Busy weekend
Apr. 17th, 2010 02:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltdToday I have:
Gone to work
Had a shower
(Censored: TMI)
Cleaned out my refrigerator
Watered my garden. My lettuce and carrots are coming in and I have tiny strawberries! I'll transplant the watermelons Monday, and plant the other stuff. On Monday, the waxing moon moves into Scorpio, a very good time to plant.
Had brilliance (see previous f'locked post)
Made a shopping list
Downloaded the free e-book of the day at ARE.
Downloaded my free copy of Barista's Choice
Now, I have to get dinner for the kids and go to my writer's group meeting and the craft store.
Scent of the day, Fenris Wolf: Rosewood, amber, red musk and a dribble of red sandalwood. (mostly musk and sandalwood on me)
Card of the day: 2 of swords.
Saturday Excerpt, from "Firstfruits" collected in Howl at the Mistletoe. (Also on Kindle. ebook coming soon)
The icy winter road that took the lives of Clarindy Wishom's family melted into spring-wet blacktop shaded by yellow-green leaves before the three small coffins and one large one were lowered into the ground at Beulah Hill Cemetery. But as Easter passed and summer came on, the church ladies worried about Miss Clarindy's frame of mind.
“All alone in that big house, just rattling like a pea in a can,” one would say.
“Hasn't got rid of their things, either. It must be just awful, seeing those little toys every day.”
Everyone agreed something had to be done. But nobody was pleased with who did it.
***
Clarindy sat watching the front walk, as she always did this time of afternoon. It often took her until almost four to realize that Lila and Evan weren't coming home from school and that Michelle hadn't just taken a long nap. Most evenings, she went to the kitchen, stared listlessly at the frozen dinners and covered-dish casseroles, watching the frost sparkle among the lumps of hamburger or chopped potatoes or pies. She'd frozen a lot of stuff from the wake and she wasn't even sure it'd be good five months later.
The doorbell startled her out of her watching. She used the coat-rack mirror to pat down her hair in a gesture so automatic she would probably do it when the Judgement Trump sounded.
The sight of Oholah Jenkins on her doorstep, a bundle in her hands, shocked Clarindy into motion. Oholah Jenkins never went calling. Nor would most have received her if she had. Although she sat in the third pew, her cane planted solidly between her feet, every Sunday at Pisgah Baptist Church, common gossip still called her a witch. Even Clarindy knew that more than one love-struck teen girl visited Oholah's back door for a charm, only to come back again in a couple months for a drink to ward off the effects of the last charm.
But even the shock could only keep her moving so long. She stood in the door and stared. She stared so long Miss Oholah gave her The Glare, a semi-legendary look that had been known to quell troublemakers in church at every age from toddlers up to their graying grandfathers.
“Clarindy Wishom, you never had any manners,” Miss Oholah stared. “It's about to rain.”
Clarindy shook herself. “I'm sorry, ma'am. Please, come in.” She realized as she looked around the room that she hadn't dusted or vacuumed in ages or replaced the burned-out bulbs in the lamps. As Oholah seated herself on the sofa, Clarindy hurried to the kitchen.
There was no cake or pie or even cookies to offer her guest. She was out of tea, too. She couldn't remember the last time she'd shopped. Or eaten, for that matter. She found a lone can of soda in the back of the fridge and took it to the front room.
“Can I offer you a drink, Miss Oholah?”
The old woman shook her head. “Looks like you need it more, daughter. I came because you need something more.” She untied the bundle, spreading it over the sofa. “You need to grieve and continue instead of being stuck in your shock like a fat turtle in a garbage pail. That's why I'm here.”
Clarindy sat down on the other end of the sofa and looked into the bundle. Cloth, lots of cloth, most of it black or gray, lay in neatly folded smaller bundles. She didn't understand.
“We're going to make a graveyard quilt. It's an old mountain mourning custom, been out of fashion for a hundred and fifty years, but my family always made them. Seemed to help the women-folk move along life's path. You got no mother or auntie or grandmother or sister to teach you and help you do this. So, get your sewing box and some paper, Clarindy, and we'll start this.”
“A quilt?” Clarindy's laugh shocked her with its bitter anger. “You think a quilt will help anything?”
“Tain't just a quilt, daughter. It's a record of your people. It's a way for you to feel the pain and let it go instead of cuddling it close in like it was a teddy bear. Pain is a bear, right enough, but it will eat your heart and your life and you as well, like a grizzly bear.”
Oholah took out an old-fashioned snapshot book. She offered it over. “These are graveyard quilts. Take a look. Think. Is there a pattern you wanted to make but never did?”
Clarindy looked at the pictures. All the quilts had a central square fenced off from the rest of the pattern and a path that ran to the border. Little black six-sided coffins bearing embroidered names and dates lay within the center and more coffins with names but no dates were tacked to the border of each quilt, all awaiting more deaths
She shivered and handed the book back to Oholah. “That's morbid.”
“And you sitting here in the dark, not eating, waiting for children who aren't coming home from school, not ever again, ain't?” Oholah snapped, her famous temper peeking through.
Clarindy just looked at her, blank and aching.
“Well-a-day.” Oholah sorted the fabric into stacks by color and size of print. “We'll get you through this, Clarindy, just you watch.”
Gone to work
Had a shower
(Censored: TMI)
Cleaned out my refrigerator
Watered my garden. My lettuce and carrots are coming in and I have tiny strawberries! I'll transplant the watermelons Monday, and plant the other stuff. On Monday, the waxing moon moves into Scorpio, a very good time to plant.
Had brilliance (see previous f'locked post)
Made a shopping list
Downloaded the free e-book of the day at ARE.
Downloaded my free copy of Barista's Choice
Now, I have to get dinner for the kids and go to my writer's group meeting and the craft store.
Scent of the day, Fenris Wolf: Rosewood, amber, red musk and a dribble of red sandalwood. (mostly musk and sandalwood on me)
Card of the day: 2 of swords.
Saturday Excerpt, from "Firstfruits" collected in Howl at the Mistletoe. (Also on Kindle. ebook coming soon)
The icy winter road that took the lives of Clarindy Wishom's family melted into spring-wet blacktop shaded by yellow-green leaves before the three small coffins and one large one were lowered into the ground at Beulah Hill Cemetery. But as Easter passed and summer came on, the church ladies worried about Miss Clarindy's frame of mind.
“All alone in that big house, just rattling like a pea in a can,” one would say.
“Hasn't got rid of their things, either. It must be just awful, seeing those little toys every day.”
Everyone agreed something had to be done. But nobody was pleased with who did it.
***
Clarindy sat watching the front walk, as she always did this time of afternoon. It often took her until almost four to realize that Lila and Evan weren't coming home from school and that Michelle hadn't just taken a long nap. Most evenings, she went to the kitchen, stared listlessly at the frozen dinners and covered-dish casseroles, watching the frost sparkle among the lumps of hamburger or chopped potatoes or pies. She'd frozen a lot of stuff from the wake and she wasn't even sure it'd be good five months later.
The doorbell startled her out of her watching. She used the coat-rack mirror to pat down her hair in a gesture so automatic she would probably do it when the Judgement Trump sounded.
The sight of Oholah Jenkins on her doorstep, a bundle in her hands, shocked Clarindy into motion. Oholah Jenkins never went calling. Nor would most have received her if she had. Although she sat in the third pew, her cane planted solidly between her feet, every Sunday at Pisgah Baptist Church, common gossip still called her a witch. Even Clarindy knew that more than one love-struck teen girl visited Oholah's back door for a charm, only to come back again in a couple months for a drink to ward off the effects of the last charm.
But even the shock could only keep her moving so long. She stood in the door and stared. She stared so long Miss Oholah gave her The Glare, a semi-legendary look that had been known to quell troublemakers in church at every age from toddlers up to their graying grandfathers.
“Clarindy Wishom, you never had any manners,” Miss Oholah stared. “It's about to rain.”
Clarindy shook herself. “I'm sorry, ma'am. Please, come in.” She realized as she looked around the room that she hadn't dusted or vacuumed in ages or replaced the burned-out bulbs in the lamps. As Oholah seated herself on the sofa, Clarindy hurried to the kitchen.
There was no cake or pie or even cookies to offer her guest. She was out of tea, too. She couldn't remember the last time she'd shopped. Or eaten, for that matter. She found a lone can of soda in the back of the fridge and took it to the front room.
“Can I offer you a drink, Miss Oholah?”
The old woman shook her head. “Looks like you need it more, daughter. I came because you need something more.” She untied the bundle, spreading it over the sofa. “You need to grieve and continue instead of being stuck in your shock like a fat turtle in a garbage pail. That's why I'm here.”
Clarindy sat down on the other end of the sofa and looked into the bundle. Cloth, lots of cloth, most of it black or gray, lay in neatly folded smaller bundles. She didn't understand.
“We're going to make a graveyard quilt. It's an old mountain mourning custom, been out of fashion for a hundred and fifty years, but my family always made them. Seemed to help the women-folk move along life's path. You got no mother or auntie or grandmother or sister to teach you and help you do this. So, get your sewing box and some paper, Clarindy, and we'll start this.”
“A quilt?” Clarindy's laugh shocked her with its bitter anger. “You think a quilt will help anything?”
“Tain't just a quilt, daughter. It's a record of your people. It's a way for you to feel the pain and let it go instead of cuddling it close in like it was a teddy bear. Pain is a bear, right enough, but it will eat your heart and your life and you as well, like a grizzly bear.”
Oholah took out an old-fashioned snapshot book. She offered it over. “These are graveyard quilts. Take a look. Think. Is there a pattern you wanted to make but never did?”
Clarindy looked at the pictures. All the quilts had a central square fenced off from the rest of the pattern and a path that ran to the border. Little black six-sided coffins bearing embroidered names and dates lay within the center and more coffins with names but no dates were tacked to the border of each quilt, all awaiting more deaths
She shivered and handed the book back to Oholah. “That's morbid.”
“And you sitting here in the dark, not eating, waiting for children who aren't coming home from school, not ever again, ain't?” Oholah snapped, her famous temper peeking through.
Clarindy just looked at her, blank and aching.
“Well-a-day.” Oholah sorted the fabric into stacks by color and size of print. “We'll get you through this, Clarindy, just you watch.”
