Episode 2 - Home Sweet Home
Spencer stepped back to admire his handiwork, sweat dripping down his forehead despite the chill to the early Spring air. Daffodils were bravely pushing through the soil in the gardens he passed every day on his walk to work at the general store, and ferns were unfurling in the shady fringes of the woods.
His big accomplishment was a very simple one room house, with a sloping metal roof. It was basically a glorified lean-to, but it had a door and windows on three sides, which he was proud of. Spencer not being much of an architect, he modeled the dwelling after the shelters he slept in while hiking along the Long Trail and Appalachian Trail as a kid at summer camp in the woods of Vermont. All in all, it was a pretty nice place, and allowed him to move out of the cabin he had been illegally squatting in. Spencer left a short thank-you/apology note in the cabin, along with a handful of silver dollars on the table when he left, mostly to assuage his own guilt.
He sat on the front stairs, what he supposed amounted to a front porch on his modest home, and tried to figure out what was missing. He snapped his fingers, grabbed a shovel, and headed to the grove of trees next to the house. He dug up a few ferns, hauled them back to the house, planted them, and then added some rocks around the edge to form a crude flower bed. As he stood and dusted off his dirty hands on his pants, a little voice carried over the lawn in front of his new house.
“Hi Spencer! Can I help with your house?”
Spencer turned to see little Timmy Clemens galloping across the yard on a wooden hobby horse, clutching the horse in one hand and waving a little American flag with the other. He couldn’t help but smile at this kid, who was a care-free five or six years old.
“You know, I COULD use some help, I was just attaching this very important board to the stairs.” Spencer started the nails, got them most of the way in, and handed the hammer to Timmy who grinned and started aggressively swinging it. Spencer frowned a bit and grinned apologetically at the woman who was approaching at a brisk pace.
“All right, sir, I think that’s enough help for today,” said Clara Clemens, gently but firmly grabbing the hammer from Timmy and handing it to Spencer. “I think there are some hungry chickens in the coop, why don’t you take your horse and head that way.”
“Charrrrrge!” roared Timmy, as he galloped off in the direction of the chicken coop.
“This is looking mighty fine,” said Clara admiringly as she looked appraisingly at Spencer’s completed home.
“All thanks to you,” Spencer said theatrically, and tipped his head to Clara, who laughed. As a teacher, Spencer had a reputation for being entertaining and a bit odd, frequently speaking in accents or singing random lines of his lectures. It was off-putting to some of the less creative students, but most found it at least mildly endearing.
Over the last few months, Spencer had grown close to Clara and her husband Mark, and of course with their son and headstrong daughter Justine. Anxious to save as much money as possible for his upcoming strategic investment plans, Spencer answered a wanted ad he saw in the local paper:
Wanted: Part-time farm hand to help with basic chores, Inquire with Mark Clemens at the first farm on the left on Granby Road - east side of town.
They agreed on a reduced pay rate in exchange for the supplies and land necessary for Spencer to build his own home. Mark agreed to pay a fair price for the house whenever Spencer eventually moved on, which seemed more than generous. In the early mornings before he started work at the general store, Spencer would emerge from his under-construction house and trudge across the lawn to the barn, soaking his boots in dew, and yawning as the Clemens’ rooster incessantly reminded everyone that the sun was coming up.
As he milked and fed the cows, Spencer’s mind wandered to his future and dwelled on his past. He wondered if anyone in his former life and time missed him. He mused about his wife, who had vanished into thin air 5 years earlier, not even bothering to leave him a note about why, or where she was going. It had wounded Spencer deeply, and came seemingly out of nowhere. They had been talking about trying to have kids, planning their futures together, and then she was gone. Spencer supposed he had done the exact same disappearing act, though unintentionally.
“You there?” Spencer was jolted out of his day dream by Clara, who waved her hand in front of his face as if attempting to bring him out of hypnosis.
“So sorry Clara,” Spencer muttered, “I don’t know where my mind goes sometimes.”
“You’re just like Mark, I think he would forget to dress himself some days if I didn’t remind him.” Clara grinned and presented a small package to Spencer, who unwrapped it to find a crocheted house with the words “Home Sweet Home” above it.
“Just a little something to get you started on decorating your mansion,” she said, winking.
“Thank you Clara, really.” Spencer found himself tearing up a bit, and Clara quickly looked away to save his dignity a bit.
“Where are Mark and Justine?” Spencer asked.
“In town, gathering some supplies and going to the grocer and the butcher shop. You might see them on your way.”
Spencer fished his pocket watch out and was startled to see it was indeed time for him to head to work. He bid farewell to Clara, splashed some water on his face and washed his hands. Mr. Saunders was not particular about his attire at the store, but Spencer still wanted to maintain at least some standards.
Later that afternoon, Spencer walked along the road into town, kicking rocks with a dusty boot and whistling to himself. An early spring butterfly floated soundlessly past him and, not for the first time, he was struck by the quiet. With no highways or busy roads, the only sound on rural roads was the occasional clopping of horse hooves as a buggy rode past. This time period reminded him of his commute through rural Indiana during the year he student taught at a community high school. Nearly every day he would have to weave around Amish folks on the rural highway in his beat up Nissan Sentra, waving to the bearded occupants of the horse-drawn buggies, who sometimes waved back, but more often responded with grave looks that seemed to say “I would rather our worlds not collide today.”
He made his way through town, past storefronts sporting advertisements for the circus that was coming to town, or the local high school baseball team’s upcoming game. So much had changed, and yet just as much had not in the last 100 years in America. He peered into the local barber shop on his way by and waved to the elderly barber Mr. Jenkins, who returned his greeting from the dim interior of the shop, its faded wooden barber pole standing silent vigil outside.
“Looks like you need to pay me a visit soon, son!” he called, and gestured to Spencer’s hair, which was indeed getting a bit shaggy.
As he stepped into the general store, he saw that Saunders was standing behind the counter locked in a fierce battle of checkers with a girl of about ten. The girl had very curly hair tied back with a piece of blue ribbon, and was standing on a wooden stool so that she could see the board. The look of consternation on Saunder’s face told Spencer that he was likely on the brink of defeat, and he looked none too pleased.
With one final move of her pieces, Justine Clemens raised her arms in triumph and jumped down off the stool, spinning and cheering like she had just won the lottery. Mr. Saunders looked on grumpily, but begrudgingly handed her a few pieces of penny candy as a reward for her victory.
Spencer spotted Mark Clemens in the back of the store shopping. He was a tall, wiry man, with a pair of thick mutton chops. The late 1800s would be a hipster’s paradise in regards to facial hair, Spencer had decided after his first week in this time period.
Justine ran over and high-fived Spencer. He hoped the ripple effects of introducing this particular greeting almost a century early wouldn’t cause a global calamity, but that ship had probably sailed at this point anyway. Justine had a white sash across her chest that had “Votes for Women” carefully scrawled in a child’s handwriting. As Hood River’s youngest suffragette, she prided herself on wearing it everywhere. It earned her more than a few reproachful looks, especially from the town’s older citizens, but Justine was very proficient at ignoring people she didn’t want to talk to. After all, she was ten.
“Justine, leave Mr. Reed be,” called Mark from the back of the store, struggling with an armload of goods. “No harm done,” said Spencer, winking at Justine and hustling to the back of the store to help Mark wrangle his items.
Spencer smiled to himself as he watched Justine skip out the door, her Votes for Women sash proudly on display. He was so grateful for the warmth and generosity of the Clemens family, and would have been horrified in that moment if he knew the horror that awaited them. WIthin a week, only one member of the family would be left alive.