Summary: Baby Joe has need of a crocheted blanket, at least that’s what Hoss concludes, and he has an exact idea who’s going to bring on one…enter Adam.
Written for Day 4 of the 2021 Advent Calendar

Rating:  G  2,540 words

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Bonanza
~*~*~ Advent Calendar ~*~*~
* Day 4 *

The Gift of Giving

It had started as a challenge. A dare. Although…no, the dare had come second, or third, if you were nit-picky. And, truth be told, being nit-picky was one of Adam’s more defining traits. Some might even call him pedantic. Hair-splitting, quirky, oversubtle, quibbling…yeah, and with a penchant for listing synonyms. He needed to get a grip on himself. As comforting and stress-relieving listing synonyms was, it only distracting him from the problem at hand. The dare. Which had come third.

The first thing had been the observation that little Joe was cold. He seemed unable to get warmed up, no matter how much Marie rubbed his tiny feet. As a result, he became even more fidgety and cranky than usual.

Then, second, had come the realisation that Marie was utterly incapable of crocheting. She was wonderful at many things, many more than Adam might have expected when Pa’d come home with the stranger they were supposed to call “Ma” from now on, even though the only true and genuine mother Adam had ever known was Inger. Over time he’d realised that while no one could ever replace Mama Inger, there was room in his life and his heart for another grown-up he could trust and hold dear. With Marie had come songs she’d sing in a beautiful soprano, gripping stories she’d tell before bed time, more books than Adam had ever seen in one place. She was a brilliant rider, a loving mother, a graceful host to the many visitors the Ponderosa had, and she could set the table in a way it made them feel they dined with the queen of England herself. Yes, she was a woman of many, many talents. But she wasn’t very good at doing the things that seemed to come natural to other boys’ mothers. Like preparing a meal, darning socks or sewing clothes. Or crocheting.

As a result, baby Joe had need of a crocheted blanket to snuggle in and be kept warm and cosy. No wonder he cried so much. Or at least that had been Hoss’s reasoning. And although the reasonable twelve-year-old and therefore almost grown-up Adam usually tried to study the grand scheme of things first, then consider the nuances and the particulars, reflect on the history of things and the outcome of any possible path, he’d been unable to resist the allure of Hoss’s imperturbability in that all their little brother needed to find rest and eventually stop wailing was a crocheted blanket like his school pal Jimmy’s baby sister, who was an angel with blonde locks who slept peacefully most of the day and all night, had. Hoss’s ma Inger had crocheted one for him, one of the very few things that had survived their long journey to the West, and one of Hoss’s most revered belongings. And had Hoss not always been a quiet and content baby? He had, most certainly, in particular in comparison with little Joe, Adam remembered that very well.

And so he had agreed that the blanket must make the difference. There wasn’t much to back that theory up, just a hair thin hope, but it was their only hope, and no one, really not a single one of them would bear up Joe’s constant whining and wailing much longer. Pa already tried to find excuses to leave the house even when his work for the day was done, and Adam had seen him have a good swipe or three of whiskey before bed time more than once. Marie’s beauty was almost unrecognisable with her red-rimmed eyes, her drawn features, and slumped shoulders, and she was prone to break into tears at any real or perceived suggestion there was anything she hadn’t already tried that could pacify her baby. Even Hoss, who had the patience of a saint, had given up trying to entertain Joe with funny faces, silly songs or a happy game of peek-a-boo and instead prolonged his barn chores beyond all measure. And Adam himself would give anything for a few hours of silence to bury himself in Robinson Crusoe, that Pa’d brought him from his latest trip to San Francisco. He would give absolutely anything—or do absolutely anything, which brings back in the challenge.

Because, since Marie obviously was unable to crochet at all, someone else needed to do it, as Hoss had put it so logically. “You, Adam,” he’d said. “You can, I know it.”

While Adam had tried to come up with reasonable excus explanations as to why he could not, Hoss had looked at him with those innocent sky-blue eyes of his that spoke of adoration and his unwavering trust in Adam’s ability to master everything fate would throw in his way. Including crocheting, if need be. And need was, oh, it was so very much.

Deep down, Adam suspected that Hoss wasn’t quite as innocent as he appeared to be, and that his younger brother knew too well how to play him. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean Adam could resist in any way or shape.

And that was why, only a few days later, Adam had gone to town. He’d begged Pa to let him go alone for some early Christmas shopping, and even though Pa had raised the familiar refusing eyebrow so that Adam had prepared for one of the longer battles (not that he was averse to those, but it really wasn’t the time for frivolities, he had pressing matters to manage, and time was of concern), in that moment Joe had started to wail again. Pa had groaned and waved his hand dismissively and mumbled something like “don’t spend too much money,” and it had been settled.

Lamentably, he hadn’t had too much money to spend anyway. He’d still secretly harboured the notion to find an affordable crocheted baby blanket in Barnes’s Mercantile, but soon discovered that his meagre savings had been good enough only for a few balls of white and blue wool and a crochet hook.

After his purchase, he’d stood there in the shop, forlorn, weighing wool in one hand and the crochet hook in the other, wondering how he could explain Hoss that there was no way on earth this would ever become a blanket, not by Adam’s hands, without shattering his little brother’s faith in him completely and irrevocably. But just as he’d finally resolved to acknowledge the futility of it all and to admit utter and complete defeat to Hoss, and to himself (never heard-of, but there was a first for everything, as unimaginable as it seemed) salvation had approached him—in a most unforeseeable and unexpected fashion. It had come with many frills and ostrich feathers and a heavy Cockney accent, in the form of the formidable Mrs. Hawkins, widow of the famous Harry Hawkins, strongest man on earth and acrobat extraordinaire.

The widow had made no secret of her surprise to see Adam buying balls of wool, for she was well versed in the town’s gossip and therefore aware of the beautiful Mrs. Cartwright’s inability to do needlework. Something in her demeanour had seemed genuinely interested and even mildly concerned though, and Adam, having actually encountered something he could not master already on the verge of a nervous paroxysm, had told her everything.

Mrs. Hawkins had no children of her own, she’d been widowed very young, so she might not have been an expert on the effect crocheted blankets had on babies, but she’d instantly understood Adam’s predicament and offered her help.

“You, dear lad, come home with me. I’ll make us a lovely sassafras tea, and then I’ll show you how it’s done.”

Now, going home with a young man had not seemed proper for a lady, but the widow had appeared unfazed when Adam hinted at it. At the Vaudevilles of the world, she’d proclaimed with a grand swiping gesture of the hand in which she carried her feather adorned umbrella, almost tipping over a display of lime green candy canes, at the Vaudevilles of the world people weren’t that parochial, and if Clementine Hawkins wished to invite a reputable young fellow like Adam into her house to be inducted to the art of crocheting, then, by Jove, she’d do it without hesitation.

As they had been leafing through Mrs. Hawkins’s copy of Miss Lambert’s Hand-book of Needle Work to find a pleasant but not too challenging pattern, Mrs. Hawkins had said that Adam shouldn’t worry and that his long fingers should make him a striking crocheter—or a prolific card shark. Well, Adam highly suspected he was in for a career on a riverboat, as crocheting had soon turned out to be an art that did not make itself easily accessible to him.

Although after a short introduction to the general technique of crocheting (there were really very few different stitches to learn, in particular for a simple baby blanket) and to the cryptic language of crochet instructions he’d been swift to comprehend the hows and whens, the understanding had had a hard time making its way from his brain to his fingers. And when, in theory, he’d had to make loose loops so that at the back row the hook would go through the previous stitch smoothly and create another airy loop, he’d actually made a tight, sweaty mess. The hook wouldn’t slip through easily, sometimes the previous loop was so indiscernible he couldn’t even fathom where to stab the hook in. The effort had made his hand sweat, which had resulted in getting the wool damp and therefore even less yielding and making the most unpleasant noises when gliding across the hook.

Why someone had come up with this handiwork and not instantly dismissed it as not worth the effort was beyond Adam, but he’d promised Hoss, and so he would see this through, even if it cost him every ounce of patience he possessed.

It had also quickly turned out that a blanket even for a tiny baby such as Joe wasn’t crocheted in a few hours. And because he’d wanted to keep it a secret at any cost and also feared he’d be lost without Mrs. Hawkins’s constant supervision and support at all the minor or major crises Adam regularly encountered, they’d arrange for him to come to the widow’s every afternoon when he’d have finished school and Hoss stayed longer for Bible Study for the Youngest and stay until it was time to pick Hoss up and take him home. Usually, he’d stay at school and do work on his extra-curricular subjects, but he’d find a way to explain his omission of it for the four weeks till Christmas. Both Mrs. Hawkins and Adam had been positive four weeks would suffice to finalise the project.

Surprisingly, crocheting had become easier with every day he’d spent at the widow’s.  And after a while he’d even enjoyed doing it. Well, he’d mostly enjoyed being at Mrs. Hawkin’s, drinking his way through her wide range of herbal and black teas, listening to her colourful stories of her life at the variety, of tightrope artists, lion tamers, and bearded women. He’d admired Harry Hawkins’s weights that were displayed in the parlour, and the biased dice Mrs. Hawkins let him to play with to loosen his fingers after a long session of crocheting. Sometimes he’d chop wood for her, shovel snow or help putting a garland on her mantle piece. He’d found that more than appropriate and actually just a small little thank you for all she did for him.

And then, at long last and not a day too early, the blanket was completed. It was blue and white-striped and even had a rippling white border, very reminiscent of the laces and frills that adorned almost all of Joe’s attire. Adam, so relieved he could have embraced the world, had resorted to embrace only Mrs. Hawkins, which she’d acknowledged with a “up-a-daisey” and a long drawn “coo.”

She’d helped him wrap the blanket in some brown paper and store it in his schoolbag, between his math book and a half-written essay on the meaning of the flowers Ophelia hands out to Laertes in Shakespeare’s Hamlet, then just waved off his attempts to put his gratitude towards her in something that resembled coherent speech and sent him on his way lest he’d miss end of Hoss’s lessons.

And now Adam was steering the buckboard through a thin layer of fresh snow back to the Ponderosa, only half listening to Hoss’s excited chatter about the Christmas Eve dinner they are going to have tonight and if Hop Sing might serve those wonderful French pastries that Marie liked almost as much as Hoss did.

He fingered the packet in his school bag for the twenty seventh time, as if fearing it was all but a dream or that the blanket would magically disappear. It was still there, of course, as it had been the twenty six times before.

Would Marie like it? Would Pa? Joe? For whom was that present anyway? To whom would he give it?

In the narrowest sense it was a gift for Joe, Adam’s pedantic mind nit-picked, but then it was also a gift for Marie. Because she and Joe were a unit somehow. But if you really looked at it, it was also a present for Pa. For Hoss, too, and even for Adam himself, for they all would profit so much from the heavenly quiet wrapping Joe in the blanket would produce.

And if he looked closely enough, he realised, he was the one who profited the most from it. Not only would he indulge in the silence, he’d also enjoy everyone’s reacquired calm and peace. And not just that: he’d mastered a new craft (not that he’d put that new dexterity into action again anytime soon), had spent many hours in surprisingly pleasant company, heard stories from faraway places that fuelled his dreams and imagination, had been introduced to every type of tea available between Carson and San Francisco, and had found unexpected respect for a person many deemed fatuous. He’d encountered freely given, unconditional help, and sincere gratitude for the smallest assistance he’d been able to offer in return.

And, of course, he’d earned Hoss’s eternal admiration and cemented Hoss’s imperturbable trust in his older brother’s infallibility.

So, yeah, he was going to be awkward again when presenting he gift. His family, of course, was going to misinterpret it as him being ashamed of it, as if he didn’t think it good enough when actually he’d be ashamed because he’d feel he’d gifted himself with it so much more than the actual recipients.

Or, perhaps, he could stop overthinking and just enjoy it. Quiet and peace everywhere, and in particular on the Ponderosa, and joy to the world and his family.

Yes, he could do that.

“Coo,” he cried out into the gathering darkness and spurred the horse on. “Coo-oo!”

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As we work to create light for others, we naturally light our own way. ~ Mary Anne Radmacher

With many thanks to Gertie for her beta on a very short note.

 

My character is, unsurprisingly, Adam. And guess what my prompt was…

Link to Day 5 of the Bonanza Brand 2021 Advent Calendar:  The Checker’s Mate by Cheaux