
07/17/2025
Mr. Haines made his way up the narrow dirt lane toward Tanner’s Row, it was 7pm. His boots were caked with tannery mud, and his coat, though thick with wear, couldn’t keep out the bite of the wind. The smell of his day clung to him—sharp and sour from hours spent among hides, bark, and caustic lime. It was a scent that lingered long after the vats had gone still for the night.
The row of clapboard houses came into view, their white paint dulled by soot and years of weather. He trudged past nine others before reaching his own. A thin curl of smoke rose from the stovepipe, promising some heat inside.
He opened the back gate with stiff fingers. His wife was already waiting on the porch. She held a steaming kettle of water and gave him a tired, knowing smile. Without a word, she set it down beside the rusty wash tub and began unfastening his coat. Together, they worked to peel away his stiff work clothes—his shirt flecked with bark dust, his trousers stiff with grime from the vats. His long underwear clung damply to his skin, and he shivered as the cold air cut through the thin fabric.
“Hold still,” she said gently, pouring the warm water into the tub. The steam rose in soft clouds as he stepped in, easing down with a low groan. She handed him a bar of lye soap, its sharp scent nearly overwhelming but preferable to the tannery’s stench. As he scrubbed, she brought out a rag to wipe his neck and face, the water darkening with each pass. It was their evening ritual—a way to draw a line between the world of the tannery and the small sanctuary of their home.
Inside, the children sat around the dinner table. Five pairs of eyes flicked toward the door at every creak of the porch boards. The oldest boy tried to keep his younger siblings settled, but their excitement bubbled beneath the surface. “Pa’s washing up,” he whispered. “He’ll be in soon.” The house was cold despite the stove’s faint warmth, but the smell of supper filled the air—beans and salt pork, a bit of bread set out to stretch the meal. The children whispered among themselves, feet swinging above the floorboards as they waited.
When Mr. Haines finally came through the kitchen door, hair still damp, wearing a clean shirt and trousers, the room seemed to grow warmer. His face was tired, but his eyes softened at the sight of his family. He hung back for a moment, just watching them—his wife stirring the pot, the children waiting with eager eyes. He took his place at the head of the table, bowing his head as the family joined hands. His voice was raspy but steady as he offered thanks for the food, for the roof over their heads, and for another day’s work, hard as it was.
It was a simple life, and a hard one, but in that small clapboard house along Tanner’s Row in Capon Bridge, it was held together with the love of a family waiting each night...for Pa to come home.