The Wedding Gifts

Gift Box Wedding Cake by pinkcakebox

The plates have chipped,
the cups have cracked.
It's much too late
to take them back.

The quilts have ripped,
the towels are rough.
The toaster works--
one side's enough.

Two decades and
four thousand miles
are hard on dishes
and textiles.

The best gifts never
fade, you see:
of me for you,
and you for me.



For my dear husband

Dear Uncle Theo

A Magpie Tale

Keene Township, Ohio

May 25, 1893

Dear Uncle Theo,

     I hope this letter finds you safe and well in the big city.  We all miss you, though none so much as Archippos.  Mother mutters that he must be a faithful hound indeed to whine and howl at the absence of such a master.  She has not forgiven you for taking your journey during the planting season.  "Any able-bodied man . . . " she says when Archippos barks, glancing at Father in the corner.  "I shall never understand my brother."

     I understand, of course.  And the young man you hired to take your place on the farm is quite agreeable.  Abel speaks politely and works hard, and the crops are coming along quite well with his assistance.  Still, you had not been gone a week before Mother turned Abel out of your room and installed a lodger there.  Abel nodded and said, "Yes'm," and took his little bundle out to the hayloft.  John, though, was furious.  You know my brother's temper.  He told Mother that if Abel was to sleep outside, that he would, too.  Mother simply shrugged.  I almost envy the boys out there, with no one shushing them after prayers.  Mother would probably let out John's room, too, if she could find a soul desperate enough to live in his musty garret.  

    I do not trust the lodger, Mr. Schneeman.  He leers at Mother with his coal-black eyes and sniffs his sharp nose before every blessed thing he says.  I think Mother hoped he'd pity us and help out on the farm, but he does no such thing.  He claims to be a traveling salesman, and leaves the homestead with his mysterious painted cart every morning.  He must not travel far, though, for he returns to the supper table promptly every evening.  When we're washing up, Mother grumbles that Mr. Schneeman eats far more than his share, but she won't say a thing to him.  She is afraid to lose his money.

     Archippos is howling again.  I am sure he does miss you, but I think there is more to his distress.  The hens have been acting most peculiarly, and even placid Bossy has been skittish in the milk stall.  I think the pixies have gotten in again.  Mother won't hear anything about it, though.  What shall I do?

     Father shakes his head and says that none of this would ever have happened if Mr. Buchanan had not been reelected.  But that is what he always says, so no one pays him any mind.

     Have you found what you were seeking?  I wish I could join you and see the great Columbian Exposition, but I cannot leave Mother now.  She would likely rent my little room out to someone even more disagreeable than Mr. Schneeman.

Your faithful niece,

Susannah

P.S.:  Who wants to play the Letter Game?

Mack

A Magpie Tale

 

Squall, 1986, by Andrew Wyeth

 

     Mack looked forward to heavy weather. Whipping wind, lashing rain--the elements were his element. It was no good hanging around inside all day.  He had to admit he was getting a little old, a little stiff.  But he revived at the touch of salt spray whenever he went out with Jem on the troller. 

     He'd seen those city slickers, trying their luck at sport fishing.  Sure, they looked bold and smart as they pulled away from shore.  Out at sea, though, their thin skin showed.  In a real squall they absolutely went to pieces.  Mack was stalwart, impervious.

     Mack would do anything for Jem, of course.  They'd been working together for years now.  No words were necessary as they sailed, set the lines, hauled in the catch.  Mack moved with Jem, always supporting, protecting him.  They were a perfect fit, like good partners should be. 

     There was one thing Mack did not understand.  He had been with Jem through thick and thin.  He was no fair weather friend.  He'd endured the worst storms that the sea could throw at a boat, without a tear or complaint.  After all that, how could Jem call him "yellow"?

     Mack didn't ponder the question long as he hung from his hook.  He watched the sunlight slide across the whitewashed wall, across the scrubbed floor.  He felt the breeze through the open door, and set himself to figuring when the next squall would blow in, when Jem would take him out again.