Deliberately Anachronistic

The smell of tannin was strong in my nostrils. My great-granddaughter's more refined nostrils probably found it far more unpleasant than mine did. I opened the front door, letting in fresh air.

“Great-grandfather, why do you even bother when there are machines that can do what you do?” she asked in frustration. And not for the first time, either.

I shrugged. “Maybe I prefer to do it for myself. Even if it means deliberately being an anachronism in this day and age.” I turned over the uneven square of tanned leather, checking it for imperfections. Finding none, I hung it up to dry on the clothes-line outside, near the back door.

“What happens when you can't anymore?” she asked when I came back inside.

“You mean when I get too old?” I asked in return.

She nodded.

“Then it will become yet another lost skill,” I said. “A skill that your generation sees as irrelevant. You're all used to going to stores and simply buying ready-made, ready-to-wear clothing. All my clothes were made by me. When your great-grandmother was still alive, she also made her own clothing.”

She sighed heavily.

“Tell me, Urdara,” I said. “What would you do if there were no electricity anymore to power all those clothes-making machines? And no one to repair them if they broke down one day?”

“I guess we'd have to go back to doing it your way until power was restored and the machines were fixed,” she said.

“But what if you couldn't go back to doing it my way?” I asked. “What if I'm dead and gone, and there was no one to teach you how to do things the old way? What would you do?”

“I guess I'd be helpless,” she said.

“And you're okay with that possibility?” I asked. “It doesn't bother you?”

Urdara nodded. “Mainly because it's highly unlikely to ever happen. There hasn't been a power failure or a broken-down machine in over a century. Since long before my parents were born.”

“You're far too dependent on others to do what you should know how to do yourself,” I said. “Someday you'll wish that you hadn't surrendered those skills to inanimate machines who owe you no loyalty and who do not love you.”

“No doubt you'll tell me and my friends, 'I told you so,' ” she said.

“I may not be around to say that to you,” I said and looked at my wrinkled hands. “I've outlived my children. I've outlived your parents. I might not outlive you as well.”

“Warning taken,” Urdara said. “Take good care of yourself, Great-grandfather. And when your day comes, I will wish you Godspeed.”

She hugged me and left my humble log cabin. The same log cabin that I built with my own hands. The same home that my wife and I shared for almost a hundred years. The same home that she died in a decade ago.

That night, when my daughter and her friends had a party around the bonfire in the village's central square, I stood to one side, shaking my head.

“You'll regret your choices, Urdara,” I whispered. “And when you do, you may have no way to survive. You'll starve and freeze. The wolves will feed on your dead bodies. Sadly, I probably won't be there to support you and defend you. I won't blame the wolves. Unlike you and yours, they know what to do to survive and aren't afraid to do it.”

I went back to my log cabin and filled the kerosene lamp's tank with kerosene before lighting it. It gave just enough light as I made myself dinner on the wood-fired stove that had once belonged to my parents. After I ate dinner, I cleaned up. Then I went to the loom that had once been my wife's, sat on the wooden bench, and continued to work on the blanket I was making. It just needed another day or two to finish it and ought to be thick enough to keep me warm in bed when winter returned in a couple months.

That night a thunderstorm lit up the night sky with jagged lightning. Winds rose, shaking the shutters that covered the few windows of my log cabin. But I had been through similar storms and knew I would be safe inside. What about Urdara and her friends, though? Their homes were newer and I feared that they weren't durable enough in bad weather. What if they lost electricity? What if a lightning strike hit one of their houses, setting it on fire?

They made their decision, I told myself. I might not like it, but I had to respect it.

My dreams that night were unpleasant. Filled with darkness and fear. And when I woke up more than once, I knew what thoughts and feelings fueled them.

----------

When I woke up the following morning, more tired than usual, I struggled to get out of bed. I climbed down the stairs to the main floor of my log cabin. Everything seemed all right. I lit the kerosene lamp and it gave the light it usually gave. My wood-fired stove still worked. I fed it pieces of wood to wake flames from the embers that had slumbered all night long. Standing with my back to it, I enjoyed the feeling of warmth coming from it.

I put on a pair of winter boots, a winter coat, a winter hat, and winter gloves. Then I went to the front door and opened it.

The storm had been far worse than I'd thought it would be.

There were trees knocked over. Some had fallen on power lines, others had fallen on roofs, creating jagged, uneven pits. Vehicles were tossed this way and that. The streetlights were dark and so were the windows of most of the homes. People stood about, staring at the storm's aftermath, in shock, but also likely grateful to be alive.

I helped those I could help, but mostly I wanted to know how my great-granddaughter was. Had she survived the storm or not?

Her home was on a side street, a few blocks away from mine. A large tree had fallen across the roof, the former's roots halfway pulled out of the ground. The windows were dark.

The local firemen were there. So were the local police. I explained to both groups who I was and who the house's owner was. Two of the firemen accompanied me to the front door. It was locked, but had been partly opened by the force of the storm's winds. We managed to push it further inward and squeezed inside.

I had been here before, but never seen it looking like this. The roof had half-collapsed or been half-torn-away by the storm's winds even before the tree had fallen on it. Stepping as carefully as I could around the wreckage of damaged or destroyed furniture, I made my way toward my great-granddaughter's bedroom.

If it hadn't been for the damaged roof, it would've been dark in there. Instead, I saw a pile of debris spread from one side of her bed to the other side. And no sign of her.

“Urdara?” I called as the firemen and I removed the debris on top of the bed. “Can you hear me?”

Something sounded like a moan.

God be thanked. She was still alive, even if she was hurt.

When most of the debris had been removed, I saw my great-granddaughter. She lay curled up, with her hands and arms above her head, protecting it. Her eyes were closed.

The three of us carefully picked her up. She winced and made pained sounds. Slowly, we made our way out of her bedroom and back to the front door. One of the firemen hacked away at the door to provide more room so that we could carry Urdara out of her house.

An ambulance had arrived in the meantime. One of two that had survived the storm. The paramedics brought a stretcher over to us and helped us lay Urdara on it. They carried the stretcher to the rear of the ambulance, opened the rear doors, and slid the stretcher inside the ambulance.

“Can I ride with her?” I asked. “She's my great-granddaughter.”

The paramedics nodded.

I thanked the two firemen and climbed inside the rear of the ambulance. The paramedics shut the rear doors. I sat as close to Urdara's stretcher as I could. The ambulance started up, its siren blaring its usual emergency pattern, and we headed for the local hospital.

---------

She wasn't the only storm-related patient in the emergency room. Some were as bad as her, some were even worse. The worse ones were taken care of first, via triage, and then Urdara and the rest were taken care of. She was checked by a doctor and a nurse and then X-rayed in case there were any internal injuries.

It felt like hours later when the doctor left Urdara's hospital room and came over to where I sat in the ICU's waiting room.

“She was very lucky,” the doctor said, sounding tired. I could only imagine how long he'd been on duty. Twelve hours? Eighteen hours? Or even longer? “Nothing broken. Plenty of bruises and some sprains. Possible concussion. She'll recover.”

“Can I see her?” I asked.

“She's sedated and asleep right now,” the doctor said. “But you can sit near her bed if you want to.”

“Thank you for all that you've done,” I said. “Not just you, but the staff here and the paramedics.”

“We do the best we can,” the doctor said. “I have another several hours before I try to get some sleep. That storm hurt more than just homes and vehicles.”

“Take care of yourself,” I said.

“I'll try to,” the doctor said, patted me on the shoulder and headed back to the emergency room.

I went into Urdara's hospital room and found a seat near her bed. I sat down in it. She was lying on her back. The head of the bed was raised and her head lay on a pillow there.

There wasn't much point in saying anything. She couldn't hear it anyway. And I wasn't going to be callous and say, “I told you so.” She had been through enough, and would be going through more until she healed and was back to normal or close to normal.

I just felt thankful she was alive. Even if she had had broken arms, hips, and legs, I still would've been thankful. Better that than dead. But she'd escaped the worst injuries. The ones she had wouldn't be pleasant to experience when she woke up from her sedated sleep. Hopefully, she too would be thankful for what she hadn't had to suffer.

A nurse came in about half an hour later, to check on Urdara. She asked if I needed anything. I shook my head.

“You're welcome to join us at lunchtime, sir,” the nurse said.

“Thank you,” I said. “I think I will. If she isn't awake yet.”

“If she is, we'll bring you food and drink on a tray,” the nurse said.

“Again, thank you,” I said.

The nurse looked at Urdara's face. “It's sad that her parents couldn't visit her here.”

“Her parents died when she was a little girl,” I said. “My late wife and I adopted her and raised her.”

The nurse looked puzzled at me. “Are you her grandfather?”

I shook my head. “Great-grandfather. Her grandparents, my daughter and her husband, died in the pandemic.”

The nurse looked sad. “I'm sorry to hear that. At least she has you.”

“And I have her,” I said.

The nurse left the hospital room, but returned soon after with a cup of coffee. “Cream and sugar, or just black?” she asked.

“Cream and sugar, please,” I said.

“You should've seen what we had to deal with several hours ago,” the nurse said as she added the cream and sugar to my cup of coffee and mixed it together. “You would've thought we were in a war zone. My husband served in both Afghanistan and Iraq. He said that this was almost as bad as what he saw there.”

“Please thank him for his service,” I said.

“I'll do that, sir,” the nurse said. “And thank you for caring.”

“It's the least I can do,” I said.

She nodded and left the hospital room.

I sat there, sipping my coffee and looking at Urdara's sleeping face. The hours slipped by, accompanied by the beeping of the life support machine near her bed and the sound of announcements on the hospital's P.A.

When lunchtime rolled around, Urdara was still asleep. I didn't want to leave her alone. One of the nurse's brought me lunch on a tray. I thanked them for their kindness. They even brought me an extra chair so that I could sleep with my feet on it.

----------

It wasn't until early the next morning, a little after sunrise, when my great-granddaughter woke up from her sedated sleep. At first, she didn't seem to recognize where she was or who I was. I waited patiently.

“Great-grandfather?” she asked.

“In the flesh,” I said. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“But what are you doing here?” she asked.

“Keeping you company while you slept,” I said. “Do you still hurt?”

Urdara tried to lift herself into a sitting position but winced several times in the process. She laid back down instead. “Definitely. What happened?”

“Don't you remember?” I asked.

“Not much,” she said. “Maybe that's a good thing.”

“Two firemen and I found you lying in your bed, covered by a pile of debris from a section of collapsed roof,” I said. “You didn't say anything at the time. You just sounded hurt most of the time.”

She made a face. “I don't think I want to know more than that.”

“I'm glad you're alive,” I said.

“So am I,” she said. “How is your log cabin?”

“I was lucky,” I said. “The storm avoided my area completely. Maybe a few broken branches here and there, is all.”

“Glad to hear it,” Urdara said. “Even if a tree had fallen on it, I bet your log cabin's roof would've survived all right.”

“Depends on the size and weight of the tree,” I said. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

She nodded. “How long do you think I'll have to stay here?”

“Until you're ready to go home,” I said.

“Do I have a home to go back to?” she asked.

“Somewhat,” I said. “It'll need some repairs. Perhaps you'd better stay with me for the time being.”

Urdara sighed. “I think I owe you an apology, Great-grandfather.”

“Oh?” I said. “And what for?”

“For treating the past as irrelevant,” she said. “It isn't. And what people knew back then isn't irrelevant, either.”

“What changed your mind?” I asked.

“Almost dying,” she said. “Or, at least, what felt like almost dying.” She winced. “I guess some lessons are harder to learn than others.”

“But as long as they're learned and learned well, the cost is usually worth it,” I said.

“That reminds me,” Urdara said.

She was interrupted by a nurse coming in to check on her. “How are you doing, dear? Better?”

“A little,” my great-granddaughter said.

“I'm going to give you something for the pain,” the nurse said. “It might make you drowsy.” She pressed some buttons on the life support machine. It beeped as she did so. “That should help.”

Urdara nodded. “Drowsy doesn't seem as bad as the pain is. I wouldn't mind some more sleep.”

“Sleep is good for you,” the nurse said. “It helps you heal. The more you sleep, the sooner you'll get to go home with your great-grandfather.”

“It's nice having something pleasant to look forward to,” my great-granddaughter said.

“It sure is,” the nurse said with a smile. “Get some rest.” With that, she left the hospital room.

“What were you going to ask about before you were interrupted?” I asked Urdara.

“Huh?” she said, then remembered. “Oh. I was wondering if you'd consider starting some classes. To teach me and my generation the skills you have.”

“I'd be happy to,” I said. “And no fee.”

She looked tired. “I'm sorry that I was so dismissive before the storm came, Great-grandfather.”

“We grew up in different time periods,” I said. “Of course we would have different ways of viewing the world and living in it.”

“Maybe someday you can tell us what it was like when you were our age,” she suggested.

“I'll include that with the classes,” I said.

Urdara nodded and her eyes closed. “I'm going to go back to sl –.”

“Sleep well,” I said and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead.

----------

It was a week later when the doctor checked my great-granddaughter again, declared her well enough to sign out, and let her go home with me.

She spent most of the following week in bed. But gradually, she grew stronger. When she felt strong enough, we decided to announce the start of classes at my log cabin. The first group of students was only a few, including Urdara. The next group was twice as big, and eventually all of her generation were taking my classes. I was only too happy to share what I knew, both of my skills as well as memories of my childhood. No one ever complained about it being irrelevant.

It felt good to be deliberately anachronistic.