The Search for Joyful by Benedict Freedman Read Free Book Online Page B

we weren’t allowed near the serious cases unsupervised.
    My first job was to clean the needles and syringes that had been used during the day. Our limited supply of autoclaves was strained past capacity by the influx of new cases. We had to fall back on the old-fashioned procedure of washing instruments in ether, then plunging them into boiling water. But, as I discovered the next morning, making rounds under the careful eye of a doctor, the ends could become plugged. When I jabbed the needle into a patient’s arm sometimes nothing came out. This was unpleasant for the patient and for me. I guessed that the problem was the hard water I’d washed them in. So I did what Mama Kathy would have done—after dinner I went outside and collected snow. Melting it took a long time with very little water to show for it. And I didn’t get to bed until after the bell.
    However, I had soft water in which to sterilize my needles, and next day when the resident had me start an IV, my needle glided in smoothly without sticking. Afterward, the girls wanted to know my secret. When I told them I had gone out and collected snow, they said I was crazy.
    I had collected snow before. When I was little I made ice cream by taking Mama Kathy’s vanilla and shaking it into newly fallen snow. Thinking this, I realized a week had gone by with no word from anybody. Just as I began to worry, a whole packet of mail arrived, two letters from Vancouver and one without stamps, meaning armed forces. I was most surprised hearing from Georges. Georges dear—I remembered him in his magician’s cape (which was Mama’s apron worn inside out but with a Georges flair), waving one of Papa’s good dress handkerchiefs and, over his protests, making it disappear. Georges, Georges, can’t you make the war go away? Georges dear, where are you? North Ireland with the 80th? Libya? Egypt?
    Mama Kathy and Connie were embarked on their own adventure. Mama had consented to pull up stakes after all. They were in Vancouver machining spare parts for planes at thirty-six dollars a week. With wages like that they could put by for the rainy day Mama was always expecting.
    But there was sad news as well, the kind that was in almost every letter these days. The Clacks’ youngest son had volunteered and was missing in action. I paused a moment to remember his pleasant, freckled face and readiness to laugh.
    Then turned to the lively descriptions of life in Vancouver. They had found a comfortable apartment, but with no growing thing about. Mama had lugged in a flower box, in which they planned to raise a tomato vine. Down the street in the schoolyard a section had been set aside for a communal victory garden where they donated what free time they could.
    I felt the love behind the ordinary sentences and drank in every word. Both Georges and Connie asked if I’d heard from the other. I knew how hard it was for them to be apart.
    My own free time was Sundays and a half day on Saturday. Mandy and I went to the library at the first opportunity to find out about Indians. We carried several volumes to the table; Mandy sat on one side, I on the other. My tome started back in 1763 when the Crown laid claim to all unoccupied land.
    I leaned across to Mandy and read the paragraph in an undertone, adding, “The Indians, being nomadic, didn’t occupy any land at all.”
    â€œSo the Crown took it all. Pretty neat if you can get away with it.”
    â€œOh, they were fair—according to their lights. Indians were allowed the use of selected lands. ‘Selected lands’ is code for reserves. And here’s something they don’t teach you in mission school: even today the Indians don’t hold legal title to their reserves.”
    â€œI tell you what,” Mandy said. “When we’ve finished off the Germans, we’ll go to Ottawa and march on the Canadian government, make them give it back.”
    â€œHere it