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storage.
    I collapsed in a nerve-worn heap on the floor. I imagined my first letter home.
I told you,
Aunt Ivy would say as she snapped it under Uncle Holt’s nose.
Nothing good would come of this Montana mania. She’s living worse than our hogs.
    I wanted nothing better than to lose myself in a good long cry. But the floor, in addition to being dirty, was cold. “Dear God,” I cried out. “What should I do?” I leaned my forehead on my upraised knees. A tear trickled onto my woolen traveling skirt. Then something happened. I heard an answer to my prayer.
    Pick yourself up, Hattie Inez Brooks,
said a voice in my head.
And get a fire lit before you freeze what’s left of your brains.
    The message stunned me into action. I brushed myself off, lit a lamp, and began to make some sense of my new home. The broom got put to good use as I tried not to think about what the little hard pellets in the growing dust pile meant. A low growl rolled up from the back of Mr. Whiskers’ throat. He crouched in front of the stove, tail twitching wickedly. Suddenly the tail stopped and his right paw flew out. There was a tiny squeak, almost fairy-like, and then Mr. Whiskers ran into the far corner. I could hear him crunching away.
    I drew a shaky breath. “All right, then.” I fumbled for matches to light the fire. “You’ve got your supper, Mr. Whiskers. I’d best get mine.”
    A chipped enamelware pail by the stove held a fat collection of juniper kindling. I loaded the stove with twigs. Soon the juniper crackled fragrantly.
    On the ride out, Perilee had explained that homestead fires were fed with dried buffalo chips. “The buffalo are gone,” she’d said, “but thank goodness for their calling cards.” I slipped on the work gloves that had been a gift from Charlie’s mother and reached into an old lard bucket filled with dark objects. I swallowed my pride and tossed them quickly in the stove. Soon the little shack was tolerable; that is to say, as long as I kept moving, my innards would not freeze solid.
    I’d followed Mattie’s advice and scooped the top layer of intruding snow into the coffeepot, now heating on the stove. To the back of the range, I set the dish of Perilee’s stew to warm. Since Aunt Ivy had been reluctant to trade in her wood cookstove, I was well versed in how to use one, at least for cooking; baking was beyond me. I rounded up some cutlery and found the table, which had been buried under a stack of dime novels and Shakespeare’s plays. Uncle Chester and I shared one Wright trait: we loved our books.
    Now that I was thawed out a bit and the little shack lit up by my trusty kerosene lamp, I could see that every shelf and surface was covered with books, newspapers, and old magazines. What Uncle Chester had lacked in niceties—Aunt Ivy would be horrified to find not one doily in the entire room—he’d made up for in reading materials. Under a goodly pile of the
Dakota Farmer, Popular Magazine,
and
Saturday Evening Post
magazines, I found a serviceable empty wooden crate that was recruited as a bookcase.
    An old rag, lukewarm water, and elbow grease soon brought a sheen to the table. I set out an enamelware plate and a tin fork and spoon. “Just like the Vanderbilts!” I told Mr. Whiskers. He’d bellied up to the stove to warm himself after his first course. There was no proper chair, but an upturned empty lard bucket suited me fine. I wondered if this had been Uncle Chester’s favorite perch as well.
    By the time my supper was hot, Uncle Chester’s house—my house—was on its way to being cozy. I poured myself a mug of coffee and Mr. Whiskers a saucer of tinned milk. “Here’s to our new home,” I toasted.
    Thinking of the Almighty’s earlier guidance, I bowed my head. “Thank you, Lord, for Uncle Chester. May he rest peacefully in your care. Thank you for Perilee, who