by Eric Flint
Flo had gotten herself under control by now. “I know, Mary Ellen, I really do. Things aren’t as bad as they could be. I’ll be okay. You go minister to someone who needs it more than I do. Temporary weakness. I can overcome it.”
“I know, Flo. You’re a strong, vital woman with years ahead of you. How am I going to get good wool yarn for Simon’s socks if you don’t raise those Merino sheep? I want real knitting yarn, not the tiny, fine stuff they make here. Let me know when you have a few skeins ready. I need it. His socks are wearing out.”
Mary Ellen began to move away. “Oh, Flo, if anyone has an extra can of coffee, let them know I’m in the market for it, will you?”
* * *
It was so good to speak her own language and be understood. Resorting to gestures and mime could be very wearing. Anna Sprug was very happy to have her sister, brother-in-law, and their children with her in this strange place. Now she could just talk, and not have to act out her words.
“These people, they are very rich, aren’t they?” Ilsa commented.
“Not only are they very rich, they are so rich that they are foolish with their wealth. Did you see how much meat Flo thought we needed? I liked the ‘corn bread’ well enough, but that ‘chili’ . . . what was that stuff? Too much meat, too much something else. I’m in for another night of listening to Johan groaning about his stomach every two minutes, just wait and see. Your Wilhelm, he will be the same.”
“Do you eat like that all the time, here? I thought the food at the camp wasn’t so bad, although there was still a lot of meat. And, I’m still not sure it’s safe to drink so much water. I’d really rather have some thin soup for the children to drink. I know the Americans say the water is safe, but it makes me nervous to drink so much of it.” Ilsa really didn’t want to complain, but she did have some concerns.
“We will have thin soup tomorrow. I used that wonderful ‘crock pot’ to start some. I think Flo said that if you set it on ‘lo’ it could cook all night and be ready in the morning. We will see.” Anna seemed a bit triumphant, to have succeeded at such a basic task. “There is only a small piece of bacon and a few vegetables in it, with some salt and thyme. I hope Flo doesn’t notice it. She uses too much of everything. That ‘spice rack’ of hers has stuff I’ve never heard of. She really ought to be saving it, not using it every day.”
“Why do you suppose she has so many of these ‘crock pots,’ Anna?” Ilsa asked. “How could she and J.D. need so much food? There are only two of them.”
“Flo said something about ‘Christmas presents’ from her daughters and I think she said something about them not paying attention to her interests. She seemed unhappy about this.”
Anna seemed a bit confused about “Christmas presents.” Ilsa certainly was.
“I don’t think she had ever used them. All but one were still in boxes. Don’t misunderstand me, Ilsa. Life is very strange here, but it is also very good. Flo is a generous, kind-hearted woman. Her J.D. is a good man. Flo is very insistent that we are not servants here. She says we are partners.
“If we are to be real partners, then we must help them. Flo knows nothing of bargaining and has no idea how to feed so many people. All Americans eat so much rich food. And, they all have so many things. Have you ever seen so many clothes? And they’re all so soft!”
“The clothes are soft, Anna, but I don’t feel very proper wearing those ‘jeans.’ They are so tight and so immodest. And, they make everyone look like a hired worker. I don’t like that very much.”
“Don’t worry, Ilsa. Flo just doesn’t understand. We are not young girls, to enjoy showing ourselves so. We just need to go slow and get used to this. It is very hard, sometimes. Still, we have bread for the morning. We have those wonderful double ovens and we have the ‘crock pots.’
“Flo does not wake up well, unless she has her coffee. We will make her some, and she will be so busy enjoying it that she won’t notice the soup. I’ll make bread to bake and then show you the rest of the house. Just wait until you see the basement, Ilsa. There’s a room there, with nothing but shelf after shelf of what Flo calls old junk. There are containers that mice can’t get into. ‘Canning jars,’ Flo calls them. They have metal lids. And there are ‘coffee cans’ that have another kind of lid. It’s amazing that Flo doesn’t understand the value of these things.
“Ilsa, you are going to help me, aren’t you?” Anna asked. “We have to take care of Flo and J.D. They’re like children in so many ways.”
* * *
“No, Mr. Canaro, I’m not going to sell any of my sheep. I’m in the market to buy more, not to sell what I have. When you have some to sell me, please call again.”
Flo hung up the phone, a bit bemused.
Relieved of domestic and farm responsibilities by the Sprug and Schmidt clans, she had turned her energies toward acquiring more sheep and trying to find the ram she needed. Some of the local 4H members had been willing to sell their project sheep.
“I just wish they’d take money,” Flo muttered. “That little Rambouillet ewe cost me a whole three pound can. And J.D. just snickered, and said I should have expected a small town to know what I had stashed away. Smart aleck.”
Johan came in grinning. “Flo, another sheep coming. I think it is another wether.”
“You know the policy, Johan. We’ll buy it for its wool, but a wether can’t breed. Not more than one pound of coffee for a wether, and only if we can use the wool. If it’s another Suffolk or Hampshire, we don’t need it. When I think of the wool genes going to waste in the wethers we’ve bought, I could just bang my head against a wall.”
“Ja, is just easier for Kinder to raise wether or ewe. Rams, they are harder to handle. But, we have some ewes, you know. They will work in program. Little rams, they put on weight. Maybe only one year with Brillo.” Johan went out again to deal with whatever teenager had shown up.
Flo was happy to leave the bargaining to Johan. She knew she was too soft hearted with the kids. They were all tired from the walk and Flo hated to disappoint them. She bought any ewe, regardless of breed, intending to improve the wool quality in the coming generations. “Those Suffolks and Hampshires were always intended for meat. The kids knew they shouldn’t make pets of them and get too attached.” Flo held herself firmly in place. “If I go out there, the teary eyes will get to me again. I’ll just stay here till it’s over.”
Flo hadn’t been very successful at becoming a hard-hearted businesswoman. It took a lot of effort to turn someone down. She was learning, though, and the coffee stash had come in handy. As supplies had dwindled, coffee was more and more in demand. Flo saw no reason not to use it as a trade item. Nor the rest of the little luxuries stashed in her freezer. These days, a bag of chocolate chips was worth its weight in gold. It was small things, like chocolate chips, candy bars, and cheese puffs, that people missed most.
* * *
Herr Oswald Ulman had risen to new heights in his shouting. Farley Utt was trying to do the right thing here. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but Maggie was twenty and he loved her. It wasn’t the end of the world to marry a little sooner than they’d planned. If the old man would just stop the hollering, maybe they could get this settled.
With a last, thundering shout, Herr Ulman slammed out of the door. Maggie, in tears, turned to Farley.
“What’s wrong, Maggie? He didn’t call you any bad names, did he?” Farley asked, worried sick. “Did you make him understand? And I don’t understand why he keeps calling me an Arminian. I’ve told him a dozen times that I’m an American and a Methodist. It’s not like I’m an atheist or something.”
“Papa says that all Americans are too easy with religion. They do not believe as he does. He does not like this. He will not listen and he will not understand. He says I must leave, now, and I must never come back. He says you will be killed in the war and I must not be a beggar. I am allowed to pack my things. We must leave, soon.”
“Do you mean he’s disowned you
?” Farley was outraged at what he felt was an overreaction. “Why the old jerk, I ought to . . .”
“No, mein Farley, it will do no good. We will go. Do you still want me, now I am not a woman of wealth?” Maggie looked up at Farley, concern in her eyes.
“Of course, I still want you. No matter what, I’ll always want you. We’ll go to Grantville and find our own place. Mom and Dad will be happy for us, you’ll see. We’ll get by, and when the war is over I’ll find another way to make a living. We don’t need your father, or his property. I never wanted to farm, anyhow.”
“Good,” said Margaretha Ulman, soon to be Maggie Utt. “We must hurry. Papa will be back with the sheep zoon.”
As Maggie turned away, Farley thought, panicked, Sheep! What sheep?
An hour or so later, as he struggled to keep the stubborn, stupid, ornery sheep headed in the right direction, Farley decided the old man had done it on purpose, just so he could laugh at him. They’d show him. Somehow, all seven of these rotten, stinking animals were going to make it to Grantville. Maggie and he were going to get married, and someday that old coot would regret this. Farley just really dreaded what the lieutenant was going to say when he saw the sheep.
* * *
“Sure, Mary Ellen, I’ll see you then.” Flo hung up the phone and went to find Anna or Ilsa.
She found them checking on one of the crock pots.
“Anna, Mary Ellen is coming out with J.D. when he comes home, along with two other folks. I’m not sure who, but we’ll need three extra plates at the table tonight, if we can manage.”
“Sure, Flo, we just add another jar of potatoes to stew.” Anna and Ilsa started giggling again.
I wonder why the two of them are forever giggling about those new potatoes I canned? Flo thought, as she headed for the pantry. When she’d told Anna that J.D. loved new potatoes and green beans, you’d have thought she’d said something dirty. Flo did have to admit that they were better at stretching supplies than anyone she’d ever heard of.
Flo cooked, now and then, whenever she and J.D. felt the need for a roast or some other meat dish. Most of the time, however, the meals were soup, soup and more soup. “And don’t forget, bread, bread and more bread,” Flo grumbled. They had taken to baking their own bread, as it meant fewer trips to town and ovens were already here. Still, Flo continued musing, That “duenne suppe” stuff and a slice of bread just isn’t a substitute for a pot of coffee with bacon, eggs and toast. Guess we’ll all have to get used to it, though.
* * *
Chores were done and everyone had cleaned up from the day’s work. They were all waiting for J.D. and Mary Ellen to arrive. Some of the younger children had already been fed and were being prepared for bed by Anna and Ilsa.
Johan and Wilhelm were taking this opportunity to discuss possibilities for expansion. “Will need more space someday, Flo. Even with Brillo, will be good increase in sheep next year. Should prepare for it.” Wilhelm was an ambitious man.
“I know, Wilhelm, I know. We’ll look into it. Right now, I’d like to know what’s keeping J.D. and Mary Ellen . . . Never mind, I think I hear the truck now.”
J.D. pulled the truck up in front of the garage. What’s he doing with a stock trailer? Flo wondered. And isn’t that Farley Utt? What’s he doing here? I thought he was off with the army.
Mary Ellen was smiling as she brought forward a pretty brunette. “Flo, I’d like you to meet Margaretha . . .”
“Maggie. I will be Maggie in my new life, please,” the young woman interrupted.
“Very well. Flo, I’d like you to meet Maggie Utt. She and Farley were married this afternoon. I thought of you when Maggie told me her story. Gary and Maylene have a full house already, anyway.”
“I have a fairly full house, myself, Mary Ellen. Why would you think of me? I know Farley from church, but . . .”
Flo looked up as J.D. shouted her name.
“Because of these, Flo.” Mary Ellen was grinning from ear to ear as she pointed at the trailer. “They’re Maggie’s dowry. She’s been disinherited, but her father gave her these.”
The ewes, which appeared to be at least three-quarters Merino, weren’t interested in trying the ramp yet. But the ram, the beautiful, heavily fleeced, mature ram, stalked down the ramp as though he knew exactly why he was here. He was there to breed.
* * *
Oh, shoot. The rabbits Flo thought.
Flo glared at the rabbits. Then she glared at Johan. By now Johan knew that it wasn’t really directed at him. At least he hoped it wasn’t. He had talked to J.D. about it. Flo took a great deal on herself and got upset when she made mistakes. All of the people around all the time wasn’t helping. She was concerned about their welfare, Johan’s family and the other down-timers, and afraid she might make a mistake. Plus, she was almost out of that vile coffee stuff she liked so much.
“Okay,” she asked, “how many?”
“Twenty-five.” Johan said. Last night three of the does had litters of baby rabbits. The others were pregnant. More of that marvelous angora hair. They were going to get so rich.
“Okay,” she said, “each of the does has had an average of eight babies, right?”
Johan nodded cautiously. There had been something in Flo’s tone. Like she was trying not to yell.
“So in the next couple of weeks we’ve got a lot of baby rabbits coming. Half of which will be female, or a bit more. We had forty does from the last cycle. Plus the ten mothers. Fifty does. Average of eight babies. Every three months or so . . . that’s a lot of new rabbits in three months . . . half of them female . . . plus what we started with . . . that gives us about two hundred breeding does . . . Is that right?” Flo looked up at Johan. How did she seem so big. She was only five foot one.
“Two hundred and fifty,” Johan said. “Then one thousand two hundred and fifty at the next cycle. Very good ratio.” He pronounced the word carefully. “Rabbits are very good return on investment. But it won’t happen that way.” He added regretfully. “We use separate cages to limit the breeding.” Then he grinned. “No Brillo rabbits to break into the does cages.”
Flo wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know. Some of those bucks are mean.”
“Meat.” Johan’s voice was flat.
“They’re not exactly bred for meat,” she pointed out.
“Hardly matters,” Johan said. His blond hair fell over his eyes as he shook his head. “Meat is meat. We want only the best. Best wool. Easiest to manage.”
Flo swallowed the bile. “Fine, Johan,” she said. “We’ll breed the best, and keep the rest in separate cages.” Johan could tell that Flo didn’t like it either. He hated giving up the fur they could produce. They were a resource he hated to lose, but the feed situation, not to mention the space situation, was going to get out of hand real soon. Johan wished there were some way to spread the load.
* * *
“You’ll like her,” Mary Lee Newhouse said. “She’s about as down to earth as anyone ever was.” They were walking up Flo Richards’s long drive. “See?” Mary Lee flipped her hand, indicating the farm. “She’s got her stuff together.”
Clara Kunze, or Kunzin as the Germans would say, the wife of Herr Junker from Badenburg who had sold the Lehen on a farm to Mary Lee’s husband, looked at her. She lifted a pale eyebrow. “This friend of yours, Flo? She’s the one who claims that her wool is better than any wool in Thuringia? Why should I believe that?”
“Because it is.” Mary Lee said. “I’ve known Flo for years. Went to school with her.” Had been there for the infamous cheerleader episode. Had cheered Flo on, for that matter. Quietly, of course. Grantville was a small town. It didn’t do to make more enemies than you had to.
“Flo,” Mary Lee said, “will have an answer for your widows.” She hoped. There were widows in Sundremda and she knew from Clara that there were others. Every village had them; more now, because of the war. They made their living, what living they had, by spinning wool. Flo knew about wool; mayb
e she would have an idea.
Mary Lee knew that wasn’t all of it. Clara was worried about a number of things. Only one of them was the plight of the widows in the villages her husband held Lehen on. Mary Lee wasn’t real fond of the stuck up Claus Junker but she at least respected the fact that he wouldn’t put a widow or orphan out, rent or no rent. Still, if those women could make a fairly decent living, it would help. Clara had made it very clear that what she didn’t want was another Guffy Pomeroy. They’d reached the porch. She rang the bell and hoped.
She rang the bell again, when Flo didn’t answer.
“I know she’s here,” Mary Lee muttered. “I checked with J.D.”
After the second ring, Flo pulled the door open. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you, Mary Lee. Come on in."
Flo waved them in. She looked . . . well, while Mary Lee hated the term, Flo looked stressed out. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“C’mon to the kitchen,” Flo said. Grumpily. A glance told Mary Lee that Clara was not pleased with this lack of manners. Clara was pretty down to earth as upper class town women went, but even the best of them didn’t care for being ignored or treated rudely.
Mary Lee and Clara followed. “Flo,” Mary Lee said, “do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”
Flo’s bangs fell over her eyes as she looked fierce. “I,” Flo said, “am sick of this place. The problems. Trying to deal with it. All of a sudden, I’ve got too many rabbits and not enough angora. I’ve got a ram that doesn’t have wool, he’s got steel wool. And he keeps getting loose. I’m afraid he’s going to get to Jen’s Merinos, that . . . thing.” Flo’s face was flushed. “And not only that . . .” She gestured around the room . . . “I’m having to cut back on coffee.”
“Oops.” Mary Lee stifled a grin. Flo had been hooked on coffee since she was about eight years old. “That bad, huh?”
Flo glared at her. “You can laugh.” Then she looked at Clara. “Sorry,” she said, then blushed a bit. “I’ve forgotten my manners. May I offer you something to drink?”
