by Karen Kelly
“I don’t think so,” answered Annie. “Wayne took me on a cruise for our twentieth anniversary, and I didn’t have any trouble. But the Butler boat could fit in the cruise ship’s swimming pools, so I really don’t know how my stomach will react to being on a smaller boat on the Gulf of Maine.”
“If you start to feel nauseous when the boat dips down waves and tilts back up them, make sure you keep your eyes on the horizon. It will help. Hey, how full do our buckets need to be?” Alice tilted her bucket far enough so Annie could see the amount of hips it held.
“I’m starting with a small batch, about six jars, so I need three cups of juice. Between the two of us, we have enough, I think. I won’t know until I put the boiled hips through the jelly bag. If not, I’ll have to come pick more in the morning.” Daylight was quickly fading.
“Want some help? You have a lot of trimming to do,” said Alice.
Annie was thankful for the twilight, the shifting colors hiding the small change of color to her face as she was reminded of her last conversation that involved knives.
“I’d love some help. I’ll even feed you dinner while the hips simmer. Then the juice can strain overnight.” The two friends took their buckets into the house to carry on Betsy Holden’s sweet tradition.
16
First thing in the morning Annie checked the amount of juice the jelly bag had produced overnight. In autumn, before daylight savings time ended, Annie generally rose before the sun did. Alice shuddered at Annie’s penchant for early rising, but Annie knew that, compared to the large community of fishermen in the area, she was a late sleeper. Even so, she still needed to flip on the kitchen lights when she made her way downstairs. One of Gram’s sturdy pans sat on the kitchen counter with the metal tripod frame attached to the rim, holding the jelly bag firmly over it. At first glance it appeared the hips she and Alice had trimmed and boiled last night were sufficient for the juice needed, but the measuring cup would tell the full story.
Annie set her coffee to brew and pulled a quart-size measuring cup from a cabinet. Taking the jelly bag off the frame, she set both things in the sink. She poured the juice from the pan into the large cup, relieved to see it reach past the three-cup mark. As Annie admired the colorful juice, Boots padded into the kitchen, sat down about a foot from her and stared.
“Don’t look at me like that, Bootsie. If Gram were here, she’d have done the same thing.” Annie had closed the door to the kitchen to ensure the rose-hip mixture would not be sampled during the night. “I made sure you still had your water.” She reached down to pet the top of the cat’s head on her way to bring the water dish back from the hallway right outside the kitchen door. After rinsing the dish and filling it with fresh water, Annie replenished Boots’s food dish, and the cat settled down to eat.
Annie set the oven to preheat at 200 degrees, and then prepared some oatmeal. Before sitting down to breakfast, she placed six eight-ounce canning jars on top of a baking sheet in the oven to sterilize and also put the lids in a Pyrex bowl and poured boiling water over them from the kettle. Then, after adding a sprinkling of wheat germ and flax, a dash of cinnamon, and a splash of milk over the oatmeal, Annie was ready to sit down to eat too.
Fortified by her “power oatmeal,” as she liked to call it, Annie poured the rose-hip juice into a large wide pot on a back burner of the stove. She pulled several lemons from the refrigerator and squeezed until she had a half a cup of lemon juice. After adding it to the pot, Annie stirred in a package of pectin. While waiting for the mixture to come to a boil and the pectin to dissolve, she measured out three and a half cups of sugar. The high emotions of the previous day dissolved like the pectin granules in the warmth of the homey process. It all came back to Annie as though she had canned a batch with Gram last month rather than thirty years ago.
Once the mixture began to boil, Annie stirred in the sugar until it had also dissolved. The sweet tangy smell was beginning to perfume the large kitchen. The final ingredient to be added was a one-fourth teaspoon of butter, swirled in before Annie allowed the pot to come to a hard boil. The orangey pink mixture bubbled, circles rising in domes until they stretched themselves too thin and burst.
Once the hard boil began, Annie flipped the little minute timer that sat beside the stove and took the sterilized jars from the oven as the sand flowed from top to bottom. The last grain tumbled from the top and Annie took the pot off the burner to pour the jelly into the jars, leaving a quarter inch of headspace below each rim. After securing the lids and rings on each jar, giving the jars a water bath was the final step. As the jars cooled from their bath, Annie listened for the familiar popping sound that signaled the lids had sealed properly. Once they were lined up on the shelf of the baker’s rack, Annie thought the jelly looked like jars of sunrise. So often she had seen the cheerful color splashed along the horizon as a day began.
Although the sun had risen while she was busy in the kitchen, Annie poured another cup of coffee and went out onto the porch to see what kind of mood the weather was in. Settled into a wicker rocker, Annie was pleased to see the sky was an easygoing blue with lazy white clouds that looked in no hurry to blow elsewhere. Fog could blanket the coast sometimes for days at a time, but as far as Annie could tell, this wasn’t going to be one of those days. However, the weather could be as temperamental as Boots around here. One thing she knew for certain was that she would need to bring layers of clothes and wear plenty of sunscreen on her whale-watching adventure. Not only could weather change with breathtaking speed, but the gentle water of a harbor often bore little resemblance to what the locals called “a bit of chop” once a boat entered the Gulf of Maine.
A bit of chop. Annie sipped her coffee, thinking how well the phrase fit her experience of the last twenty-four hours. She could relate to how Peter and the other disciples had panicked on a stormy sea. Gazing to the right side of the porch over toward the harbor, Annie prayed for the grace to handle whatever was to come before “Peace, be still” reigned over the puzzling situation with Gwen and John. Sometimes “a bit of chop” can help clarify where our true comfort lies, Annie knew. Her coffee mug empty and her heart strengthened, Annie went back inside to work on her crochet project until the time came for her to leave for the docks.
****
Annie arrived at Todd Butler’s lobster shack at the same time Ian and Cecil did. A few lobster boats were moored, having put in a full day’s work on the water already. A grin spread across his face, Ian gave her a hearty greeting. As Annie was saying hello to him and Cecil, Ian stepped closer to her and took a deep breath. “Mmmmm, you smell wonderful, Annie!”
Annie laughed. “How can you tell? All I can smell is fish bait!”
“When you’ve been around the lobster shacks as much as I have, I guess you adapt to the smell. White smell instead of white noise, in a sense. But I have to know, what is that scent?” Ian started to lean even closer for another sniff but thought better of it.
“It would be a mix of rose-hip jelly and sunscreen, I think,” said Annie, resisting the urge to giggle. She stole a glance at Cecil and saw that he was enjoying the exchange as though Ian was a precocious boy. “I made the first batch of the season this morning.”
“If it tastes as good as it smells, may there be many more batches to come,” Ian said, as the door to the lobster shack opened. Todd Butler strode toward them, pulling a battered cap over hair the same color as his brother’s. It was longer with an unruliness Annie found hard to imagine on Ian.
“Hi, Annie, Cecil,” Todd said. He nodded toward his boat, idling at the moor and ready for the trip. “We scrubbed her for you, and we’re ready to go.”
Todd was conscientious about keeping his boat properly maintained as a matter of pride, but Annie saw immediately why Ian had warned her not to expect luxury. Lobstermen worked standing up and seats often were considered a waste of space. Todd obviously was one of those who thought so.
“Choose your spot, Annie,” Ian said, waving his arm to
indicate the length of the boat. “Anywhere other than at the wheel, of course.”
Annie eyed the different positions she could choose. In one corner stood a tall pair of rubber boots with a pair of hauling pants tucked into the tops, ready for the next morning of work. Annie looked for a position that would offer her a place to hold on once they left the harbor. She settled on the front of the boat close to the dashboard, where a strip of wood had been nailed to keep things from sliding off. Cecil placed himself just behind her left shoulder, while Ian stood next to Todd by the wheel. Todd coaxed the idling motor to a low roar and pulled away from the dock, with Butler’s Lighthouse now in front of them.
Halfway through the harbor, Annie looked behind her for a moment, taking in the vista of Stony Point as it spread up the hill from the water’s edge. The contrast of dark evergreens, autumn colors of the early changing trees, and homes painted various colors from the light gray of Annie’s home to blue and green and red, gave the seaside town a cheerful look of welcome.
“She’d make a perfect cover for a Thanksgiving Day card,” said Ian with what Annie thought of as his “proud mayor” tone.
“Yes, if card companies still make those,” Annie said, turning her gaze forward. “It seems like more and more each year Thanksgiving gets overrun by Halloween and Christmas.” Two laughing gulls wheeled overhead, their distinctive cry communicating derision for that trend.
“The business owners of Stony Point have noticed it, too, Annie. They take pains to not jump the gun on the winter holidays. The Community Thanksgiving Dessert helps give them incentive to create Thanksgiving displays.”
“And all those homemade desserts are something to be thankful for,” Todd inserted, as he expertly navigated the boat through the narrowing passage from harbor to gulf, the lighthouse now looming over them from its cliff-top position.
“Cecil, do you and your family come to the Thanksgiving Dessert, or do they live too far away?” Annie asked. Her new friend had been standing with quiet ease, his body adapting effortlessly to the movement over the water.
“Yes, Annie, we do come. My son Martin and my daughter Nataline live with their families in nearby towns. That’s how I ended up in Stony Point. I’m in between the two. If I had stayed on the reservation, I wouldn’t see them much.”
“Takes a fair pile of pies to feed the Lewey-Bingham crowd,” said Ian. “The ladies love watching their creations being devoured with such zeal.”
“Only the ladies bring the desserts?” Annie asked, mischief lurking in her eyes. “Don’t tell me the mayor of our fine town freeloads on Thanksgiving.”
“Ian goes nuts on Thanksgiving,” said Cecil.
“He means that literally,” Ian informed her. “I am the official roaster of chestnuts. The old-fashioned way, I might add.”
“So you get to play with fire, eh?” said Annie. During the discussion, they had left the waters of the harbor, heading down east. Although the conditions were below “a bit of chop” rating, they were a good deal more turbulent than they had been in the harbor. The boat dipped abruptly while Annie was speaking, and her arms followed instinct, flinging out to find a hold. The “eh” rose in volume and pitch.
Ian moved toward her, but was waved off by an embarrassed Annie. “I’m OK, Ian. Just wasn’t paying attention.” She watched her three companions to see how they stood and moved with the motion of the boat. After a few minutes she got the hang of it and broadened her focus again.
“Cecil, I read some of Grandpa’s vet journals this week,” said Annie, switching gears. “You two had some interesting adventures. My favorite so far is the one about a bull named Milton.”
Cecil laughed. “That animal was a good reminder of why I prefer the sea!”
“I want to hear your gadfly impression that was so effective. Will you humor me?”
Todd nudged Ian. “D’ya remember how the monster nearly pegged us?”
“I remember how I told you not to go in there, but you did anyway,” answered Ian. “What’s this about gadflies?”
“Just a trick I picked up along the way,” said Cecil. “Steers and cows hate gadflies, so I buzzed at Milton when Charlie and I’d had enough of him, like this.” Cecil emitted a buzz so authentic that it made Annie’s skin itch. “He hightailed it.”
“I wish we’d known that trick,” said Todd, shaking his head. “Would have saved my favorite hat.”
“And Mom a lot of gray hairs!” Ian said, laughing.
“Look starboard, Annie,” Cecil said. “A humpback feeding.”
Annie had learned that starboard was to the right of the boat, when facing the bow. A ring of aqua water, as bright as any she had seen in the Caribbean, bubbled. She gasped as the surface split, the giant knobby mouth of a whale rising up as it opened like a giant oyster. As it reached the crest, the mouth snapped shut and fell back into the water.
“There goes a hundred pounds of herring,” said Todd. “Bit of a snack, that.”
Annie leaned over the dashboard, keeping her eyes on the surface of the water. “I’ve read many times about the size of whales, but seeing one in front of me. Whew!” She reached in the pocket of her coat for her small digital camera. “Do you think it will come up again?”
“Takes more than a hundred pounds of fish to make a meal for a humpback,” said Cecil. “There’s a good chance he’ll be up again. Just look for the bubble ring.”
They didn’t have to wait long before the surface turned that dazzling aqua again. Annie lifted the camera, snapping as many shots as she could. Before the next splashdown she remembered that her camera had capabilities for short videos and captured it. “John is going to be speechless. Well, no, he’ll probably chatter about it to anyone who’ll listen.”
“Sometimes there are fin whales not too far from here. Are you OK with us moving along?” Todd asked after they had watched the feeding for a while.
Annie nodded, snapping a last couple of shots before the boat moved past the humpback. She kept her eyes roaming, scanning the surface of the water. A few minutes passed with no sign of more whales, so she relaxed her search, trusting that the three Maine natives would spot anything she shouldn’t miss seeing.
“Cecil, I almost forgot to tell you,” Annie said. “The Milton story wasn’t the only thing I found while I was organizing Grey Gables’s library this week. I found the last stanza of the poem I told you about, signed with the name of the author! Her name is Clara Stewart, and she dated the poem 1904.”
“Ah, that’s good.” Cecil nodded, still standing ramrod straight with no signs of tiring. “If you contact the reservation in Point Pleasant, they can tell you if the name is registered with the tribe. If it is, there may be more information they can share with you. I was born in 1934. From the poem, I would assume that she had moved away from her people before she wrote it, well before my time.”
“That’s my assumption, as well,” said Annie. “I’ll go tomorrow.” Then remembering how some agencies had been needing to cut their hours of operation, she added, “If they have regular operating hours tomorrow, that is.”
“They will,” Cecil assured her. “The tribal government follows the typical days of operation. They’re closed for major holidays like Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Day.
“Do you visit the reservation often?” asked Annie. She was surprised how at home she now felt on the boat as it plowed through the light chop. They might have been having a visit in her living room at Grey Gables.
“I try to, when Martin or Nataline are going. Nataline’s only daughter, Macey, lives there now, and we visit her as often as we can, for dance days or weekends.” Cecil scanned the horizon line, a faint smile playing around his mouth. “Feisty one, she is. Went to business school for medical transcription. She always wanted to live at Sipayik as a kid. Nataline would challenge her about what kind of job she would find there. So she researched about jobs she could do from her home and found one. Her grandmother Rose was feisty too. Strong spirit
. Weak heart, though.”
Thankful for the sea spray that mingled with the tears forming in her eyes, Annie nodded her understanding. Wayne had been stronger than his heart too. “Did Gram and Grandpa know Rose?” she asked.
“They were both good friends to Rose and me. Many times when Rose was in the hospital, I’d come in to find Betsy sitting by her bed, cross-stitching and keeping Rose informed on whatever was happening.”
“Cecil and Rose used to live in a cottage near where Wally and Peggy live,” said Ian. “I used to detour past their place just to smell Rose’s cooking. If I timed it right and made enough noise as I went past, sometimes I’d score a dinner invitation.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if Stony Point elected a mayor who is part hound,” said Annie, laughing.
“Fin whales at port,” announced Todd. Annie saw a smooth line of whale back with a sleek dorsal fin rise out of the water and grabbed her camera just in time. The giant mammal exhaled, shooting a spout of moist air straight up like an exclamation point.
“Whoa!” she gasped. “They even breathe with power.”
“I’m going to pull up as close as I can,” said Todd. Look behind the whale’s head for the chevrons when it surfaces again.” He throttled up the boat with a light touch, inching closer. Annie leaned forward without thinking, instinctively trying to get as close to the fin whale as possible. The undulating movement of the whale captivated her. When the head broke the surface Annie squealed, “I see the stripes!” She kept staring. “It looks like there’s a shadow over part of it, but nothing to make it. It’s not from the boat.”
“You’re right. It’s not a shadow,” said Cecil. “Fin whales have asymmetrical coloring on their backs, light on one side and darker on the other.”
“I could watch them all day long!” said Annie. “I never want to lose this astonishment at God’s creation.”
