by Tamar Myers
‘Well, there is no doubt in my mind that you have movie star good looks,’ Agnes said.
‘Just what Mother always says,’ Rupert said without a trace of humility.
Gore blimey and gag me with a spoon! That was my deepest, darkest thought, and I’ve already made no secret of the fact that I am a sinful woman, in need of salvation. So anyway, I’m telling it like I felt it.
‘Yes, my boy is the greatest,’ Aubrey said. ‘Freni, what do you call these divine little cakes?’
‘Pancakes, ma’am,’ Freni said.
‘Indeed,’ Aubrey said. ‘They look very much like crepes, except that they’re rather stouter, don’t you think?’
Poor Freni, my stout cousin, looked as put upon as a sheep asked to solve a maths problem. ‘Yah, I think,’ she finally said.
Much to my astonishment, it was Rupert who attempted to swoop in and rescue Freni. ‘My dear woman,’ he said, ‘would you by any chance happen to have a box of muesli lying around? I’m not complaining, mind you. This rally is a splendid layout, but I’m afraid that travel has a way of – should we say – tying things up for a while, if you get my drift. A bit of muesli to sprinkle on my porridge would be first rate – or, as you Americans are so fond of saying: “da bomb.”’
Freni wears glasses, which have lenses thicker than my cell phone. Her mouth opened and closed, but it was clear that everything Rupert had just said might as well have been delivered in Vietnamese.
‘Certainly we have muesli,’ Agnes said, and much to Gabe and my mutual astonishment she reached into an enormous handbag that was resting on a dining-room chair beside her and extracted a box of that enigmatic European cereal. I refer to it as that because privately the Babester and I call it “sticks and twigs,” and we joke that if we left a bowl of it out on the deck in early spring, the birds would make short shrift of stealing it for the purpose of building their nests.
Truthfully, if the Good Lord wanted us to suffer at mealtimes, then He would forbid us to eat Cinnabons, which are those enormous cinnamon rolls that are served warm, with cream cheese icing, in airport kiosks. God wouldn’t torture us by making us think that adding kindling material to our breakfasts makes us any healthier – not when we already have Kellogg’s Raisin Bran, the kind with two scoops in every box. Of course, who am I to judge? Unlike my Jewish husband, I blithely stuff my face with bacon and pork sausages, even though God said quite clearly that these pig products were not allowed, and never, ever would be on account of His commandments being everlasting – l’olam va’ed.
Yes, I know, the Apostle Peter had a dream that overturned this commandment, but I ask you, who trumps whom in this case? Who is the Big Kahuna, so to speak, the Great Almighty whose word is Eternal, or a Galilean fisherman whose dream conveniently allows millions of Gentiles to convert because now they can keep on eating their BLTs? Those are not my words, by the way, but Gabriel’s! I happen to find Gabe’s statement absolutely shocking and sacrilegious.
Once more I have digressed as, sadly, is my wont. Needless to say, our English guests were terribly impressed and Ida, who had invited herself to breakfast, was terribly perplexed, so that anyway you chose to slice the massive wheel of locally made cheddar, most of us were quite pleased. But as nine o’clock drew near and bellies grew round, I clapped my hands. This was much to Agnes’s annoyance, I’m afraid.
It’s not that I’m a controlling person, mind you; I am merely an organized person who abhors last-minute chaos. A little ‘Magdalena oil,’ albeit as unpleasant as castor oil, might be just what is called for in situations where people mill about like sheep in front of a corral without any dogs to herd them in.
Had I a pleasant singing voice, I might have chanced breaking into song to get everyone’s attention. However, in all honesty, the kindest thing that can be said about my attempts to sing soprano is that I sound remarkably like a screech owl that has been caught in a snare by the neck and is being slowly strangled. In my church everyone is given the opportunity to participate in the choir if that is what they so desire, but the year that I decided to join nobody else did; the word was that no one wanted to be associated with my adenoidal abominations. Ha! I showed them; every Sunday I bravely stood up and sang a solo of some cherished Mennonite hymn, and every Sunday a pack of salivating male bloodhounds would greet me at the side door of the church. Don’t get me wrong, I am not complaining – merely stating a fact. A fan club, regardless of its members’ species, is still composed of fans.
On this particular morning, however, I clapped my hands loudly. ‘People,’ I blurted in what I am told is my Oprah Winfrey voice (oh, your UK libel laws drive me crazy!). ‘May I have your attention, please? In order to make it to the church on time, we must all move smartly. Peregrine, dear, you have enough crumbs in your “stash” to feed a flock of starlings, and you, Celia, darling, will need to put on an actual shirt, or blouse, over that bit of an undergarment you young folks call a “camisole.” As for you, Rupert and Aubrey, I dare say that you two pass muster, although Rupert, your lavender shirt might garner its fair share of snickers, so be forewarned.’
‘Ahem,’ Peregrine said, ignoring his crumb-laden moustache. ‘I told you last night that I was taking a walk; that is still my plan.’
Celia pointed a bare shoulder at me defiantly. ‘Papa, may I go with you?’
‘Certainly, dear. Although, rally, I suppose you should ask your mother.’
‘Oh, mummy, please, do say yes! I’ll be ever so good for the remainder of the holiday. I promise that I will. I’ll even buff the dry skin off your heels between your visits to the pedicurist – you know, like you’ve been begging me to do.’
Poor Aubrey turned a sinner’s shade of red on Judgement Day. ‘I only asked you to do that once, dear. Please don’t give these people the wrong impression. Yes, you may accompany your father, but stay with him until I return. Remember that you’re in a foreign country and we don’t even speak the language.’
‘Why I never!’ I said, for the first time taking umbrage with any words that fell from Aubrey’s bow-shaped lips. ‘Of course we speak the same language. Can’t you understand what I am saying now?’
Aubrey winked in a way so that I could see it, but not Celia. ‘Slow down, Magdalena, and speak a bit louder. Then perhaps I might understand a word here and there.’
‘Blimey,’ Celia said. ‘You two are bonkers.’
‘Hey, vait a meenut,’ my mother-in-law said – she who is truly bonkers. ‘Vhy dun’t youse all cum to da coinvent wiz me? Vee vill dunce nekkid und zing prazez to da Goddess Apattee.’
‘Ma!’ Gabe moaned.
‘Did I hear correctly?’ Peregrine said. ‘Did she just reference dancing in the nude?’
‘Gross,’ Alison said. ‘Trust me, youse guys, ya don’t want to see that; they’re all old women and, like, so old that their boobies hang down to their knees. Except I forgot to mention Auntie Agnes’s brothers – sorry, Auntie Agnes, but ya really don’t want to see them either, on account of they’re like a million, gazillion years old and their winky-dinks—’
‘I say there,’ Rupert said, ‘although I was rather looking forward to the traditional Mennonite service at Magdalena’s church, singing praises to the Goddess Apathy while dancing about in one’s birthday suit rally does have its appeal – hanging winky-dink body parts and all. Yes, jolly good then, count me in for praises with the geezers.’
‘That settles it for me,’ Peregrine said. ‘What is sauce for this gosling is sauce for this goose.’
‘More sauce for another gosling,’ Celia said. ‘Please, mummy, dearest, please. I promise not to sass you for an entire week.’
Aubrey gave me a look of quiet desperation that can only be understood by one who has cared for a teenage girl. As a good Christian, I believe in the power of caramel just as much as I do in karma. However, what we call the Golden Rule is, in effect, behaving as if we believe in karma. The difference is that we don’t expect to be rewarded for our good beh
aviour. I nodded to give her the go ahead; in fact, I didn’t stop there.
‘Why don’t we all go?’ I said.
‘Rally?’ said Celia.
‘Rally,’ I said. ‘Gosh, it is a lot more satisfying to one’s mouth to say “rally,” than it is to say “really” – rally it is.’
‘Mags,’ said the Babester, ‘are you feeling OK?’
‘I’m fine and dandy. It’s just that it’s a beautiful day out. Why waste it inside, in a stuffy, musty building, listening to a boring sermon that might possibly elevate us spiritually when instead we can observe octogenarians dance with apathy.’ I turned to the others. ‘Did any of you happen to pack inflatable haemorrhoid cushions? The courtyard is ringed by benches but they’re all concrete. Also, if you want to join in the dancing, I suggest that you wear sunscreen because the rays in this part of the world are especially brutal – not at all like up in the UK. Total nudity is an absolute requirement for that, isn’t it, Ida, dear?’
Aubrey flashed each of her family members a warning look. ‘We are going only as cultural observers. Magdalena, do you mind terribly if we bring our bed pillows to put on the benches?’
I’d been afraid of that question because the truth was that I did mind. I’m not a complete dunce: I know that my guests engage in the reproductive act and other icky things in my rooms. In the old days when I couldn’t afford to hire someone to gather the linens each morning, in my mind I would sing ‘la-la-la-la-la.’ That was then, and this is now, and I don’t want my pillows plopped anywhere that apathetic postulates might have plonked their pathetic pink patooties.
‘What a droll idea,’ I said. ‘One of Britain’s most noble families toting a motley collection of pillows – ranging from silk filled with eiderdown to burlap filled with straw – into a make-believe convent filled with naked, despairing women. Now that’s a sight for sore eyes, as we say in America, and also a sight guaranteed to make English eyes sore. I will be sure to record this and put it on YouTube. It will undoubtedly go viral.’
Poor Rupert; his was the burlap pillow with the straw stuffing, which undoubtedly still had a certain eau d’rodent about it. I almost felt sorry for the lad, but my most expensive room package: The Settler’s Experience, had been a special gift to him from his parents for not being arrested for drunk driving for the last three months. It wasn’t my fault that he’d had to lay his noble noggin on a pillow that I’d made using the torso of one of my scarecrows. At least I’d taken care to evict the family of mice that had taken up residence in it, and not being quite the heartless innkeeper some folks on Facebook have made me out to be, I first found new quarters for this rather large family of rodents.
‘Oh dear,’ Aubrey said, pulling a long face, ‘how positively middle class! Imagine that, Peregrine? The Earl and Countess of Grimsley-Snodgrass toting their motley assortment of pillows! Don’t you just love it? Magdalena, I can’t think of anything more delightful. And I suppose there will be a surcharge on the toting – yes? Oh, do say, “yes”! Make it a hefty fine.’
‘Yes, hefty,’ said Peregrine. ‘Nothing could please me more than hefty.’
‘Ach,’ Freni cried, throwing her stubby arms heavenward (of course not literally). ‘I do not understand these English and their riddles.’
Young Celia recoiled in umbrage. ‘What riddles?’
‘She finds you to be enigmatic,’ I said. ‘Chronologically she is two generations older than you but culturally it is more in the neighbourhood of five.’
I glanced at my watch. ‘Well, tempus fugit, folks. And though we will not be attending a proper house of worship as the Good Lord intends, but will instead be watching a den of deviant nudes, clad only in wrinkles and age spots, dancing indecorously about to scratchy pirated tunes from the nineties – not the best decade for music—’
‘No offense, Magdalena,’ Rupert said, ‘but how would a Mennonite farmwoman like you know what constitutes good music?’
‘Uh, be careful son,’ Gabe said. ‘My wife knows just about everything. Don’t ask me how; just trust me on that.’
‘Rally? Is that so?’
‘Rally, you rascally rabbit,’ I said, to show him just how worldly I had become over the years, having once even watched a cartoon or two with my son at a friend’s house. ‘Now get upstairs, all of you, except for Freni. Brush your teeth and put on some slumming clothes – but do not bring down your pillows. It’s either sore bums on concrete or its church.’
‘What about me?’ Agnes said. ‘Where should I wait while everyone is getting ready?’
‘Well, dear,’ I said, ‘you can either be a sweetheart and help Freni clear the table, or else you can wait in the parlour with Granny Yoder’s ghost.’
‘I’m helping Freni!’ Agnes declared without a second’s hesitation. Although she’s never actually seen my ancestor’s ‘Apparition American,’ she has heard Granny’s voice on numerous occasions, and oft times Granny has been rather critical of my best friend. Frankly, I chalk this animosity up to jealousy. Granny Yoder was a bitter old woman when I knew her, and in my humble, respectful opinion, death does not become her.
As for the rest of the breakfast bunch, stumbling, mumbling and grumbling, they all obediently pushed and pulled each other up my impossibly steep stairs. In fact, one too many folks attempted the arduous, dizzying ascent.
TEN
BANANA NUT BREAD
1 cup liquid shortening
1 cup dark brown sugar
1 cup white sugar
4 eggs
6 ripe bananas (mashed)
1 tbsp lemon juice
½ cup melted butter (or margarine)
Beat above ingredients together until well blended. Add following dry ingredients that have been mixed together:
2 tsp baking soda
2 tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
2 cups whole wheat flour
1 cup chopped pecans
Mix well; pour into three greased and floured loaf pans. Bake at 250 degrees for one and a half hours. Cool on rack for ten minutes before taking out of pan.
ELEVEN
The master bedroom is downstairs, below Alison’s room. That way I can keep track of her comings and goings, as a proper mother ought to do, without being literally in her face. At any rate, I’d scarcely enough time to retire to my boudoir to attend to last-minute personal details when what was surely the world’s loudest bellow was emitted from somewhere on the second story of my very respectable inn. Believe me when I say that the following description is just barely an exaggeration.
Only once before have I heard a bellow of such magnitude, and that was when Willard Bontrager brought his prize-winning bull, Clarence, over to breed my two dairy cows. Despite her readiness for male companionship, Daisy did not find Clarence attractive and repeatedly rebuffed his advances. Finally, when Clarence wouldn’t take a hint, Daisy let loose with a bellow that was heard for miles around.
Emma Hershberger, who owns a catering business over in Bedford, told me that this deluge of mega-decibels caused all ten of her chocolate soufflés to instantly deflate while still in the oven. Reverend Watt Seeno, pastor of the church with thirty-two names up by the interstate highway, declared to his congregation that Daisy’s bellow was, in fact, the premiere sounding of Gabriel’s horn, soon to be followed by another, and that the rapture was imminent. Perhaps the most momentous consequence of Daisy’s peeved outburst was that a planeload of immigrants from the United Kingdom flying into Pittsburgh encountered unexpected turbulence created by the soundwaves. As it happened, the jet had been chartered by a group of authors fleeing the excessively strict libel laws of the United Kingdom. These poor underpaid men and women were so terrified by the intensity of this experience that they each, to a person, ascribed it to an outraged Divinity bent on punishing anyone so arrogant as to think that they might escape the most ridiculous statutes on the face of the globe.
Now where was I? Oh, yes, the bellow that I heard coming from u
pstairs on that Sunday when my English guests were supposed to be readying themselves for church was not bovine in nature, but emanated from an adult male of the Homo sapiens species. As we are responsible for the welfare of our guests, and not merely overly inquisitive – er, nosy-hosts, we dropped what we were doing (in Gabe’s case, his trousers), and hoofed it up my impossibly steep stairs. Having grown up with this staircase gave me an advantage so that I quickly caught up with him, slipped past him on the landing and appeared as if by magic at the top. I’ll also have it be known that I wasn’t even breathing hard.
When I observed my guests gathered in a tight knot in front of the door of my tiny elevator, I suddenly began to have problems with my respiratory system. My strange symptoms suggested that the oxygen supply had somehow become depleted in the upper story of my now-world-famous inn.
‘W-what’s going on?’ I gasped.
‘Oh Magdalena, it’s dreadful,’ Aubrey said. ‘Peregrine discovered – well, you tell her, dear.’
Peregrine waved a flashlight in my face. The Brits, who are far more refined than we, their boorish American cousins, call this item a torch! And to think that we poor, pathetic troglodytes reserve the word ‘torch’ for flames emanating from the end of a pole.
‘I had my passport with me,’ Peregrine said, ‘just in case that nudist colony gets raided by the police – you know how hung up you Americans are on the subject of nudity.’
‘And with good reason, dear. If prancing around naked was all right, God Almighty wouldn’t have personally tailored tunics out of animal hides for Adam and Eve. Genesis, chapter three, verse twenty-one.’
‘I dare say that the pair of them were created naked to begin with,’ Rupert said.
‘Darest thou?’ I said, allowing my dander to rise. ‘Do you, a lapsed Anglican, actually believe that?’
‘No, I can’t say that I do—’
‘Then butt out, dear.’
