Just call it the $300 Egg…
Egg at last, Egg at last, good god almighty, Egg at last! We came home from the Giddings Word Wrangler Festival last night (of which more to follow) to find that one of our two hens had produced an egg! And this morning, there were two more eggs! Three eggs – ah-hah-hah-hah)
More to follow, tomorrow. I shall make a country omelet out of them for tomorrow’s dinner, and at last we will know what really fresh, free-range eggs really taste like.
Well … a deep subject as the old gag goes. I spent much of my working day yesterday polishing off the next-to-last chapter of Sunset and Steel Rails; just one more chapter, to deal with an emotional climax in the life of the heroine – just as the Galveston Hurricane of 1900 is putting the whole place under water. This has me reading and rereading accounts of the hurricane itself, and teasing out certain details. I sat out a typhoon once, in Misawa in the late 1970s, and one of the things that I remembered most vividly was how very powerful the storm winds were, and how exhausting it was to try and walk against them, even when slacked off to about 75MPH, when we were all permitted to leave quarters. Misawa – about ten miles inland, was maybe a foot above sea level on the main part of the base, so … the authorities paid attention to disastrous possibilities.
Eh – the book will likely top out at about 300 pages, once the editing and the review by the Alpha reader is finished, but I hope to have it done and ready for launch this coming holiday season. This is the book about a proper young Bostonian who comes west as a Harvey Girl, marries Magda Becker’s scapegrace and apparently-confirmed bachelor brother Fredi, and discovers belatedly that a) he is much better husband materiel than previously assumed and b) she is more closely related to the extended Becker-Vining clan than she thought at first. Her motivation for a sudden career change and departure to the Far West is due to the machinations of her sociopathic older brother … but enough of that. Dramatic possibilities galore and just leave it at that.
The rest of the afternoon was given over to printing up flyers on nice expensive heavy paper for this week’s first Book Event of the Season. Likely I have killed much of the printer ink in the color and black cartridges by this exercise … but, the Giddings Word Wrangler event is one that I am thrilled to be a part of, since it was by application and invitation, and it is in association with a library … ah, libraries. When I was a kidlet and a young adult, I practically lived in libraries. Now I also live in a library, but it is an ordinary house with a lot of books stuffed in it. Yes, the last time I moved from overseas, the guys packing the household goods had a bet going, on how many boxes of books there would be. IIRC, it topped out at 63, and that was in 1990, so one can only imagine how many more there are now.
There is also stuff to do with the Tiny Publishing Bidness – other people’s books besides my own. Wrapped up a book for a regular client, have a big meet scheduled to maybe wrap up another one, some potential new client books to spec out … yeah, the days are full. And then there is the semi-regular brush and tree-trimming collection in my neighborhood. Blondie and I spent several days with a pruning saw and dragging branches from small trees out to what is now a substantial pile in front. As it is still eye-bleedingly hot in this part of Texas, this constituted a perfectly exhausting effort on our part.
Finally, our Pullet Surprise; yes, the backyard chickens – still no eggs yet, although the three of them are supposedly closing in on maturity, and ever-more-close-to delivering on the promise of eggs, which is why we started down this line of back-yard farming in May. It seems, alas, that the science of sexing juvenile chickens was not all that advanced at the poultry farm where we purchased the girls. The biggest of the three so-called pullets – which we had previously assumed was just older and more developed – is a rooster. We’ve both gone and compared pictures of mature Barred Rock roosters with our chicken critter … Yep; we can’t escape science. Got spurs developing, longer tail-feathers, impressively dark red crest and magnificent jowls, and a bigger and more impressive set of neck-feathers. Not good in one way – we wanted eggs, dammit, but good in another. The other two girls will be protected against hawks, feral cats and other chicken-slaughtering wildlife, and if we do want to start chicken-raising in a mild way; well, here is the raw materiel. Larry, Maureen and Carly – welcome to our (slightly adjusted) enterprise.
We rather like the chickens, BTW. Maureen is entirely agreeable to being picked up, and having her chin scratched, Carly is not quite so cooperative, and neither is Larry – but he does like having his chin rubbed, too. And that was my week ….
For a long time, especially after that tour in Greenland – thirty miles north of the Arctic Circle, among the rocks and glaciers, the ravens and the little furry arctic foxes whose pelts turned from brownish to pure white in winter – I rather liked Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Darkover novels. Likely this is because I could relate very well, to being stuck in an isolated, cold and dim place, at the far end of the supply chain, far and away from sunshine, family and the accustomed amusements. I sympathized deeply with the Terrans who got assigned to that cold, forested planet with one dim red sun and four moons: seriously, Greenland didn’t seem very far removed or alien from all that. I bought several of the Darkover series from the Stars and Stripes bookstore in Athens, ordered most of the rest from the publisher later on, even essayed a couple of short stories myself, after reading some of the fan-fic anthology collections and thinking to myself, “Oh, heck – I can do much better than that!” I went as far as submitting a story for a new anthology, only alas, by the time I got to it, MZB had stopped doing them altogether, and the submission was returned, with the usual curt rejection letter also adorned with a stern warning regarding violating MZB’s copyright by committing fan-fic set in “her” world. Spending so much of those years overseas, I was barely aware that there were such things as science fiction conventions anyway. Only when I got to Salt Lake City, and discovered that the various local science fiction, fantasy and Society for Creative Anachronism enthusiasts held one downtown annually, did I find out about cons, or how much fun they were.
No, I never met any famous, near-famous, or even up and coming authors. Basically, the Salt Lake City con was more a chance for local fans to dress in costume, and maybe collect an autograph from an actor or two who played a character in one of the Star Trek iterations. Somewhere I have one from Armin Shimerman … who is a real hoot as a raconteur, and totally at home with playing a slippery character. Because, of course – as he said modestly, “They paid me lots of money.”
But long after I left the military, I still had a soft spot for Darkover, and ventured into The Mists of Avalon – being an enthusiast for things Arthurian from way back. I even bought some of the other non-Darkover books, including one which the Daughter Unit insists indignantly that I should not have ever let her read. This was The Firebrand – a retelling of the Trojan War from the point of view of the prophetess Cassandra. Part of the fall of Troy involves the incidental rape of a young girl, which horrified my daughter – even more so, to read this year of matters relating to MZB’s personal life and the ongoing abuse that her daughter was subjected to … by both parents, it seems. The matter of MZB’s husband being a notorious pedophile – and this being common knowledge among con-goers in the 70s and 80s came up in several discussion threads earlier this year in regards to the Great Hugo Sad Puppies Flap, to the astonished dismay of certain of us who had not been die-hard con-attendees or writers trying to break into any kind of mainstream – science fiction or otherwise – for more than the last decade or so. (The full horrifying testament by MZB’s daughter is linked here.)
The term “horrified” just doesn’t begin to describe my initial reaction … look, it’s no news to me that there have been writers with rackety and disreputable lives, sometimes even involving courtrooms and prison sentences of varying terms, whether justified or not. But this is far, far beyond my toleration – perpetuating and turning a blind eye to sex abuse of a child … really, how much of that episode in The Firebrand drew on real life and first-hand experience, tell me? Looking back now — her books all seem to me to be tainted with a particularly ugly miasma. Certain passages, incidents and characters … I would have to close the book and walk away, now, for now they feel like something drawn on more than imagination alone.
No, I’m not going to rush out and burn those books of hers that I have, or dump them on Goodwill – but I can’t have them on my shelves now, even remembering what enjoyment I once took from them, or even some of the lessons in world-construction and story-telling that I gained. So, into a box they go, and buried out in the garage someplace far back in a corner. There are quite a few of them, I am rather astonished to see – the box is more than filled, and likely I will have to find a larger one, once we find that copy of Mists of Avalon. Yep, that goes, too.
A week ago today we brought home the old-fashioned vintage armoire that someone in the neighborhood had put out for the bulk trash pick-up, and stashed it on the back porch, to await the judgement of a neighbor who does wonderful woodworking. He came over and briefly looked at it, gave his opinion that yes, it was pretty old, a good bit of it was mahogany, recommended a good wood glue and shellac for finishing, and wished us luck – as it looked as if it would be a pretty nice piece, once repaired.
Some of the brass bits, after cleaning.
So, this week, we began taking it apart; detaching the doors and all the brass parts, the mirror, and the interior shelves. Most of the attachment was by long wood screws, augmented by thin panel nails along the angles where the top, bottom, back and sides met. Both the bottom sides had become very loose – and where the skirting around the bottom had been pulled away, there were a fair number of sharp ends of nails sticking out. So – we did a little more disassembling, and pulled out all the nails, and today we began reassembling, with an installation of fresh wood glue, new and longer panel nails and re-setting the screws which held it together at essential points. It is so humid today – more rain expected – that the glue is taking forever to harden. So – the whole thing is left for overnight, with clamps in place. My daughter is polishing and cleaning up all the brass bits – the hinges, lock and catches, et cetera.
The inside – stripped out
We did a run to Lowe’s for glue, steel wool, a can of shellac and four casters to mount on the bottom corners, for this sucker is a heavy one. When we turned it on its side so that we could look at the bottom, we could see where there were inch-thick squares glued to each corner. It looks like the armoire had been put together with the option of installing casters if the customer wanted them, but I’ll have to cut and apply another wood square of the same dimension so that the rollers will stand slightly taller than the reinstalled skirting.
Lower left corner, glued, clamped and re-nailed
This first bit is is just insuring that the basic box of the armoire is all square and stable, and the angles and corners are tight. Once that is accomplished, we’ll install the casters, and turn it right side-up. Likely we’ll move it into the house before we reinstall the doors – because that makes it about twice as heavy and hard to maneuver. The eventual purpose is to make it into a media cabinet, and have it in the den with the TV on a set of folding shelves or a stand inside.
“It was marvelous!” Sophia exclaimed to the waiting Jenny Maitland, on her return to the sleeping Harvey House, with the salver, pot and plate which had borne the special meal. Yawning, Sophia carried them through into the kitchen. “Mrs. Vining showed me a stateroom and the offices! There was a dining room, too – but that was where Mr. Richter’s coffin was in state. There is a tiny kitchen, and a little cabin for the staff, and everything so cunningly contrived! And she was very kind, and wanted to hear ever so much more. I would have not expected the daughter of a rich cattle baron to be so … down to earth. But she told me that when she first married, she and her husband would go up the trail between Texas and Kansas with cattle herds … and she being the only woman among them.”
“You were there for such a long time,” Jenny said. “I would have worried – but then I knew you would have to bring back the china.”
“They so appreciated the meal, and all,” Sophia assured her. “Mrs. Vining promised to send a letter of thanks directly to Mr. Harvey and Mr. Steinmetz said that it was so late at night that he would accompany me to the door. He also was very pleasant and considerate. It has been such a long time since I was able to speak German.”
“Mr. Fred Harvey doubtless will be very pleased,” Jenny agreed, yawning. “Oh, my, am I tired! This will be almost like being mentioned in dispatches, for us. Tell me all about the parlor car tomorrow – I am certain the other girls will have a thousand questions.” She yawned again, and turned to lock the door at the top of the stairs behind them, as they passed through. “Sleep well, Sophie – and bundle up the quilts on your bed tonight, for winter is on us and tonight is supposed to be cold. Mr. Boatwright had a message from the telegraphist in La Junta – there is a storm blowing east. They have had snow falling there all day. Likely we will have it tonight.”
“I hate to see summer go,” Sophia mused. “I’ve always hated being cold.”
“The benefits of having our rooms over the kitchens,” Jenny agreed. “Unpleasant in summer, but welcome in the winter. Good night, Sophia.”
“Good night, Miss Maitland.” Sophia went to her own room, made a hasty preparation for bed, her feet already cold once she removed her shoes. Laura was already asleep, her breathing the only sound within the room. A cold wind rattled the panes of glass, and in the distance, before she fell into her own sleep, Sophia heard the whistle of a steam engine, heavy wheels grinding against the rails – it seemed that the special train was already on its way, returning to Texas. The passage of it vibrated the station building very slightly, and then it was gone, leaving winter behind, with the soft rustle of the first heavy flakes of snow falling and brushing against the windows.
By the following morning, it was very obvious that winter had arrived in Kansas, and Sophia was more than grateful for her new coat, and the warmth of those flannel petticoats. The cold was a dry cold, not as damp and miserable as winters were prone to be in Kansas, but the winds were merciless. Most mornings, the windowsill was dusted with a layer of snow which had sifted through the cracks around the window-frames and the glass itself covered thick in the geometrical scrawls of frost. Not for the west a gentle veil of falling snow, whispering and rustling as it fell – no, here the wind propelled the snow in hard, gritty pellets that felt like small hail and stung the exposed flesh. The very air sometimes was so cold that it scorched like icy fire and stung in her nose and throat – no, there were some days when to walk across to the bank, Sophia must wrap her muffler twice around her face, because it would hurt to take a deep breath.
No more the excursions out to the countryside for picnics with Bill Boatwright, and Laura and her young swain. Sophia’s one day off was more likely spent in the parlor, sewing and reading, or sometimes playing children’s card games with the other girls. Nothing stopped the regular train schedule, although there were some storms which came very close to doing so. Passengers, supplies, mail and newspapers arrived from east and west without fail. On a Sunday morning in December, Sophia rewarded herself with a copy of the latest Boston Herald, and settled in for a leisurely read of it. Her feelings, on leafing through the pages of newsprint were an odd mixture of nostalgia at reading of familiar places, the scattering of familiar names as welcome as having caught sight of them in the street or walking in the Public Garden, and satisfaction that she was doing so from far, far away – as if she stood outside the bars of a cage and watched a dangerous tiger pace back and forth.
She turned the page, and her eyes fell on a familiar name – indeed, one which almost leapt at her like that tiger.
Miss Minerva Templeton Vining, late of this City.
Aunt Minnie. Sophia felt a chill in her heart, which had absolutely nothing to do with the icy draft from the closest window. She was reading the social pages, a collection of short paragraphs on the travels and doings of various prominent or near-to-prominent citizens. She found the start of the item and read it carefully, as if to distill the import of every word.
We have lately received word from a correspondent in Newport that Miss Minerva Templeton Vining, late of this City, has passed to her final heavenly reward at a private residence in Newport, attended devotedly in her final decline by her dearest friends. Our Readers of a certain age will fondly recall that dauntless lady as a stalwart speaker on behalf of the Abolitionist cause, her volunteer service with the Sanitary Commission nursing the wounded in the Late Conflict, and her devotion to and support of many other worthy and charitable causes in our City such as Temperance, Female Suffrage and the education of the Poor. Miss Vining was the last surviving offspring of Judge Lycurgus Saltinstall Vining, a magnate in the China trade, whose many descendants still inhabit this city. We offer up our most sincere consolation to her friends, associates and family, who – we are certain – will miss her lively presence on the social and charitable scene immensely. Her obituary and notice of memorial services will be published as soon as they are available to us.
I wish that I could have been able to write to her, Sophia thought, as she laid aside the Herald. Let her know that I was safe – she believed me at the last. But I couldn’t – a letter, a careless word – that would have put the both of us in danger, and the Teagues as well. I put nothing past Richard – he would have found a way, I know he would have. His viciousness in that respect was something only the readers of the worst kind of dime novels might have credited. Old Tim, Declan, Seamus and Agnes – yes, he would have done his worst on them in revenge. Richard’s malice and cunning were all too real, all too effective, being a man from an old and respected family. I hope that Mrs. Kempton wrote to her, and remembered to say that she had encountered a certain girl named Sophia in Kansas … that news might have lightened her grief, and provided comfort. Dear Great-aunt Minnie …
The door to the parlor swung open, admitting Laura, already dressed for the outdoors. “There you are, Sophie! You simply must come sleigh-riding with us – the day is so fine and clear, and the snow is packed! Mr. Belton has a sleigh and team…”
“I …” It was in her mind to refuse, but Laura cried impatiently,
“You cannot stay in the parlor all day, reading your silly newspaper – you will have cobwebs in your head. Let the fresh air blow them away!”
“All right,” Sophia agreed. She folded up the newspaper carefully, taking it to her room. No, Laura was right. Fresh air would do her good, and if winter so far was any indication, the next fair day might not fall on a Sunday.
She donned her coat and warmest hood, thrust mittens onto her hands, and ran downstairs: before the Newton station, a team of horses waited in harness to an open two-seat cutter. The bells on their harness jingled sweetly as they tossed their heads and shifted impatiently. Andrew Belton – the telegraphist who was walking out with Laura hopped down from the driver’s seat. Bill Boatwright sat with the reins in his gloved hands – he grinned at the girls, saying,
“About time! I thought you would take all morning. Andrew kissed Laura on one cheek, and said,
“Get in, girls – the time is passing and the horses are impatient!” He handed them up to the back seat, which was piled high with a pair of heavy buffalo robes. “There’s a foot-stove, down at the bottom, and some more blankets under the robes!”
“This is fun!” Laura bounced up into the cutter, pulling aside the robes and blankets. “My brothers and their friends, they used to race on winter days! As fast as the trains!”
“Settled?” Bill Boatwright asked over his shoulder, as Sophia burrowed under the robes and blankets. There was a puddle of warmth at her feet – the foot-stove, fully charged with fresh coals. “Then let ‘er rip!” He slapped the reins on the horses backs, and they set off at a lively trot. The runners made little but a faint rasp on the new snow, and the horses’ hooves were muffled by it – the loudest thing by far the jingling bells on the horse harness. The air blew ice-water cold on Sophia’s cheeks: she and Laura had the buffalo robes pulled up nearly to their shoulders, for there was no shelter from it in an open sleigh. The men were talking together, as was their custom.
“Something has made you sad, Sophia,” Laura asked, most unexpectedly. “I will listen, if you wish to tell me what it is. Was it something in your newspaper?”
“Yes,” Sophia acknowledged, at last. This was something she had kept to herself for more than half a year. The sound of the horses’ hoofs crunching on snow, their harness bells chiming provided a cover for quiet conversation. “The death of … someone who was very close to me. And I am sad not just because I will miss her very much, but that I couldn’t tell her about … where I was. In the west. Working for Mr. Harvey. She would have approved, very much, I think.”
“Why could you not write to her?” Laura sounded very puzzled.
“Because two can keep a secret if one of them is dead,” Sophia replied with a bitter laugh. “There was a man who threatened our lives. He was cruel and vicious, and stopped at nothing when he was thwarted. I had to get away, you see. And I could not tell anyone where I was going. I was afraid that this man – if he found out that my … my friends had helped me – if he even knew I was alive, then he would hurt them, somehow. I had to let everyone think that I was dead, you see. For their safety and mine.”
“So,” Laura mused. “You’re name is not really Teague? And everyone where you came from thinks that you are dead?”
“I call myself Teague, now,” Sophia insisted. “Because … they were kind and loyal to me. Not my family – to me. And I suppose that the person that I used to be is dead. At least, I know that Richard thinks so.”
“Richard?” Laura’s blue eyes widened. “You have said that name, sometimes in your sleep. Your husband?”
“No,” Sophia laughed, curt and bitter. “My brother. My older brother. I used to adore him, when I was a child. But I wonder now, if he was ever really what he seemed to be. My great-aunt’s companion said that she thought he was evil.”
“A brother?” Laura exclaimed. “But you always say that you are orphan, with no brother or sister.”
“He treated me so abominably,” Sophia answered, “That I began doubting we were truly kin to each other at all. My great-aunt said in her last letter, that sometimes my mother said she could see a demon in his eyes. Although he carried out a pretense of being an amiable and well-mannered gentleman … I had reason to think that his wife feared him. And then I began to believe that he would kill me, as he had killed the birds.”
“Oh, Sophie!” Laura fumbled for Sophie’s mitten-clad hands underneath the robe, and took them into hers. “How horrid – I would never have believed!”
“I think that he took a pleasure in tormenting animals. People, too. When I was a small child, I wanted a kitten. My mother forbade it. I thought she was unreasonable, cruel, even … but she was afraid that Richard would harm it. I think now,” Sophia’s voice dropped as she considered certain of her childhood memories. “That when I was a small girl, my mother feared that Richard might do the same with me. He never did … well, not up until the last. Then I too, began to see the demon in his eyes. But he fooled nearly everyone, Laura. And he is a … a well-respected man in Boston; a man of power and position. I could not risk the lives of my friends. I did send by a round-about means, a message to my great-aunt that I was alive and safe. I cannot be certain that she ever received it.”
The two girls sat, huddled together against the cold, warm under the buffalo robes. Now they were out at the edge of town, into snow-clad fields and meadows unrolling on either side, broken here and there with a line of leafless brush or scrub-trees casting long blue shadows on the pure white snow.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you did not believe me,” Sophia observed at last. “It must seem quite … melodramatic to you – a brother like mine.”
“No,” Laura shook her head. “Not at all. There was a boy once – the age of my oldest brothers, from the other side of town. Only son, only child. His parents farmed a little … and he was odd. So my brothers always said. They did not like him, much, although his mother and father were friends to all, and they were schoolboys together. But there was something strange about him. They said that he also liked to do cruel things to the animals, but sneaky in doing so … bungle killing a chicken, so that he could watch it running around and laugh as it died slowly. Trap a rabbit in the field, watch as it writhed in agony. He was teased as a child, for he wet the bed at night. His poor mama – who must wash the sheets and nightshirt always! And he liked watching fire. Of this my brothers said, often, when this was spoken of. He loved to start a fire – and watch it with a gloating expression. My brothers,” Laura drew in her breath with a hiss. “They said the same as you – there was a demon in his eyes at such times. I have not thought of this for many years, Sophie – this was when I was a little girl and much has happened since then.”
“What happened to this boy?” Sophia asked, hardly daring to draw a breath. Yes – this did sound dreadfully like Richard. Laura shrugged.
“There was a fire one night, which burned up the farmhouse and killed his parents together. He lost the farm, and went to work as a hired man in the next town. One night, he killed the farmer for whom he worked with a shotgun … he was tried and convicted, but everyone said he was insane. He was sent to the St. Peter State Hospital. I think he died in a fire there … my brothers wondered if he had a hand in it.”
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