day 18

"And it came to pass that there was no darkness in all that night but it was as light as though it was midday. And it came to pass that the sun did rise in the morning again, according to its proper order; and they knew that it was the day that had been given." (3 Nephi 1:19)

"The Smell of a Mothball"

Mrs. fruens used to pull her wagon from the store to her home a mile away. Summer and winter she was always dressed in black: shoes, dress, and sweater. Her brown grocery bags leaned like tired sentinels against the sides of her squeaking wagon.

One day as my brother Stew and I were splitting kindling and gathering icicles for a family frolic, we spotted Mrs. Fruens on her way to the store. "Wouldn't she be surprised if we chopped kindling for her monkey stove while she's gone," Stew burst out. The idea took hold immediately; we leaped on our bikes and sped to her yard.

Mrs. Fruens lived in a one-room frame house. A bed, table, chairs, a little carved hutch for knicknacks, a wall basin plumbed for cold water, and a stove for heating and cooking were all she had. Her husband had died thirty years earlier- shortly after they came to America.

Working quickly, we split and stacked a knee-high pile of wood, then hurriedly swept bark and twigs into a bucket for tinder. But we weren't soon enough. Before we finished, we heard the squeaks of wheels coming down the street. I was anxious; Mrs. Fruens had been taunted and teased too much. I was afraid we would not be welcome in her yard. Reaching the gate, she looked at us warily. Then her eyes moved to the stack of kindling and the tinder bucket. She glowed. Thrusting her key into the lock, she set her bags inside, then hugged us. It embarrassed me, but it did feel good. Taking us by the hand, she exclaimed, "You good boys. You very good boys. You cut me kindling for a week."

As we walked to the gate, she scurried into the house and emerged with a colorful can of hardtack candy. Smiling her toothless smile, she held out the can, which smelled of mothballs from having been stored in her closet with her woolens. "Take some," Stew whispered, "or she'll be hurt." She threw us a kiss as we left. We pedaled home in silence...

Years have passed, the neighborhood has changed and a freeway runs near the spot where Mrs. Fruen's house stood. But my mind often floods with the memory of a grateful old woman and two zealous boy chopping. That wood has given warmth many times. Once when chopped, twice when burned, and again and again whenever I pass by or smell the odor of a mothball.