in the floor.

“What's a root cellar?” Michiko asked. She imagined a huge network of roots below, forming passages and tunnels that she and Clarence could explore.

“It's an underground pantry,” Mrs. Morrison explained. “Mine is built into the side of a small hill.” She plodded to the door in the floor. “I don't use it any more,” she confessed. “I've got a refrigerator.”

She planted her thick legs on either side of the door. She bent down. “There's a knack to opening these things,” she said. She gave the handle a bit of a jiggle. She turned it to the left and listened. “That's it,” she said and gave the door a heave. It opened with a cloud of dust.

Puffing from the exertion, Mrs. Morrison placed one hand on her chest and staggered backwards into the rocking chair. “Look under the door,” she wheezed and pointed. “There should be a support stake. Pull it down.”

Sadie pulled a lever out of a slat. She propped up the door. The dank smell of rotten potatoes filled the kitchen. Michiko leaned over the gaping hole. “It's really dark down there.”

“Get the lantern,” Mrs. Morrison ordered.

Eiko took the lantern down from the wall. She lit it and handed it to Sadie. Sadie held it in front of her as she descended the short ladder.

Mrs. Morrison rose from her chair and headed out the front door.

“It can't be time for you to leave,” Michiko's mother called out after her. “You haven't had your tea.”

“I'm not going far,” said the voice on the verandah. “That's the winter entrance. There has got to be a summer one.”

Michiko dashed out behind her.

She watched Mrs. Morrison poke along the side of the house with a stick. Suddenly she threw down the stick. She leaned against the side of the house. “That will be it,” she said with great satisfaction. “Give that grass a good tug, young lady.”

Michiko tugged. A large piece of turf came away, revealing a dirty grey plank. Michiko brushed the dirt from her hands. “That will be the summer entrance,” Mrs. Morrison informed her, “once it's cleared away.”

Using the stick as a cane, she stomped up the stairs. “It's a short season in these parts,” she said. “A few potatoes and onions in that root cellar will get you through the long winter. You need to put in a garden.”

Michiko looked at the long grass surrounding the house. “How big a garden?” she asked. “Where would we get seeds?”

“At the general store.” Mrs. Morrison said. “But,” she paused to catch her breath, “you can get any kind of seeds you want from a Seed Catalogue.”

Mrs. Morrison sank into the rocking chair. “The Seed Catalogue arrives every spring.” She paused. Michiko listened to the sound of the wooden rockers squeaking against the linoleum. “When I was young,” Mrs. Morrison chuckled, “I didn't know any of those fancy Latin names for plants,” she continued. “I wanted to order something special.” She chuckled again. “I
ordered a package of seeds for a plant called lovage.”

“Did the lovage grow?” Michiko asked.

“Huge bushes of green leaves came up along the wooden gate. The leaves were forked and spiky.”

“Were there flowers?”

“The bushes eventually flowered. They had tiny yellow knobby flowers.”

“Did they have any perfume?”

“Oh, there was a smell about them,” she said, “but it wasn't perfume.”

“What did it smell like?”

“Celery,” she said. Mrs. Morrison threw back her head and laughed. “My whole flower garden smelled like celery.”

“What did your mother think?”

“She wasn't happy,” the woman replied. “She thought that I'd completely wasted my money.” She leaned into Michiko's face. “But the German woman at the next farm was very happy.”

“Why?”

“In Germany, lovage is used in potato dishes.” Mrs. Morrison laughed again and slapped her knee. “She picked it by the handfuls and gave my mother a great big lump of cheese in exchange. That made my mother happy. But, after that, I only ordered seeds for plants I knew.”

Suddenly Mrs. Morrison changed the subject. “You don't take the newspaper,” she asked Michiko's mother, “do you?”

“Sadie picks it up on occasion,” Eiko responded. “I wish she wouldn't,” she mumbled.

“I cut something out,” Mrs. Morrison said, fumbling in her large purse. She produced a folded piece of newsprint and placed it on the table. Then after taking a sip of tea, she proceeded to read.

“
If you are going to do canning this season, be sure to get a Canning Guide from the Post Office.”
She took another sip of her tea.

“I guess it would be a good idea,” Eiko mused.

Mrs. Morrison continued.
“Fill out the Application for Canning Sugar in the Number Two Ration Book. Fill in your application as a housewife for all members of your household on your own card. State the number of persons for whom you are applying, but not including yourself. The blank cards of each member of your household should be attached to your card. Forward them to your Local Ration Board.”

“I don't know if it's worth all the trouble,” Eiko said. “We don't have the necessary supplies. We need jars, a boiling pot and wax for the tops. Where will I get all that?”

“I've got most of it.” Mrs. Morrison slapped her hand down on the table. “You get the sugar, I'll provide the equipment.” She looked up at the ceiling and smiled. “I just love making preserves.”

Michiko's mother smiled too. “What are we going to preserve?”

“Huckleberries,” Mrs. Morrison responded. “There will be more huckleberries in these parts than you have ever seen.”

“Huckleberries,” Michiko's mother repeated.

At the sound of the truck horn, Mrs. Morrison
heaved herself from the chair. “I can almost taste huckleberry jam.” She stood for a moment to catch her breath. “Head on down with that baby carriage, and we'll fill it up with jars.” She stomped towards the door. “Lovage,” she muttered and chuckled. “I haven't thought about lovage in years.”

In the weeks that followed, all Michiko could think about was planting. She would plant flowers all around the verandah. She would plant scarlet snapdragons and white lilies.

Michiko accompanied her aunt and uncle into town. They passed the church, the bank and the school, following along the wooden sidewalk.

Boards covered most of windows of the buildings near the train station. The walkway across the tracks was in need of repair. The General Store still operated, even though the Hardware Store next to it had closed down.

Across from the station house was the town's only hotel. Lines of drying clothes filled the dilapidated balconies. Several Japanese children played on the large wooden steps. Some played baseball in the vacant lot next door.