Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Volume 6

by Chautona Havig

  “That’s beautiful!” Willow’s finger swiped down the screen and glanced at different posts. “This picture of your cupboards—love it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve taken a quick picture of the same kinds of things with my phone. Stacks of clean laundry or a row of cut soap bars—anything to remind me that I did accomplish something in a day when it seemed like the house looked like I hadn’t touched it in a week or the boys destroyed it faster than I could keep up.”

  “If you didn’t do the ‘no electricity’ thing, I’d swear you should have a blog. People would eat it up. I can’t tell you how many people look for just the kinds of things you shared at the conference. I just wish you had time for it. I’d subscribe in a heartbeat.”

  “Subscribe?” Willow stared at the screen. “Do they mail these out to people? Like a magazine?”

  “Well, email, yeah. It’s just like a magazine but you get the post—” At Willow’s confused expression, Hope amended her explanation. “I mean, you get whatever new material—called a post—in your email. Like a magazine article. People would love reading about your lessons in embracing life, your gardening expertise, how to make soap—all those things.”

  There was a certain appeal to it—easier than writing the book Marianne and Cheri always talked about and more personal. Still, she didn’t have time to walk into town and use the library computers every week or day or however often you had to post things. Despite her doubts, Willow couldn’t help asking, “How often do people write the articles?”

  “Whenever they like. I try to post something small every day, but I don’t always. Two or three times a week though—for sure.”

  “I’ll have to ask Chad to find this for me so I can look at it when I go to town.”

  “Do you have an email account? I could send it…” Hope’s fingers hovered over her screen, ready to type it in for Willow.

  “No, but I could get one. I know how to use the Google. I can just type ‘Enna seithi?’ into the rectangle and maybe your name. That’ll find it for me. The Google is amazing. I couldn’t believe it the first time I saw it used.”

  As a song ended, Hope beckoned her husband to come to her. “I want you to meet Willow.”

  “Becca’s Willow?” Jay Brown extended his hand. “I’ve heard much about you—from Hope and from Josh and Becca.”

  “I was just showing her my blog.”

  “Isn’t she funny? She spends the first three years of motherhood complaining that blogs and Pinterest have taken over motherhood, and now look at her.”

  Hope shrugged. “I was wrong.”

  “How many women can admit that?”

  Mayra tugged her father’s sleeve. “Are we gonna dance more, appa?”

  “In a minute. Let’s get something to drink first.”

  Hope passed her husband the extra glass sitting by her chair. “I got one for you. Well, I got two, but I ended up drinking most of this one.” She jumped up. “I’ll go refill it for Mayra.”

  Jay’s eyes followed his wife. “Isn’t she beautiful? Her heart outshines her face, but the combination…”

  Large brown eyes bounced from Willow to Jay before Mayra said, “Appa always talks like that about Mommy.”

  “Mommy and Appa?” Willow’s confusion must have shown—either that, or Jay and his daughter were accustomed to hearing the question.

  “I say Mommy and Grandpa and Appa, Paati, and Thatha.”

  “Reflecting each culture,” Willow agreed. “How lovely. I do that my way, but it’s not as overt as yours.”

  Mayra asked to play with something on her father’s phone. Willow watched for a moment before Jay said, “If you had Internet service on your farm, I’d recommend that you start a blog. I can just imagine how popular it would be.” He leaned close, “And I’m a market analyst. I know of which I speak.”

  “And you don’t dangle prepositions. Impressive,” Willow teased. “Hope said the same thing. It sounds like an interesting thing to do, but I don’t know that I’d have time even if I did have the Internet.”

  “You know…” The sight of his wife returning distracted Jay for a moment, but he turned back to Willow and added, “Becca could do it. She’d probably love that. Maybe take excerpts of the journals Hope keeps raving about. Her perspective. Your perspective. You wouldn’t have to write anything in particular for it… just approve the things she wants to share from your journals.”

  Chapter 204

  December 1-

  Things couldn’t be stranger. I’ve had Becca here so long that her absence bothers me. Is she having fun? Are things as wonderful for them as they were for us? How long will it take them to fit into a new routine? And will she ever pick out a house so we can have it built? I think Ida is done with childcare. She wants great-grandbabies to spoil. I wonder if those are in the plans too.

  However, as much as I miss her, it’s nice to know Jon Cox is getting some work too. He’s out there now, cleaning out the stalls and giving the animals fresh bedding. He asked why we don’t do raw milk. Apparently “raw milk” means cow’s milk rather than goat. He says that people are getting “into” raw milk these days—something about it being healthier. So, he thinks we have the perfect set up for it. I’ll tell Becca. If she wants to add an hour or two of milking a day, fine. I’m not doing it, though.

  This week is Christmas gift week. I’ve gotten behind on the gift making. Chad took over Aggie’s boys, Josh, and his brother and father. So, that took a few hours of work off my plate. Still, I don’t have Becca’s quilt finished, Vannie’s skirt isn’t even cut out, and Cheri’s lingerie is embroidered but not sewn. That lingerie is taking forever, but she asked for it. Crazy girl.

  I made Kari a doll. Mom brought out a catalog of “natural toys,” and I fell in love with one of the little dolls. Just velour fabric and some stuffing, but it is cute and easy to hold onto. I think she’ll like it. It reminds me of the ones Mother used to make for me when I was little, but it’s less detailed. That catalog actually had a lot of great ideas for future toy options. Chad says I’ll never grow up. Why should I?

  I don’t think Jon stopped to eat. I should go drag him in for some stew. And why I am writing this? I don’t know. Weird. I think I’ve gotten used to having someone—i.e. Becca— to chat with, and without her nearby, I’ve taken to talking to myself on paper. And I’m still doing this. What is wrong with me?

  Oh, I’m not feeling as sick as I was. Mom thinks it’s because I might be a bit farther along than I thought, but that would mean I had a monthly after I got pregnant.

  Jon. Food. Must stop this.

  By the third day with Jon, the farm developed a new rhythm. Jon found things to do that Willow would never have thought of. He cleared away dead brush, fixed boards in the stalls, hauled away trash so that Clyde McFarland didn’t have to, and even caulked the attic windows. He worked from eight o’clock in the morning until five o’clock that evening, stopping only for half an hour at lunch. Chad tried to convince Jon to take a longer break and spend time with him, but it only meant that Jon stayed longer in the evening.

  Of all changes, Willow’s dependence on Becca for a few minutes here or there made the biggest impact on her. That third evening, she closed her eyes as she thought of everything she hadn’t finished that day and sighed, “I’ve gotten used to being able to call Becca and say, “Can you take the boys outside while Kari sleeps so I can finish…” Her brain refused to let her think. “Whatever.”

  “Did you get the quilt finished?”

  “No.” Defeat echoed in Willow’s monosyllabic response.

  “I’d say it’s the most important. I mean, finishing it when she can’t walk in on you is golden.”

  “Don’t try to help, Chad.”

  He stared at her, confusion shadowing his face. “What?”

  “You can’t fix this, okay? I never understood why Mom gets so upset when Dad takes whatever problem she’s venting about and tries to give her solutions. I mean, that’s why you vent,
right? Now I get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “Get,” Willow explained with more patience than she would have expected to muster, “that sometimes you just need to vocalize why you’re frustrated without someone trying to solve a problem they can’t.”

  “But I didn’t try to solve anything.”

  “No.” Willow rubbed her temple before adding, “But stating the obvious is almost as bad and leads to said problem solving attempts, okay.”

  “You are so pregnant.”

  “I don’t make sense? Am too emotional about it?” What might have sounded like she felt insulted or offended was, instead, curiosity.

  “Something like that.” He moved to her side and pulled her into his arms. “So, tell me why it’s such a problem to do the quilt now. How can I help?”

  “I don’t have that much time to sew while they’re asleep. Lately, Kari isn’t sleeping at the same time as the boys, so she’s up when they’re down and vice versa. When Kari is awake, I can do some things like cleaning or cooking because I can hold her if I need to. I can do laundry and cook in the barn or kitchen while holding her or putting her on the floor for a couple of minutes, but I can’t sew. The minute I get any momentum, she needs me. She needs a diaper, needs to nurse, is tired of lying on the floor because I had to run up to the bathroom in the middle of a seam—”

  “You can use the bathroom down here, lass.”

  Heat rushed to Willow’s face. “I forget. It’s just habit. You have to ‘go’ so you run upstairs. Usually about the time I get the door shut, I remember. Sometimes I see it on the way. Sometimes it works. Just too often… nope.”

  “People who deny that humans are creatures of habits just need to examine their toilet habits.”

  “Enough with the bathroom humor,” Willow teased.

  Chad ignored the joke and asked the obvious question—one he suspected he should know the answer to already. “So why not do it when the boys are playing? If you call them away from something, they come now.”

  “Yes, and then they’re right next to me, pulling on a strip of fabric or pushing on my leg making it hard to keep the treadle going at an even pace. They try to climb the gates and fences or they wail because they can’t. I can’t watch the fabric and them at the same time. I’ll sew my fingers to the quilt. To work the treadle, I need uninterrupted time. I just do.”

  What seemed like an hour, although less than a minute in actuality, passed before Chad spoke again. “Okay. Brad’s been complaining about no weekends. Let me see if he’ll swap Saturday for tomorrow. I’ll take the boys shopping.”

  Willow shook her head. “That’s crazy. If you’ll take them on Saturday, I’ll just wait until then to do it. I can do all the prep work for everything else between now and then. I’ll just spend Saturday on the treadle whenever Kari is busy or asleep.”

  “No you won’t. You’ll have enough milk for me to take to Mom and you’ll have the house to yourself on Saturday.”

  She grinned. “That would be perfect. I’ll finish up everything I need the machine for then. It’ll work. Thanks.”

  Portia’s bark outside sent Chad to the back door, while Willow closed her eyes again and enjoyed the anticipation of a day alone. One day. The thrill of the idea of a quiet house where she could enjoy the silence—the success of a job finished—she needed that sense of accomplishment. She needed the opportunity to recharge.

  Guilt niggled at the back of her mind. She shouldn’t want to be away from her family. It felt wrong, but Willow stamped it down. If Jesus needed to get away to quiet and solitude to reconnect with the Father, why assume that she should need less?

  With the knowledge that her mini-gift factory would complete its Christmas “orders” that weekend, Willow turned her efforts toward baking. Though a couple of weeks early, she chose to make the baked goods for the other officers, church members, and friends that week rather than later. Timing had to be perfect, and because of it, she chose the stove in the barn. There, she wouldn’t have to watch the wood, keep the fires at just the right levels, or move the pans around for even baking. As much as she enjoyed cooking on the old woodstove in their kitchen, for times like this, the barn was the biggest blessing she could hope for.

  So, while the boys smeared their sausage-egg biscuits all over the table, their faces, and their shirts, Willow mixed several batches of gingerbread cookie dough and stuffed them in the ice box. She had to pull out several things to make room, which meant creating a type of goulash for lunch as well.

  Timing worked out perfectly. The boys played all morning, “helped” with the laundry, and then ate their lunches with surprising cleanliness—for them. On her way to clean up the boys before their naps, Willow saw Jon outside. She stuck her head out the door and called, “Hey, would you go in the summer kitchen and turn the oven onto 350°?”

  “Will do. Anything else?”

  “Nope. But I’ll have cookies for you to take home tonight. Don’t leave without them.”

  Jon grinned. “Aiden loves cookies.”

  A noise behind her, prompted her to excuse herself. Liam had almost managed to climb the fence around the stove. “No.” Liam stared at her, one leg hiked halfway over the fence. Willow stepped forward, and with what she hoped was a good copy of Aggie’s calm confidence, she shook her head and said, “Get down, Liam.”

  To her astonishment, and a great deal of relief, the boy slid back down and ran to her, throwing his arms around her legs. “Mama!”

  “That’s my obedient boy. Well done, little man. Now let’s go upstairs.” She took each boy’s hand in hers and led them upstairs.

  She washed faces, rinsed bibs, and changed diapers, making a note to consider serious attention to potty training after Christmas. While the boys rested on the couch with books, she hurried into the kitchen to roll and cut out cookies.

  Liam found her first. “Tookie?”

  “That’s right. I’m making cookies.” She forced herself not to be frustrated with changes to her plan. “Do you want to see?”

  And so, her boys enjoyed their first experience playing with dough. They mashed, twisted, and cut chunks that would cook into semi-cooked balls of nothingness. She didn’t care. The happiness on their faces and the giggles that filled the room assured her that all the mess and schedule delays would be worth it. That said, she kept her eye on the clock, trying to ensure that she put the boys down for their naps before Kari awoke from hers.

  “There,” she said when her cookie sheets were full of little men. The boys still mashed and twisted dough as if their lives depended on it, so she decided to mix up the icing before putting them down. Of course, by the time she managed to drag them away from their fun, Liam and Lucas were exhausted, clingy, whiny, and covered in dough and flour.

  Once again, she scrubbed them down, put fresh clothes on each boy, and led them to their room. There, chaos erupted. Liam began wailing at decibels the Willow knew would wake Kari. Lucas clung to her as if he’d never see her again. Desperate to shut the door before Kari awoke, Willow kissed each boy, laid each one down in his crib, and fled the room. Surely they’d be settled down in the five minutes it would take her to run out to the summer kitchen and pop the first trays in the oven.

  Jon met her on the porch step and shut the kitchen door behind her. “Those look good.”

  “And they’re not even baked yet.” Willow teased.

  “Is this all you’re going to make?” John stared at the two sheets of nine cookies each. “I’d say you need to keep those for your family. Chad could polish those off in seconds.”

  “Oh, no. I have enough for a dozen or more batches at least.” Willow pulled a long stretch of butcher paper off a roll and laid it out on the counter. “I’m doing the Christmas gift baking early.”

  “Smart move.” He leaned against the doorjamb, watching. “I wonder if cookies for friends would be something we could swing. Rachel usually makes baskets for friends—themed, y’know?”

  Will
ow didn’t know, but she asked what she hoped would be an intelligent question. “Made to fit the personalities of the recipients?”

  “Right. Movie night, spa type stuff, good book fun, crafty things. She buys stuff all year and then makes them up a week before Christmas, but she got busy this year with the baby and all. She doesn’t have enough to really do them. Maybe we can afford cookies or banana bread or something.”

  Willow ached to offer him jars of canned jellies and fruits, but she knew he’d feel even more obligated to them than he did now. She searched her memory for any kind of inexpensive gift idea but came up short until she saw the tall tin of store-bought flavored popcorn on top of the cabinets. She’d saved that tin for two years. “You could do flavored popcorns. Cinnamon and sugar, peanut butter, caramel… I bet the Google has pages of ideas.”

  “The Google,” Jon echoed, clearly amused. He watched as she put the cookie sheets in the oven and set the timer. He frowned. “You need more cookie sheets, though.” John pushed open the kitchen door for her. “It’d save so much time if you could have a lineup here rather than running back and forth to refill them.”

  The familiar frustration rose up in her as Willow listened to yet another person suggest that she’d “save time” if she just did something differently. She forced herself to say something like, “I’ll have to consider that,” and hurried to the house. Halfway there, she dashed back and grabbed the timer, waving it at Jon as she passed. “They’ll burn if I don’t bring this in with me!”

  “Can’t have that. I’m off to work on clearing more of the space for the pad for Josh and Becca’s house. Call if you need anything.”

  Even before she reached the back porch, Willow heard the indignant screams of her sons and the slightly fainter wails of Kari. She dashed inside, set the timer on the counter, and raced upstairs. She managed to burst through the boy’s door in time to save Liam from falling head first onto the hardwood floor. “Oh, you!”

  She comforted him, kissed him, laid him down, and reached for Lucas. Liam screeched louder than ever and Kari’s wails turned into cries that wrenched her heart. The poor child probably didn’t understand why she didn’t come. Frustrated, Willow plopped a boy on each hip and carried them to Kari’s room. The baby quieted a little at the sight of her. “Shh… we’ll all settle down and rest together. It’ll be okay.”