Harry then tried her hand at direction. “If you shoot them there, together, then pan to the sunflowers, overlarge egos may be appeased. And then, of course, when we walk back to the barn, they’ll run ahead and that will make a good shot. Mrs. Murphy might even climb on a paddock fence and call to the horses. Never hurts to entertain a bit, does it?”
The three looked down at the animals, then to one another.
Rae shrugged. “Why not? If you can just keep them quiet. Let’s try this again. Take four.”
Ignoring the rising heat, Harry smiled at the camera. She turned away slightly, sweeping her hand toward the beautiful field of sunflowers. “This riot of color will be harvested in a few weeks, depending on rainfall and sunshine. The sunflowers will grow higher, the heads larger. No pesticides are used. The seeds are removed, placed in large sieves. We shake them out and divide by size once they are completely dried out. I’m surprised musicians don’t use the sound, softer than castanets but swishy.” She half giggled.
“Did she write this?” Pewter whispered.
“Shh.” Mrs. Murphy bumped Pewter, who sat on her haunches with Mrs. Murphy and Tucker.
Harry rattled on. The footage and soundtrack could all be edited down. From the sunflowers they shot footage of the Ambrosia corn and the Silver Queen, Harry explaining the difference in taste, the Ambrosia being sweeter. She discussed the types of pests, especially corn worms and blight. Corn spiders performed useful service against some of the pests, and she declared she lost about ten to fifteen percent of her annual harvest to damage because she refused to use pesticides. A few old pear trees were next, and Harry explained that she had no orchard but she wanted to keep some of the old varieties growing and healthy. She put her hand under a pear, large already.
“This is a Sewickly pear. Used to be acres of them in the forties and fifties, my dad said. Harder to grow, more susceptible to fungi and other things. They’ve been overtaken by Fuji pears and a few other types, all good, but we lose diversity.” She then walked to some appealing peaches, almost like a drawing, and continued, “These are Alverta peaches. The same story as the pears and”—she continued walking—“here are Black Twig apples.” She paused. “I don’t sell the fruit. I don’t have enough, but my friends and I use them, bake with them, and also can some. Each of these varieties has a distinctive taste, quite different from what you are accustomed to in supermarkets. I just don’t have the money or manpower to install a profitable orchard using the types from past centuries.”
“Cut.” Rae beamed. “This is fascinating. People will be interested. Can you tell me why this is important to all of us? Even though they are more difficult to grow, so to speak, what’s the payoff for the consumer?”
Harry nodded. The cats took the opportunity to climb up into the Black Twig apple trees closest to Harry. Pewter stretched herself along a branch, thinking a languid pose might look better than some old apples. More sensibly, Mrs. Murphy sat in the crook between the trunk and the first low, heavy branch.
“Rae, should we move the cats?” Bethel inquired.
Rae studied the new composition. “No. We can always cut it if we need to. I think this adds some fun to the enterprise. Okay, roll ’em.”
Harry leaned against the trunk. “The reason we don’t want to lose the old fruit trees is pretty simple. Yes, they may be more prone to certain types of pests, and yes, the fruit is usually not those huge red or green apples you see filling display boxes at the market. Often these varieties have a stronger taste, some sweeter, some tart, but the critical issue is diversity. What if a virus or fungus wipes out, say, Golden Delicious? It takes years to develop an orchard; the trees mature at their own rate and early harvests aren’t as good as later ones when the tree is in its prime. I see this as one of the most important issues in agriculture, the diminishment of diversity.”
“Cut,” Rae called out. “Harry, that was very clear. Something I never considered.”
Harry smiled. “People don’t live close to the land anymore. They take food products for granted. You know, it’s not like the American public is purposefully limiting their choices. They don’t know any better, and really, the big supermarket chains are determining the varieties. That’s how I see it. So naturally, a shopper will pick the biggest, shiniest red apple they can find or the roundest peach.”
Deon piped up. “I do.”
“Me, too,” Bethel added.
“Okay, how about a shot of your vineyard?”
“Great.” Harry headed toward her small vineyard and heard a cry and a plop.
“I told you not to stretch yourself on the branch,” Mrs. Murphy chastised Pewter, who had fallen out of the tree.
Despite her bulk, the gray cat had twisted so she didn’t land hard, but she didn’t land on all four paws, either. Her front paws hit the ground while her hind end sort of flopped down.
Hard at Harry’s heels, Tucker glanced back, deciding to keep a tight lip.
Arriving at the vineyard, Harry pointed to a low hill. “If you do a shot of me, whatever, you’ll be able to see the whole vineyard from that spot. This is only one-quarter of an acre, and when I planted the grapes, four years ago, it cost me fourteen thousand dollars. More expensive today. Your first year’s grapes you must leave on the vine. After that you can harvest, but the grapes aren’t at their best for a few years more, depends on the variety. Growing grapes is expensive, fraught with sorrows.”
Rae spoke. “Bethel, shoot this. And Deon, what we can do to add interest is do this section as a voice-over. Okay, shoot the close-up of the vines and then a tight close-up of the grapes. Let’s all go to the rise, where, Harry, talk to us again as you just did, but condense it if possible.”
Once on the hill, Harry did trim her comments.
Rae then nudged her. “What sorrows?”
“Right.” Harry spoke, her voice pleasant to hear, a soft alto. “Regardless of how vigilant you are, even if a viticulturist keeps dogs in the vineyard to chase away the deer, the birds will take some of your grapes and occasionally, especially if you don’t have dogs, the foxes will strip off the lower vines. Foxes love grapes. Aesop was right.”
Rae motioned for Bethel to shoot Tucker, who was on all fours, the picture of alertness and service. She then pointed to the dog, and Harry, a quick mind, understood.
“While I don’t keep a Great Pyrenees, I do have this loyal and tough corgi, and Tucker chases off the deer. Actually, she’d be happy to herd them.”
Tucker puffed out her chest. “I’m an all-purpose dog.”
“I chase rabbits. Oh, I am death to rabbits,” Pewter competitively boasted.
“Save me,” Mrs. Murphy uttered under her breath.
On the hill, Harry repeated herself more succinctly, mentioned foxes and Tucker’s good deeds.
“Cut. All right. How about we go back, shoot some exteriors, and we should have it?”
“Rae, how long will it take to edit?” Harry asked.
“We’ll have a rough cut by next week. You can see it and then we can tweak it. If we need more footage or you think of something else to add, we can come back. We should have this ready for you no later than mid-August, on budget.”
Walking back to the barn, grasshoppers flying and making that tic-tic sound as they hit things, Pewter ran ahead. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker moved at a more dignified pace as they walked ahead.
Upon reaching the pastures, both cats climbed to the top of the fence, each sitting on a post. Bethel captured this. The cats meowed.
In the paddock with Tomahawk, Shortro lifted his head; the grass tasted so sweet.
“Let’s go see what she wants.”
Tomahawk, older, grass blades sticking out of his mouth, replied, “Pewter is showing off.”
“Hey, we can, too.” Shortro snorted, bucked, twisted, then thundered up to Pewter, skidding to a stop.
Tomahawk followed suit, kicking his hind legs higher than his head, which nearly touched the grass. “I may be old, but I
can still keep up with you.”
“Good footage,” Rae remarked as Bethel kept the camera rolling.
“We don’t lack for drama here.” Harry laughed. “It’s just different than all the cop shows.”
“The horses come when I call.” Pewter sang out, then touched noses with Shortro, who was sorely tempted to push the cat off the fencepost.
Bethel swung the camera upward for a long shot of the sparkling white stable, a glittering copper weather vane, a galloping horse on top. Peering out from the cupola, which the humans couldn’t see, was the large owl, Flatface, nesting up there as she had for years. Damn noisy humans and animals. She ruffled her feathers, moved from side to side, then closed her eyes.
“You must have shined your weather vane,” Rae remarked as they walked closer to the barn.
“Lost it in the storm. That’s a new one and I about died when I paid for it. Found it on the Internet. Exactly what I wanted. One thousand dollars. I balked, but my husband said the stable wouldn’t look right without it. Does look pretty good, doesn’t it? It will be verdigris by next year.”
“That’s a good look, too.” Rae nodded, then glanced around. “How about one last shot? You driving the John Deere down the farm road. We’ll probably start the video with that. Maybe.” She looked at Bethel. No response. “Okay, we’ll have to see the footage.”
Harry led them to the equipment shed. “Deon, how about I take out the old 1953 John Deere, the one we call Johnny-Pop? The cap on the exhaust stays open when you’re going, but it claps up and down when you start or slow down. It’s a distinctive sound known to most old farmers or farmers who don’t have the money for a big John Deere with all the add-ons. About two hundred thousand dollars if you buy, say, a new 90HP, a hay baler, a drill seeder, a bushog, and that’s for starters. Oh, they’ve got computers in them, closed air-conditioned cabs, radios. Unbelievable. I go out on Johnny-Pop, wear my straw hat, and hope I don’t hit digger bees.”
Deon liked that she was thinking about the soundtrack. “What about the big tractor?”
“That’s an 80HP John Deere, 1987. Real steel. Today, lots of plastic. A great workhorse, but it doesn’t make the same sound as Johnny. Course, it’s a lot more horsepower than the old boy.”
Harry climbed up into the driver’s seat. She’d painted a turtle on the side of the tractor. If it’s possible to love a machine, she did. She could always picture her mother on Johnny-Pop.
Tucker whined. Harry stepped down, a big step, picked up the dog, lifted her up into her special seat attached to Harry’s seat. The cats observed this with disdain.
“I wouldn’t go up there. Think of the pollution from the exhaust.” Pewter sniffed.
“Bullroar,” Tucker, big smile, called down.
“Come on.” Mrs. Murphy gleefully grabbed a heavy beam. She climbed up with grace and speed and then walked over everyone on the crossbeam. Pewter followed suit. Bethel shot it.
“A dog can’t do that,” Pewter crowed.
Harry backed out. Super-alert, Tucker headed down toward the fields. And Johnny did pop. A backfire added to the excitement.
—
The crew left by one in the afternoon. Harry fed everyone lunch before they left, which they happily accepted. Sitting around the kitchen table, she heard their stories, how each wound up in this field. After eating their food, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter listened, as did Tucker. Harry gave them some chicken slices, which made everyone quite happy.
The remainder of the day, Harry weeded her small food garden behind the house. Took longer than she wanted it to; the heat slowed her down. Stopping for water breaks, she’d peer down an aisle of tomato plants or squash rows. She just knew the weeds popped up as she looked down the rows. The cats slept in the house, and even Tucker, her shadow, fell asleep under the tree where Matilda, the blacksnake, hung out, literally.
By five o’clock, Harry had had it. Took a shower, made a huge salad with fresh lettuce, cranberries, sunflower seeds, other nuts, shredded cheese. She peeled and sliced hard-boiled eggs.
Wiping off the counters, Tucker awakened, ran to the back door. “Cooper!”
The dog and two cats could recognize cars and trucks by the sound of the tire treads. Each vehicle, thanks to model, age and use, wore out their tires in a distinctive fashion. If Tucker hadn’t recognized the sound, she would have signaled that an intruder was coming.
Looking out the window over the sink, Harry wiped her hands on the dish towel, hurried out to the screened-in porch, opened the door as Cooper emerged from her car. “Perfect timing. Come test my cranberry salad.”
Cooper walked over as Harry held the door open. “Harry, give me a minute. Thanks for the offer, but I’m still on duty. Friday is my late-night day.”
“Sure.” Harry closed the door behind her. “You can sip some iced tea, can’t you?”
Sitting in a kitchen chair, as a friend and neighbor, Cooper need not have been invited to do so, but now she nodded. “Sweet tea. I need the sugar.”
A new person or acquaintance would have been invited by Harry to pull out a chair. Cooper was considered family, just as she could walk in the back door unannounced. By such subtleties, southerners know one another and know their place.
“A sprig of fresh mint?”
“Uh-huh.”
Setting the tea in front of her and grabbing one for herself, Harry said, “What’s wrong?”
“Crozet Media came out here today, right?”
“Yeah. I told you I was hoping to create a professional website to help promote my produce.”
Taking a refreshing sip, Cooper nodded. “You did, but I have to check. Everything went fine?”
“Great. A lot of fun. Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker got into the act. I’m sure they’ll be stars.”
“So when did the crew leave?”
“Oneish. Why?”
“Their office has been trashed.”
Thursday, September 16, 1784
So very becoming in a pale rose light silk gown, Sheba almost outshone her mistress. Maureen Selisse wore shimmering blue, her blonde hair with streaks of gray coiffed in the latest fashion. This being her husband’s funeral, Maureen took advantage of the situation to mourn with the smallest of lace kerchiefs covering the top of her head. The proprieties must be observed, and a lady is always covered in the house of God or for a sacrament. This particular house, Episcopal, was unadorned. It wasn’t that the Episcopalians of central Virginia ignored their churches, but all that red, gold, blue, gold, more gold, candles, lavish painting, and hangings smacked of Rome. Then again, red smacked of the recently defeated enemy. Perhaps the time would come when the Protestants of the state might add a bit of color and comfort—those pews were unmercifully hard—but who could predict?
Francisco’s casket was closed, with a spray of late-summer daylilies. Situated at the front of the church, the altar and priest were three steps upward on the raised floor behind the casket.
Often funerals were conducted at the home of the deceased, but Maureen wanted everyone to attend a church funeral and, of course, for all to see the honor she paid her murdered spouse. And she did pay him honor.
The service from The Book of Common Prayer was a dignified one, filled with the simple, beautiful phrases from the seventeenth century. It pleased everyone. Some of the pleasure derived from the fact that it didn’t last too long.
The church service was followed by a subdued procession, ladies under their parasols, to the expanding graveyard. Francisco was set aside an open grave but not put into it, and Maureen sagged onto Sheba, who held her up with the help of Yancy Grant, planter and horseman. Maureen was carefully walked back to a repast under large trees, the church meeting room deemed too small. Once Maureen was seated at the head of the table, many of her slaves in evidence, Francisco’s last meal began.
In livery, DoRe stood at a distance at the open carriage, the very latest painted Charleston green with gold pinstripes.
Catherine stood o
n one side of her father, Rachel on the other. Their husbands were next to them, and the group slowly walked to the occasion.
In a low voice, Ewing said, “I see Yancy Grant hasn’t lost a minute.”
No, he had not. He danced attendance and feigned sorrow upon Maureen, herself not averse to the attention but only slightly encouraging it. She sat in the catbird seat. Yes, a bit plump now but not overly so, she retained much of her good looks, which were tremendously enhanced by the fact that Maureen Selisse was now one of the richest widows in Virginia.
Catherine smiled, said to the family, “They aren’t punishing DoRe.”
Ewing wisely nodded. “People know he tried to restrain Moses in his wild passion for that girl.”
“She was very, very beautiful,” Charles West noted, then hastily added, “And Francisco was not renowned for his restraint when it came to a beautiful woman. How many times have I caught him staring intensely at my Rachel? I think I would have killed him myself.”
“Now, Charles.” Rachel’s admonition carried affection.
“Was any woman safe?” John Schuyler half snorted. “I would never have left Catherine, Rachel, anyone, alone with that man.”
“It was almost an affliction,” Ewing mused.
“In the end, it was a fatal one.” John put his hand over his wife’s hand, which rested on his arm, again quite the proper way for a lady to walk slowly with her husband.
“No sign of either Moses nor Ailee?” Ewing remarked.
Catherine felt herself stiffen, then relax. “Not yet, but I would think they’d be downriver by now or, perhaps more prudently, up in the mountains.”
“Mmm,” Ewing murmured as they reached the long table, parishioners, business associates, friends, neighbors enjoying the food, one another. “My darlings, allow me to stand in line and pay our respects first and then you all may follow when the hordes clear.”
“Yes, Father,” both daughters agreed.
Ewing patiently took his place, but due to his reputation and wealth most men moved him forward. He was quick to thank them, as well as remember who knew their place.
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