Winter Soon

Go outside. Onto your front porch or into the parking lot. Breathe. In through your nose. Do you smell it? The barky, brownish-gray scent of smoke? Someone nearby must have lugged a portion of their woodpile inside and arranged it just so in the orifice of their hearth. Perhaps they then sprinkled it with a handful of fallen leaves from an oak or maple, pressed a button, and Floom! Flame emerged from a long-handled lighter. Created coziness.

            Inhale again. Is there something else? Indeed there is--the fragrance of the clouds when they prophesy, “Snow soon.” I love that ice-blue perfume, grin as it stirs remembrance on the inside of me. Do the math. Smoke somewhere + snow soon = my happiness.

            I’m craving another scent and I know how to make it happen. I enter my house from the evening dog walk and search determinedly for a box of matches. Here they are. So much better than a book of them. Uniform and diminutive, stand-at-attention-wearing-red-hats, suicide bombers. One or more of them will sacrifice themselves in the fire for the greater good—my olfactory pleasure.

            The lid of the candle jar settles on the entryway’s tabletop with a hula hoop’s 'round and 'round frenzy followed by a metallic Ca-lank! A pale redhead skitters across the strike strip then Fuwah! Becomes a brilliant, quivery tulip of light. Petal points twitch and sway when the furnace exhales with a grunt. Down into the charred jar I tuck my flame-bearing fingers. Kiss the black-blossomed wick with orange and purple. Invisible wafts of butter, yeast, and cinnamony sweetness rise. So does a corner of my mouth.

            I hurry to the entrance and unchain, unbolt, swing back the old, carved door. Elbow open the newer, top-to-bottom-glass storm door. I restrain the latter with my hip. Notice the slap of straight bitter cold on my left cheek. Relish the golden dry house heat on my right. I gather the night again. In through my nose. Fill my lungs completely with the knowledge of fire somewhere, snow soon, and imaginary treats baking. This, these, I love.

No More Messes

The dog got sick last night on boy child’s bed. He took to the stairs, all hands and feet, to tell us.  Sliced through a dream I never would’ve remembered had I not been wakened in its midst.

            The beautiful blonde boy who lives three doors down in the castle-looking house? His folks fussed him out for making his like-Drew-Barrymore-in-E.T. little sister have bad dreams.

            “Give her good ones,” the parents said. “Of silver and gold unicorns and pastel pink lollipops.”

            Weird with a beard, I remember thinking as I sat on the back porch in my Me-Jane nightgown, sleep still wrapped around my head like gauze.

            It was probably the anchovies. That made the dog hurl. No one but me knew they were in the substance that bathed the Cavatappi Nicoise. Gave it a mud-colored hue. The hairy slabs hid in the bell of the immersion blender, but I found all four of them. Whirled them into an omega 3-rich, silken sauce. Daisy, the not yet dead dog, received the rest of the fish on top of her kibble. Maybe one got stuck in her craw and she couldn’t stop the plunger action of her digestive system ‘til it evacuated.

           

The back porch light blinked Morse code messages into the night. Its motion sensor has never worked right. Not in the sixteen years we’ve lived in this house. I splayed my fingers on either side of my belly button. I was pregnant with the sandwich child the day we moved here. 

            I raked the mosquito bite on my neck and squinted out at the yard. In lightness and in dark, the dog snatched great mouthfuls of grass.  Puppy Pepcid. After a bit, she disappeared over the hill. I waited for the sound of heaves but it never came. I’ll be mopping in the morning. Least she’ll be gated in the kitchen. Vinyl’s way easier to wash than quilt, sheets, and mattress pad.

            I watched a leaf make its way to the ground, unable to resist gravity, all but a hint of green drained away. It’s almost time. Fall. Cooler weather, thankfully. Kids gone, all day, Monday through Friday. And then some. One down the hill to high school. Another a mile away to middle. The oldest off to college. Not here. She wanted to be anywhere but here. Reckon the others will say the same.

            I counted on my fingers. It’ll be this way for the next seven years. Someone departing every autumn. Me mourning. Then a one-year break before boy child ventures out into the world. Five minus three will equal two.

            I should’ve had six kids. That would’ve postponed the solitude. The quiet. The piercing. Right? Right?

            The dog won’t even be here. She’ll be gone by then too. I’ll have no more messes to clean. Except for my own. Laundry baskets heaped with soaked handkerchiefs for sure.

Never Say Never

“Mommy?  Why does that lady have a moustache?”

            I heard my molars clack together.  I kept 'em clenched.  Turned slowly.  Tried not to be obvious.  There she was.  Looked like she’d stepped right out of Little House on the Prairie.  Her blue calico dress L’d where it hit the ground.  A creamy apron, edged in eyelet, bathed her front.  Or is that called a pinafore?  A circle of lace hugged her storm-colored bun.  In her hands lay a hank of yarn, yellow-orange from an onion-skin dye bath.  Her blunt fingers caressed the fibers as she gazed off into the fire-colored foliage.  Whew!  I don't think she heard.

            I put my finger to my lips.  “Shhh!” I told my daughter.  “Remember the Thumper Rule?  If you can’t say anything nice—“

            “But, Mommy.  I wasn’t being--“

            I pounced my pointer finger on my lips and made mad eyes.  She shushed.  I pretended to fiddle with my younger daughter’s stroller blanket.  At the same time, I stole another glance at Gunsmoke gal from beneath my lashes.  I had to nip my lower lip to keep from gasping.  Cream-gone-to-butter strands sprouted above her pursed lips.  Honestly?  I’m not sure moustache was the right word for the thing.  It was more of a fringe.  Reminded me of the stringy edge of the off-white muffler my Nan made me years ago to match my camel-colored, Bobbi Brooks winter coat. 

            I murmured.  To me, not her.  “God bless her.  Why she doesn’t yank that thing is beyond me.” 

            I gave the stroller a shove to get it out of a mud rut.  Then I couldn’t help myself.  I did a Lot’s wife.  Glanced back one more time.  I puffed at my bangs and shook my head.     
            “Gracious!  That’s never gonna be me.”

Know where you can find us the first Saturday of every October?  The Springs Festival in Springs, Pennsylvania, but don’t go on a Sunday.  It won’t be there.  Most everyone over that way, especially the Amish, Quaker, and Mennonite folk—will be in church ‘cause  Sunday’s the Lord’s Day.

            The first thing we do when we arrive is buy a couple homemade, soft pretzels.  I love the salt polka dots, almost big as pebbles, all over the glossy brown surface.  I squirt sunny mustard all over my pretzel and open wide.  The kids gobble theirs plain or with nacho cheese.  Fight over the leftover viscous orange sauce that  paints the waxed paper.

            I smile and hand the girl who can't stop blushing two dollars.
           “Two lemonades, please.  ‘Cause it’s so good, one is never enough.”

            Next we head for the Forest Trail.  My older daughter tugs at my jean jacket sleeve.    
             “Is it time, Mom?  Or did we miss it?  I hope not.  We've never missed it before.  Not even once.”

            I peruse the printed schedule.  “In five minutes the sheep shearing gal from Morgantown will be here.  Run up and save us a seat on the front row.  Or snag us one of those boulders, one that's dry.”

            We oooh and ah over the lamb getting its first ever haircut.  My girls tear up when "she" gets nicked in her pink, fleshy armpit. Of course, my daughters assume it's a girl. 
              After they pet the shorn she, we get back on the Forest Trail and continue the loop.  We pause at the soap maker and sniff every flavor of her essential oils.  Then we use broken pretzel sticks to sample all the dips and spreads the Tasty Shoppe vendor has to offer.  We listen closely as Musket Man, who looks like a skinny Santa in buckskin instead of red velvet, does his demo.  We can almost recite his whole spiel.  I cover my ears right before he pulls the trigger.  KABOOM!  I feel the sonic force in my skeleton.  We clap and he bows low.  I grin and toss my hair behind my shoulder when he winks at me.

            “There’s a blacksmith this year,” I tell the girls as we continue on.  “Let’s go see.  And then we’ll get homemade ice cream, pet the Alpacas, and buy a broom for Gram.”

            My older girl steps in front of me and locks her brown Bambi  eyes with my blue ones. 
           “Can we take a hayride too?  Pretty please?”

            I herd her close with my arm. Bend to kiss her curls.  “Of course, sweetie.  You know how this is.  We do every thing, every year.”

My younger daughter sits criss cross applesauce on the sidewalk next to the flagpole outside her middle school.  I pull alongside the curb and push the gearshift to P.  She stands.  Opens the back door.  Drops her bookbag on the seat.

            I look over my shoulder.  “Did you tell your music teacher you’ve got a good excuse for leaving play practice early? That we’re going to the Springs Festival?”

            She nods as she opens the front door.  “Can I ride shotgun?”

            “Sure.  You’re almost twelve.  But when we get your sister, she’ll probably--”

            “I know.  I know.   I’ll sit in the back then, with the little guy.”

            I flip the visor down to check my lipgloss status in the mirror.  I feel my daughter’s gaze and turn to her. 
            “What?”

            “There’s something on your face.  On your jaw right there.  An eyelash maybe?”

            I flip the visor back down.  “Where?”

            “There,” she says.  She puts her finger on my chin.  Jerks her hand back and rubs it on her shirt.

            I huff.  “What?  Why’d you do that?”

            Her mouth pulls to one side.  “’Cause it’s icky.  Wiry,” she said.  “You touch it.”

            I release my seat belt.  Scoot forward to get closer to the mirror.  My fingers search my jaw line.  Brush toward my neck, then away from it.  Finally my fingernails find the thing.  Tug. 
            “Oh, poop!”

            My daughter’s eyes are huge.  “What?  What is it?”

            “It’s attached, that’s what it is!”

            She makes a gagging noise.  “Ew!  Are you kidding?  Gross!”

            I yank, hard.  My eyes water.  I inspect the offender.  It's a silver S.  It almost gleams in the noon day sun.  A tiny speck of skin, a flesh rootball, clings to one end.  I hold it in a pincer grip.  Offer it to my daughter.  Her glossed lips curl and twitch.

            “What do you want me to do with it?”

            “Put it somewhere safe,” I say.  “’Til we get home.”

            I watch her swallow.  Her nostrils flare. “You’re not going to do that thing, are you?”

            I grin and re-buckle my seatbelt.  “Of course I am.”

            She moans and presses her palms into her eyelids.  “I hate that urn where you keep all our personal stuff. Our belly button stumps after they fell off, our first fingernail clippings, Dad’s super long eyebrow hair, L'il Paint's toe.  Do you know how weird you are?”

            I chuckle and put the car in drive.  “I think the word is sentimental, dear.”

            She shakes her head.  “No, I’m pretty sure it’s weird.” 

            She turns the radio on, then off.  “Oh, and just for the record?” she says.  “The whisker on the chin thing?  That’ll never happen to me.”

            I snort.  “Really?” I say.  “Oh, sweet pea.  If there’s one thing having children has taught me, it’s to never say never.”

Fall

Dana stood at the kitchen sink and looked out the window at the sunlight brightening some leaves.  At the shadows darkening others.  A yellow leaf fluttered to the ground. 

Fall.  I love it, and I hate it. 

As she waited for the coffee to brew, she opened the cabinet over the toaster oven and looked up at the white every day dishes.  No.  Not today.  Today I'll use china.  As she walked into the dining room, she shivered.  This weather's perfect.  It was almost 70, but with a cool, fresh breeze.  She felt it stir the tiny hairs on her arms.  She glanced down the front of her nightgown.  Saw where her tan flesh met her bathing suit line. 

She stood in front of the china closet.  I'll take the green one with the 14 karat gold detailing.  The door on the hutch squawnked as she opened it.  She looked over her shoulder.  Listened carefully.  Did it wake anyone?

It was the last day of summer break.  Last weekday.  On Monday, it would all start, and it would all end.  The sleeping late would stop.  The structure would begin.  Dana would watch her middle daughter walk down the street to high school.  She'd kiss her son on the street corner and wave goodbye as the bus to elementary school pulled away.  After that, she could do whatever she wanted.  They could do nothing they wanted, really.  Except for recess, maybe.  There was that one year the sandwich child had been banished to a bench.  For yelling too loud.  On the playground.  Dana had offered to homeschool the kids.  Three heads in a row moved left, right, left, right, like synchronized swimmers.  "Don't even think about it."  "I don't want to leave my friends."  "I want to be in band."  She'd exhaled a secret sigh of relief.  They're brilliant.  Way smarter than me.  I could never teach 'em calculus, physics.

The oldest daughter had determined to be a light.  "That's why I want to go to school."  To shine like a star in dark places.  She'd done it here, now she'd do it halfway 'round the world.  She'd hold little, golden hands and say, "Five minus one equals four," in Spanish.  She'd pray for her new friends to know what she knew, to feel the love she felt.

Dana warmed her hands on the delicate green cup.  She filled her nose with coffee steam.  It smelled strong.  She pushed the saucer to the side and laid her cheek on the glass table top.  Watched her breath form a circle of condensation.  I've done this for thirteen years now.  It never gets easier.  Every day had led up to this one.  Well, to Monday.  In the airport, she'd hug and kiss her oldest daughter and wave goodbye.  She'd say, "See you in . . . three months."

"On Skype, Mom.  I'll see you on Skype.  Tomorrow afternoon.  Remember?"

Then she'll hug me again.  "Please don't cry,  Mom.  I'll be fine."

And I'll grimace, sob, and be ugly, like a dried apple doll.  Only wet.  Soaking wet.

Dana heard the stairs creak.  The shush of feet headed toward the kitchen.  She picked up the edge of her nightgown.  Used it to wipe her tears. This fall.  She glared at the calendar.  I hate this fall.