Best, F.R.
A: Did you know that the earliest English pies were called coffins or “coffyns"? Don't quote me on that, I got it from the Encyclo-Viswanathan aka Wikipedia. If you do quote me, you are so busted.
Anyway, everyone loves pie. Perhaps this is a new strategy of house-selling. Who wouldn't want to live in a house that smells of pie?
However, you haven't provided enough data to answer this question. Maybe you are a pie-a-phobe. Maybe the type of pie you reference is foul-smelling; there's no way to say. Do all the houses smell of the same pie? My theory:
It is you who smell of pie. Not the houses.
Dear Aunt Gwenda:
I am soon to be married, yet my two stuffed raccoons, Ricky 1 and Ricky 2 still sit on a box at the foot of my bed even though I now have a lady friend to take their place. Do you think they are jealous? Should I turn their loving yet sad, glassy eyes to the wall? Am I too old to have stuffed raccoons?
Conflicted
A: Oh, my dear Conflicted. Thou art also clueless.
You shouldn't be pledging the troth with anyone who would engage in matrimony with you. You have stuffed raccoons. You have named them. You let them sit with their dead glass eyes peering at you all night long and you're not creeped out by this? Clearly, your true life partners are staring you in the face.
Dear Aunt Gwenda,
How come you and Aunt Abby are never seen in the same room?
A: Because she smells like pie. Next.
Dear Aunt Gwenda,
My college blows. Should I blow it off and move to Alaska?
A: Definitely. What the world needs now is not love, sweet love, but a new Jack London. Go find your Charmian, then build your Snark.
Dear Aunt Gwenda,
Bird flu zombies are knocking on the door. What should I do?
A: You're testing me, right?
Because I know that you have prepared for this day, for this very eventuality. I know that you have two giant steel drums filled with clean drinking water and a charge wired to blow the door. You set the charge and the BOOMBAMEXPLOSION stuns the zombies for that crucial 20 seconds you need to strap on your apocalypse kit and begin rolling the drums toward the door. You roll, roll, roll your drums un-gently over the bird flu zombies, further stunning and partially flattening them. The effect lasts just long enough for you to get a decent head start. But wait! You've left behind your recently slain loved one, conveniently positioned near the door, and the smell of fresh blood lures the bird flu zombies in. You are free to escape the brutish fate about to befall your beloved's corpse.
Don't forget your N95.
Make for the last remaining Kenny Rogers Roasters. It's located in the largest strip mall in North America; I can't be more specific for obvious reasons. It is there, and only there that we can defeat the bird flu zombie army.
Dear Aunt Gwenda,
My science fiction writer has been looking pale and uninspired lately. I don't know what's happened, but I'm hoping that you can help me find a way to re-animate it. Ideas?
A: Twenty-five thousand volts. Not a volt more or less.
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Threads
E. Catherine Tobler
Where the river met the lake and the clouded sky was obscured by skeletal tree limbs, the geese gathered and this winter, they had brought gypsies with them.
Ours was not the common wintering ground for either group; both tended more south, but a day of sleet and snow forced them to seek shelter among the trees. The lake, a half frozen puddle of slush, served both, for drinking and bathing alike. The gypsies heated their water in large black pots, whereas the geese took the more direct approach and simply waded in.
I imagined the gypsies here in the summer, wading in as the geese did now, without a stitch of clothing in the warmer water, and felt my own cheeks warm. There were many young men among the travelers; they hauled buckets of water to the black pots, the latter guarded by old women in bright shawls.
Three dark-skinned girls whirled together in a circle, bound by hands, magenta headscarves brilliant under the dreary sky. They broke apart like petals scattered under wind and fled through the encampment of wagons.
"Daughter, come away from there."
My mother, bundled near the fireside with the family Bible in hand, gray-striped cat in lap, met my gaze as I looked over my shoulder. A scattered pile of unread letters sat upon her chair-side table. Mother seemed as cold and dreary as the day and I wondered how else she might wither during father's absence whilst he fought the war. She had once been a woman of warmth and care, but no longer.
I spared one more glance at the girls, two lost but one stepping high up a ladder and into a wagon. With a flop of flowered fabric, she vanished entirely. I took my leave of the frost-traced window, joining Mother near the fire to take up the ball of rough woolen Margaret had been winding earlier.
"Leave that."
The wool was struck from my hands. It fell without a sound into the hearth basket. I looked at my mother, but she had returned to her reading, lips silently moving as she worked through another chapter. I had no such book to occupy me. Taff, bored in his own right, leapt from my mother's lap to strike at a loose piece of the colorless wool. I dragged it along while Taff pounced and growled. Sewing was forbidden me, but play was permissible.
Taff and I played until we were both bored with the string. He returned to my mother's lap and I left the solar, seeking Janette in the kitchens. I found her with floured hands, placing dough into the ovens. The trio of bright-scarved gypsy girls squatted outside the kitchen door. Janette could not allow them inside without my mother's word—a thing she would never give—but the girls were close enough to be warmed by the hearths and to breathe the scent of Janette's fresh bread.
Their faces were dark and smooth and this close I could see the fine needlework that decorated their headscarves. Small flowers with curling leaves edged the fabric in every color that I might imagine. Tiny birds plucked ripe blackberries from laden branches and indeed made a game of it, seeming to toss the berries from chocolate beak to orange beak. When each girl stood close, the game among the birds became even more apparent; each scarf was part of a story.
The girl nearest me dared to grab at my cuffs. Her hand was crooked, fingers curling in on the palm, and I stepped back in alarm. Her grip was nimble, though, for she caught my hand and held the cuff for the others to see.
It was the intricate blackwork they admired, geometric squares marching around the pale fabric, and as I listened to them whisper in a language unfamiliar to me, I wondered if it was as intriguing to them as their scarves were to me.
Janette offered each girl a loaf of bread, for we had plenty to spare, and with the warm loaves in hand, the girls turned to go. I looked after them, my longing to follow them surely revealed in my eyes for Janette clicked her tongue.
"She won't let you go. She'll say no daughter of mine will be seen with gypsies. It's one thing for we servants to rub shoulders with them, but you—your shoulders are forbidden.” This was followed by Janette's approximation of a wink, her eyes as poorly coordinated as the rest of her often was.
"Why is it that what is forbidden is always what we seek?” I watched the girls grow smaller, until they vanished around the eastern edge of the house, where the dark pines grew so dense they seemed one massive tree.
"'Tis sweet the fruit grown on another's tree, for he has done all the work for me and thee."
The child's poem didn't answer my question, though, for today I felt it went beyond that. “Do you wish you could run to town on any day of your choosing?” I asked Janette. She and the other servants went to market on a day of Mother's choosing, and they were always supervised. “What if you went on a Wednesday and alone?"
Janette's cheeks flushed with color, as though she too pictured young gypsy men bathing in the summer lake. She slapped a ball of dough upon the counter and began to shape it. “The fish would not be fresh, an
d there'd be no telling the condition of the leeks."
A laugh escaped me and I pointed a finger at Janette. “There's no telling because you've never been on a Wednesday. If you went, you might find treasures beyond your imagination—"
"Now, Joan—"
"I wonder what Wednesday's fish does taste like,” I murmured before stealing a heel of bread and escaping to the fire to toast it brown.
Janette offered no speculation as to Wednesday's fish, but it was still on my mind as I stole from the house that evening and headed toward the gypsy camp.
My mother's birthday would soon be upon us and I had nothing to gift her with. In my childhood, I might have gifted her with a pomander, a simple enough thing to make, but now such crafts were forbidden. Still, I held tight to a scarf of indigo silk with the hope it might soon bear a story of birds and berries. My mother would have once taken delight in such a thing; perhaps she could again.
The gypsy encampment, with its wagons, mules, and tents, was ablaze with light and even some of the youngest children were still awake, nestled in an elder's lap or bent over a shoulder to avoid wriggling fingers which sought ribs to tickle. The evening was cool, but the sky above clear; no chance of snow, only hard stars above the dry, yellow plain.
The three girls who had visited Janette's kitchen earlier that day were clustered around a small fire, headscarves not in evidence, hair brushed back into long and gleaming tails. The girls looked up at me, three pairs of similar dark brown eyes, but three different smiles. The girl with the crooked hand came to her feet and pulled me toward the fire. Again they took up my cuffs to admire the work.
"Can you teach me this?” she asked. “I do not know it."
I shook my head. “I don't know how.” They stared at me in silence. “I did not make it,” I added. I didn't know who made my gown.
Two of the girls spoke in the rapid and unfamiliar language they had used earlier at the kitchen. The third silenced them.
"Forgive my rude sisters, lady. They are surprised. We thought all ladies studied needlecraft."
"Not in my house. It is forbidden.” I held out the silken scarf. “Have you more of the work I saw earlier? On your scarves."
The girl was reaching for the fabric when a voice from the nearby wagon stopped her.
"Cantu."
Cantu withdrew her crooked hand. A flurry of the strange language followed and Cantu, shadowed by her sisters, seemed to shrink. They withdrew from me and the fire with frowns, and went one by one to the wagon. Cantu looked back at me before she vanished inside and closed the door behind her.
I crouched beside the fire until the winter air began to chew at my cheeks. I stood and crossed to the wagon, wanting to knock, but resisting. Instead I loosely tied the scarf through the door handles and when I chanced to look back as I left, I spied Cantu's crooked hand reaching out to tug it free.
The summons came two days later. Janette and I were in the winter kitchen ironing when Cantu arrived. Cantu made no bones about it, I was to go with her, and though Janette shook her head, I followed the gypsy girl and her bright headscarf through the camp. I could not spend another moment in the house, waiting for father to return as mother did. The air was cold after spending the morning with a warm iron and it robbed me of my breath. Cantu, having been in the chill all day, didn't slow.
She brought me to the wagon covered in flecks of green paint, where she and her sisters had gathered two nights prior, to the door where I had tied my scarf. The doorway was rough and dark like Janette's best soup. I faltered, but Cantu gestured to the door.
"She waits."
I looked at the small girl, feeling half that size myself. “She?"
"Sani. She has your scarf.” With her crooked hand, Cantu lifted the door latch and drew it open. “She won't bite—hasn't got the teeth for it."
That was little comfort, but I stepped into the wagon, starting when Cantu closed the door sharply behind me.
The wagon was narrow, but did not seem to lack for space. Amid birdcages and baskets of buttons, spools of thread and saucers of beads, a bent woman sat as though she were queen. Yellow, waxy candles illuminated the small space, throwing light onto silver and gold threads and fabrics the color of earth, sky, and water.
A pair of embroidered gloves were folded upon a shelf stacked with fabrics. I reached for the gloves before I realized it. Green vines heavy with ripe grapes the color of a sunrise sky twined around the wrists, darkly garnet birds almost hidden near a small jeweled button. They were fighting over the button, I realized.
The woman cleared her throat and I withdrew my hand. I turned to her, to Sani, and felt that I should bow, but once I caught sight of the indigo silk in her hands, I forgot to make any such gesture of respect. The spice in the air, thicker inside, made my head swim.
Sani offered the silk back to me and I took it. It had not been decorated in any way. I clasped it to my chest, trying not to feel the disappointment that welled up inside of me.
"I will not embroider that,” Sani said and reached for what seemed her current piece of work. It was a lazy circle of herbs, rosemary stalks tied with glistening red ribbons.
"I—I was foolish to leave the scarf behind,” I said. “I never meant to demand ... that is, I—"
"I will not embroider it,” Sani repeated, “but I will teach you to do so."
The stab of surprise in my belly was akin to the feeling I had when I saw the first geese of the season. Something there made me catch my breath. Sani studied me, her mouth crooked with her smile, as though she understood that feeling all too well.
"My tribe have been granted sanctuary, so that we need not travel in the coming storms. You may learn alongside my daughters."
Sanctuary? Had my mother granted such? Before I could manage any answer, there arose a cry outside. A flapping of wings against the wind rolled over everything and I fled the wagon. The old woman did not move. Outside, there was a rush of gypsies toward a young man who held a bow.
Cantu grabbed my hand and pulled me along, pushing through the crowd to view the felled body. A goose lay at the young man's feet with an arrow through its breast. Cantu touched the resting body and I found my hand also upon it, against the still-warm neck.
Cantu drew my hand back as the young man hefted the prize and showed it to all who gathered.
I returned to the gypsy camp the following day. My mother took no notice; she stayed in with her Bible and Taff, and continued to await my father's return.
Cantu took me inside their wagon and Sani introduced me to a variety of threads and fabrics that I had never before seen.
"Your first piece will not be your silk,” Sani said. “It will take some days to learn the technique; a little while longer to learn the stitches.” She handed me a piece of ivory lawn.
I set myself to the task like nothing before. While I thought of gifting my mother with something beautiful, I will also admit to loving the work. It was forbidden to me and I desired it like nothing else.
The needle pricked my fingers countless times, but Cantu showed me how a cool cloth eased the pain. We laughed as I could not manage to complete a simple chain stitch. Sani smiled softly while Cantu cheered as I finally did finish it.
The work was crooked and the threads were not pulled evenly; it looked rather like a flower that had been mangled by a crow, but I was more proud of the single flower than anything else I could put my name to. I stroked the four cobalt petals and my pricked fingers spread a streak of crimson blood across them.
Even as winter's snows piled upon the ground, I went to Sani's wagon. With her and Cantu, I began to make my way across the fabric and soon they allowed me to stitch upon the indigo silk.
My stitches were careful and even, this time. I longed to share the experience with my mother—the thought of her alone in the house bothered me, but she would not budge from her chair. I took comfort in the friendship of Cantu and Sani; they seemed to enjoy my company and certainly the sweets I smuggled fro
m Janette's kitchen.
When winter began to ease and Cantu looked forward to leaving this place, I began to feel the pain in my hands. In my shoulders as well. It was difficult to straighten after I spent time working on the scarf. I dug my knuckles into my back to ease the muscles and Cantu smiled at me. She offered me a pillow, pressed between my back and the chair, but it only lessened the pain momentarily.
Walking home, with the calling geese in the sky high above me, I noticed the many older women in the gypsy camp. They were bent to their tasks, most of them taking advantage of the day's warmth to practice their needlecraft in the sun. I saw then, illuminated in that gold light, their hunched backs, their squinting eyes. Within their bent hands they held bundles of threaded beauty.
I wanted to ask Cantu, but there was no need. I saw with my own eyes the changes wrought upon her by the craft. Her sisters who did not stitch did not bear the marks Cantu did. Cantu held my hand one evening as we listened to an older woman speak of the love we should place into our stitches.
It was more than love, I decided as I massaged oily orange cream into Cantu's swollen knuckles. Something else went into every stitch placed, something I myself had begun to give up.
Yet I persisted, and became careless.
My mother, though lost in thoughts of Father, maintained a knowledge of the household. As I returned from a day's stitching, I found my mother sitting in the kitchen, awaiting me. I curled my pin-pricked fingers behind my back and looked around for Janette.
"I have sent your shield to her room. Where have you been these long hours?” When I did not answer, she said, “Show me your hands."
I curled them tighter behind me, despite the pain.
"Show me!"
I showed her. Mother grasped my hands and drew them near to look upon the ravaged fingertips, to stroke the forming calluses. She straightened my fingers until I cried out and pulled my aching hands out of her reach.
"I never wanted this for you.” She looked at me, touched a hand to my cheek. “These things are forbidden for a reason, my daughter."
"I have come to understand that,” I said.
Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 18 Page 6
