Surreptitious Procurement

Melinda the Truckstop Waitress and Ms Prudence Blessing

This afternoon is sunny with a breeze blowing the puffy clouds gently over the B&B.  It has been an eventful week, so I am eager to sit here quietly for a few minutes to gather my wits and rest my feet.  Mrs Berniece Mertz and Amanda Suzanna urged me to recline on the pink and sage green flowered chaise lounge on the back porch where it is quiet and shady. I appreciate their sensitivity to my need for solacing refreshment.  

We've got a Barbershop Convention meeting in Whistlestop this week.  Several of the men (ALL with handlebar mustaches, by the way) are staying here at the B&B, and others are in hotels and boarding rooms in town.  It has been delightful to have the men warming up their voices in the family room beside the piano.  

Beloved has even joined in quietly on the side with his accordion. Not many people know about his musical talents, but since the only song he can play these days is Lady of Spain, he doesn't boast.  There was a time when our children were small that every Christmas, he would unpack the lumberous organ and play a variety of ditties for us.  Dear memories were made with the little ones in their flannel jammies, drinking hot cocoa by the fire, and Daddy making music.  The Barbershop quartet helped to revive that history for us and it's been sweet.  

But even with that frivolity, there has been a touch of mystique in our establishment as well.  Last Saturday during our lunch rush we had an odd thing happen.  Two women slipped quietly into the dining room and took a corner table without even waiting for our hostess to seat them.  I was busy serving Southern Sweet Iced Tea among the guests, trying hard to not stain my ruffled white apron, when I happened to see the gals with their menus propped up just so that they could peep over the top, hiding most of their faces.  In my preoccupation all I had the time to notice at first was that they both had cute hairstyles.  

As time went on, it was clear that they were not nearly so interested in our vast menu choices as they were in watching all of my wait staff scurrying about.  That struck me as curious, so I decided that I would take their order myself and see if I could determine their real purpose in visiting my establishment.

"Good day, ladies," I began.  "Welcome to Grammys Place Bed & Breakfast.  My name is Grammy.  Our specials today are Tootie's Bean Casserole with coleslaw and biscuits, and also Chicken Divan with  gelatin squares adorned with whipped dollops."  Slowly the women lowered their menus, which revealed their perfectly lovely faces, both of whom were familiar to me now.  

The one on the right was Ms Prudence Blessing, Headmistress at the Nanny Academy in Whistlestop and a highly-regarded citizen of our community.  Many fine young ladies have studied under Ms Blessing, graduated, and gone on to be the best child-care providers outside of the precious parents themselves.  I was delighted to see that she was one of my guests.

But the other woman, yes, I was acquainted with her, too.  A bit of a rebel that gal is, and it left me stumped to figure how she and the acclaimed Headmistress would be dining together.  Melinda the Truckstop Waitress and I really have very little in common with the exception that she and I make a living out of serving food to the hungry.  Her clientele is made up of rough, burly truck drivers in plaid shirts with bulging bellies, neglectful of removing their hats when they enter a building, and an infrequent acquaintance with nail files and shaving cream (in that order).  

My guests come from lovely homes in exotic places smelling of after shave, perfume, and wearing snappy casual attire for their relaxing weekends at our lodge.  While Melinda the Truckstop Waitress serves fat-laden steaks with gravy, mountains of greasy fries and German Chocolate Cake Supreme, my B&B focuses on a more healthy cuisine with ample inclusions of the Superfoods.  

No, I could not figure out how these two ladies had made acquaintance nor why they (especially Melinda the Truckstop Waitress) would even want to visit my place.  But I hid my inquisitive thoughts behind a pleasant smile and with raised eyebrows and pen poised over a pad of paper, awaited their response.

Ms Prudence Blessing spoke first, with her eyes scanning the menu.  "While Tootie's Bean Casserole sounds interesting (and yes, she said that word in italics), I think I will have the French Onion Soup with a house salad on the side, and a glass of water with lemon."  With that said, she handed me her menu and smiled.

Melinda the Truckstop Waitress looked like she wasn't ready to order, so I stood quietly while she studied the entrees.  To my surprise she ordered the Lady of France Quiche with a side of our Delicate Cream of Celery Soup, a steaming cup of Lily White Tea (extra sugar cubes, please)  and a plate of Lady Fingers sprinkled with powdered sugar and adorned with fresh raspberries for them both to share.  

That didn't sound like anything a truckstop waitress would enjoy.  I was quite surprised.  At the same time I couldn't help but notice that Melinda the Truckstop Waitress had the most beautiful and healthy skin  and was apparently highly skilled with the application of her eye makeup.  Seldom have I seen a lady with such a talented hand in bringing out the color of the eyes without a heavy, painted look.  

I thanked them for their order and told them I would return soon with their beverages and the Lady Fingers.  As I turned away from the table, I noticed Melinda the Truckstop Waitress had a cast on her right arm.  Hmmm.  Maybe she had to put a truck driver in his place and sustained injury in the process?  Who knows.  Her career choice was surely fraught with all manner of challenges (and bullies).

After their order was submitted to the kitchen, I had a few moments to watch these two guests by peaking through the potted Florida Palm that Surfer Girl had sent to me for Mother's Day.  Instead of engaging each other in a lot of chit chat as one would expect, they had resumed their study of my aproned girls who were scurrying about with water pitchers and trays of food.  I felt their curiosity to be most odd and wondered how I could find out their intentions.  

In the distance I heard a phone ring and soon saw the dining room hostess indicate to me that I needed to take the call.  For several minutes I was tied up with one of our food vendors who was sorry to report he would not be able to ship the carton of kiwi fruit Mrs Berniece Mertz had put on special order.  He managed to talk me in to accepting three boxes of kumquats.  

"What?  Kumquats??", Mrs Berniece Mertz later exclaimed.  She had no clue what to do with them.  But I would leave that problem to her.  I was noticeably  distracted by those two dining room guests and not thinking clearly.  

While I was on the phone their food order became ready, so Mandy Sue carried it out to their table and they engaged her in a lengthy conversation.  I resumed my position behind the Florida Palm, straining my ears for any snatch of the conversation, but picking up none of it.  However, the talk went on for so long that I felt I should join them and suggest that Mandy Sue return to her duties.

As I approached the table, Mandy Sue turned to me with her eyes all lit up.  "Grammy!  The most exciting thing has happened!"  She gushed and I was apprehensive.

"Oh?"

"Yes, I've been offered a part-time job!"  

Again, "Oh?"

"Yes!  Melinda the Truckstop Waitress has had surgery on her arm from an injury acquired while flipping pancakes and now she needs me to help wait tables until the cast comes off."  Clearly my employee was thrilled while I wondered if I was not already keeping her plenty busy.  Where would she find the time.....

I stood there at a loss for words, glancing from Mandy Sue to Melinda the Truckstop Waitress and back again to Mandy Sue.  Was this pancake-slinging woman with the perfect skin stealing my employee right from under my nose?  I was aghast and felt like hyperventilating but chose to deliberately breathe slowly and deeply and think before I spoke.

While struggling to keep myself under control and maintain a pleasant composure, Melinda the Truckstop Waitress leaned forward and looked me in the eye.  

"Grammy," she said, "I know this looks like I'm taking Mandy Sue away from the B&B but let me assure you that is not the case.  None of the students at Prudence's Nanny Academy were available to help me, so I thought I would check out my options here.   I only need her for a few weekends when she is not on duty here.  I have observed all of your wait staff and while they all appear to be very skilled and energetic, I have asked Mandy Sue to work at the Truckstop because she is a student at Hospitality College and I know how students can always used a little extra cash."  With that said, Melinda the Truckstop Waitress paused, sat back in her chair and waited for me to respond.

Wow. What a poor judge of character I am!  I had so completely misunderstood what my guest was all about and I felt ashamed.  She truly is a hardworking woman with a business to maintain and at the same time has an interest in assisting students with honest employment.  

Smiling with all sincerity, I told the little group that of course, by all means, Mandy Sue should help out at the Truckstop, and by the way, was there anything else we could do?  

Could they use a box of kumquats, perhaps, to add some seasonal variety to their menu?

Juney and Bill

My recent chapters titled, "Staff Spotlight - Berniece Mertz" and "The Red Scarf" have caused quite a stir amongst my readers.  It seems some of you are certain I have made all of this up while others question my ability to accurately record history.  

To tell you the truth, my house is getting painted this week, so I simply don't have the time to set anybody straight about the facts.  I will say, however, that truth is stranger than fiction.  There are some things a person just can't make up on their own.

Our house painters have been busy since last week with the staining of the cedar siding on our lovely mountain lodge, or bed and breakfast as I prefer to call it.  This is a huge place so the fellas have their work cut out for them.  Both Beloved and I have replacement parts, so to speak, which means neither of us have any business spending time on tall ladders that could result in more broken bones, surgeries, and the like.  

Our paint crew is a business run by fellow members at Whistlestop Baptist Church.  They were taking a brief break with the paint sprayer to talk with me about the color of the front door when the conversation turned to talk of our new pastor who had arrived just days before.  The arrival of Pastor Peter Paul and his wife Mary could not have been more timely for one of our young couples.  

Pastor Peter Paul and his wife Mary came to us from a mission field on the other side of earth, so when they arrived in Whistlestop, they had just a few suitcases of clothes and a portion of his vast Bible library.  Their household goods and what little furniture they owned would not arrive for many months.  But they showed themselves to be good sports about it all and were cheerily camping inside the parsonage made available to them next door to the church building.  My house painters reported that more than once while passing by the parsonage, they heard pleasant guitar strings and vigorous voices raised in praise songs, so it would appear our new pastor and wife were adjusting well.

But now to explain why the arrival of Pastor Peter Paul and his wife marry would be so important to a young couple.  Bill and Juney own the Rose Gate Ranch on the other side of the valley where Bill is living out his dream of ridin' and ropin' and muckin' the stalls while Juney is getting three nurseries ready for their expected triplets in a couple of months.  The excitement of this baby news has been the talk of the town -- everyone is very happy.

As if that wasn't enough to keep the lips flapping in the Whistlestop coffee klatches, it looked like Juney's prized Basset Hound couple, Charlie and Samantha, were going to have their own litter in the near future.  

All seemed to be going smoothly enough at the ranch and they were keeping up with the necessary preparations for the new babies when very early one morning Samantha (Mrs. Basset Hound) began to give birth to her very first puppy.  According to the calendar it was indeed time for the little darlings to make their appearance.  First one, then two, then three... Juney was close by, letting Samantha handle this in her instinctive doggie way, but then the little guys kept coming, and coming until at last puppy number TWELVE was born!  Yes, I said that right.  TWELVE Basset Hound puppies, and every one of them healthy and precious beyond any description I could give you.  

Juney was thrilled, Bill was flabbergasted, and the rest of us were ready to line up at the door to get a peek at the new little canine family.  Bill, however, being very knowledgeable in animal husbandry, tactfully informed us that it would be some time before the puppies would be available for a public viewing, explaining that the young family needed privacy.  He looked at us and nodded his head up and down as he spoke, as if to engender our cooperation on this point.  

Of course we were crushed, being so desirous of seeing this marvel of puppies, but we all did as he asked and left them in peace.

Only peace did not reign for long.  Later that same day, Juney began to feel uncomfortable.  Supposing she had worn herself out from the birth of the puppies, she retired to her room to nap.  Bill, however, discerned it might be more than that, since he has helped to usher into the world a number of cows and horses, pigs and chick... Okay. Maybe he's not had to help the hens with their chicks, but you get the idea.  He felt Juney might be more than just tired.  

He called up here to the B&B, asking for Mrs Berniece Mertz.  In addition to her much-lauded talents as our chef, not many people know that many, many years ago she took a home nursing course.  Bill was one of the few who were aware of that fact, so he called to see if she might be able to put her stew on the back burner long enough to come check on Juney and give her opinion.

In a flash Berniece threw off her red gingham apron, tossing it in my  face as she flew to her car. She was sailing down our mountain road in her beige Buick before I could catch my breath.  I sent up a quick prayer for Juney but then had to devote my undivided attention to the stew, lest it burn and I be in trouble with my dinner guests.  

It was decided that Juney needed to see a real doctor, and when that was done at the Whistlestop Clinic,  the determination was that they needed to hustle her on to Big Town because those three little babes might be planning an early arrival.  

But what about all those puppies?  They were not yet a day old and because of their number, supplemental feeding was necessary.  Who would do that?

Ah!  Now the story gets back to Pastor Peter Paul and his wife Mary.  Who do people call when there is a job nobody else can (or will) do?!  The pastor, of course!  

There was no time to check his credentials to see if he had any experience with puppies (although much later we learned he was a fan of turtles).  But his wife Mary  (what a gift she is turning out to be) was blessed with the maternal nature all women have (whether they realize it or not), and she took on the challenge. 

She was at a loss for only a moment and then a brilliant idea came to her.  She asked if all the little girls in the Whistlestop Baptist congregation would be willing to donate their doll baby bottles to a worthy cause -- helping to feed the puppies.  Little girls always have a tender heart for babies of all kinds and species, so this request was met with excellent cooperation.

The twelve puppies were well cared for by Pastor Peter Paul and his wife Mary (especially Mary).  As for Juney, well, things got pretty scary for a while.  We got the prayer chain going on her behalf and for the three baby girls who were born not long after that, quite premature but healthy.  Bill made many trips back and forth between  Rose Gate Ranch and Big Town.  

Not only did the little girls of Whistlestop Baptist Church do their part to help this family in need, but many others rose to the occasion by helping with the ranch chores and bringing in food for many weeks.  Mrs Berniece Mertz, in particular, devoted much time to cooking  for our guests at the B&B and taking extras to the Rose Gate Ranch.

Eventually all the excitement settled down for all of us with the exception of Bill and Juney, who never had a dull moment with twelve puppies and three baby girls.  They were very, very happy and very, very tired!

Charlie on the far left, Samantha on the right,
and one of their pups, Roscoe.

Postscript:  Happy Birthday, Juney (pseudonym for my real-life sister)

The Red Scarf

Mandy Sue

It was a Monday morning after a busy Mother's Day weekend.  Word-of-mouth (along with a few blog posts, I suspect) had succeeded in publicizing Grammys Place Bed & Breakfast to the point that now we had so many guests that there is a waiting list.  I guess that was my goal, but at the same time I've been unprepared for how much energy and time this would take.

But as I said, it was Monday morning. The weekend visitors had all checked out.  It would be just our staff around the place for a few days until the next big rush was on.  There were bed sheets to wash, bathrooms to clean, and Mrs Berniece Mertz would need to start cooking ahead for the hungry appetites to arrive on Thursday evening and on into the following weekend.

For now I was going to take a little time in the seclusion of my study to write out the next chapter of my novel.  Creativity often hits with the best of ideas at the most inconvenient times, when I cannot justify  leaving my guests to focus on the computer keyboard.  

Case in point:  yesterday at lunch one of our guests drank her Strawberry Lemonade too fast and ended up with an embarrassingly loud case of the hiccups.  While we tried all manner of remedies to relieve the malady (including that ridiculous one about drinking out of a glass backwards!), I got the most enticing idea for my novel about my heroine getting poisoned by the conniving floozie....   But of course I simply could not excuse myself to go write that down, so here on Monday morning I was trying to revive those creative juices.  

Mandy Sue had brought up a tray for me from the kitchen with my baked oatmeal bar floating just the way I like it in a pool of white kefir, a turkey sausage link, and an unpeeled tangerine, along with my coffee (Hazelnut, of course), and my little pile of vitamins and supplements designed to make my hair grow long and lustrous, my nails grow long and lustrous, and to keep my cholesterol numbers within reason.  

I noticed that Mandy Sue did not seem quite herself when she placed my tray on the corner of my writing table in the bay window, but I didn't think much of it.  Although kefir is said to be the one food that has given the sheepherders in the Caucasian mountains extraordinary life spans, I have found that most people don't like to include it in their diet.  Mandy Sue can be very adamant about the health benefits of a good, old-fashioned cheeseburger festooned with deep-fried cheese straws and dripping with mayonnaise.  So if she looks a little green around the gills from walking carefully to keep my kefir from sloshing out of its bowl -- well, whatever.  

After that brief encounter she left for her classes at the College of Hospitality, the tuition of which Beloved and I help supplement with the possibility of her full-time employment after graduation.  I knew that I could lollygag with my writing for several hours while she was in class and then after that I would need to get busy with all that laundry and housekeeping.

I heard the B&B phone line ring, but did not feel the need to answer it. Barbie, our hostess was at the front desk and would take care of it.  However, in just a short time after that initial ring, my pager went off and I knew I had to respond to that.  Dialing the extension of the front desk, inquired as to the nature of the problem.

"Ma'am," Barbie began.  "The nurse at College of Hospitality has called to say that Mandy Sue is ill and someone needs to take her home.  She threw up in her Speech class while giving a presentation on the proper folding of bath towels for the linen closet." I smiled quietly to myself. I was the one who taught her how to do that.

"Can't she just drive herself home?"  I asked.

"No.  It's such a lovely day that she rode her bicycle and is now too ill to pump the pedals up the mountain from town."  

Sigh.  Not only was this an unwelcome intrusion into what had promised to be a delightful few hours, but I had not dressed for the day yet.  Now I would need to skip my shower, throw on some blush and blue jeans and hustle on down into Whistlestop to pick up our little sickie.  I was truly frustrated but tried not to let it show in my voice as I concluded the conversation with Barbie.  

I stood in my closet trying to decide which shirt to combine with my jeans when a distant memory came to the forefront.  I was just a little girl in school when I, too, had a sour stomach.  I was sitting in class when all of a sudden the unthinkable rose to the back of my throat and uncontrollably spilled out onto my green plaid pleated skirt.  I was mortified with the unthinkable dripping from my chin and no way to hide myself from my surprised and snickering classmates.  (first graders can be soooo unkind!)

On the heels of that unpleasant memory I felt shame for being irritated with Mandy Sue and her current circumstances.  I hurried to get myself into a decent, albeit disheveled, appearance and scurried over to her room.  She would need clean clothes, I was sure, so I rifled through her closet, trying to figure out what would be best to take.

Then another memory popped into my head.  It was that same day of my embarrassment. I sat in the school nurse's office waiting for my mother to come get me.  My green plaid pleated skirt was soggy from the unthinkable and it didn't smell nice, either.  At least in the semi-privacy of the nurse's office I felt a little protected from the guffaws of other students.  

When Mother arrived, she had with her a white T-shirt, a red skirt, and a red scarf.  As she helped me to change into clean clothes, she artfully tied the silky red scarf about my neck.  I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and managed a little smile.  Why, I looked just like Annette Funnicello from the Mickey Mouse Club!  

Mother saw my expression of pleasure and said that if I didn't feel good, at least I could look good.  

Well, that memory was from the 1950s.  I didn't know if Mandy Sue would appreciate a red scarf or not, but she did have a red bandana from a recent trip to a rodeo stuffed into a corner of a shelf.  I chose an off white, loose-fitting cotton shirt, blue jeans with an elastic waist -- something not too binding on that unsettled tummy of hers.  The red bandana would come along too, optional, of course. 

On my way down the mountain, I asked the Lord to forgive me the selfish thoughts I had when I heard of my little friend's problem.  The novel could wait, of course. What is most important is being there for my people when they need me.  

Others have done it for me.

Staff Spotlight - Berniece Mertz

Our B&B Chef

My readers know that these stories from Grammys Place Bed & Breakfast often include my dear friend, Mrs. Berniece Mertz.  Without her I could not successfully run this guest inn because in all truthfulness, I have spent more of my life in front of a sewing machine than with a skillet.  (My cooking just isn't that good.)

Berniece can cook anything. She is a homey cook from Oklahoma. Some of her best recipes are Potato Patties made with leftover mashed potatoes, Applesauce Meatballs, Swiss Steak, Red Velvet Cake, Louisiana Mud, Cherry Pie, and an odd-sounding favorite from her family that she occasionally shares here at the B&B called "Lollipop."  That entree has an aura of mystery about it because Berniece has no idea how this pasta, tomato, and ground beef delight got labeled that way.

But on to my story.  Or rather, Berniece's story.  I've not shared with my readers much about her background. As stated above, she came to us from Oklahoma. Even as a young woman barely out of school, she was a wonderful cook..... and that has something to do with how she met Aviator Mertz, the man she married.

The Baptist church she attended had a thriving Young People's Department. One Sunday after the morning services, all the young ladies were supposed to bring a box lunch made of their best treats.  This was not an intimidating  challenge for Berniece, but she still gave great diligence to her edibles to make it perfect.

For you see, the lunch boxes were auctioned off to the young men, and then the expectation was that these lunch-box-formed couples would share that meal together, there on the church lawn.

Berniece generously supplied her box with homemade fried chicken, yellow potato salad, Deviled Eggs, a fruit salad of strawberries and oranges, large tender homemade biscuits, and a cherry pie.  Although apple pie was her personal favorite, cherries were in season at the time, so she gave the recipe her best efforts.  

Flyboy College was located on the east side of the town airport.  Some industrious youth leaders had made it their ministry to provide free transportation for the flight students to attend church.  Berniece was not especially interested in drawing the attention of any of those young men, since she presumed a career with airplanes would draw a husband away from home much of the time.  But there were other young men to consider and that would be fine with her.

The day came for the Young People's Department Box Lunch Auction. It was with butterflies in her stomach that the beautiful brunette Berniece waited quietly off to the side to see which of the young men would end up with her box lunch.  Two boxes contributed by her girlfriends went first and then her entry was given attention.  

To her dismay, Arnold offered the top price for her lunch.  Arnold was a nice enough guy, but at 6 foot 8 inches, he was a really odd match for the five foot one-and-a-half-inch Berniece.  It was a pain in the neck to look up to his face.

She was not the only one to be disappointed. When Arnold realized she was the donor of his box, he did not hide a glancing look of irritation. But both were good church-going young people, desirous of doing the right thing, trying to be gracious under pressure.  They made themselves comfortable under a large shady Maple tree and Arnold opened the box.

Berniece gently removed the largest piece of succulent fried chicken, placed it on a napkin and handed it over to Arnold.  But his consternation all of a sudden rose to the surface and instead of taking the offering from her, he pushed it away and said rather loudly, "Fried Chicken!  Good grief woman, I can't eat that! My cholesterol will go through the roof!"  Having said that, he jumped to his feet, mumbled something about a committee meeting and left!

Berniece sat there, stunned.  Tears burned her eyes but she willed them with all her might to not run down her cheeks.  As she sat on the grass in horrified embarrassment at such rude behavior and to be now all alone in a sea of couples, she noticed a pair of brown wingtip shoes had appeared very close by.  A pleasant male voice spoke, "I never met a drumstick that I didn't like!  May I join you?"

Looking up, she saw Aviator Mertz, who was definitely not too tall, had a very handsome smile, and wonderful blue eyes looking directly at her.  Before she could reply, he sat down across from her on the grass, and then leaned back on one of his tanned hands as if to more gradually take in her loveliness.  It was clear that he liked what he saw, this pretty young woman with curly brown hair, warm brown eyes, and curvaceous figure.

She felt a little taken aback, although greatly flattered.  She wasn't quite sure what to say, but  managed to squeak out, "Yes, please have some."

Repeating the gesture she had made for Arnold just minutes before, she lay a piece of the chicken in a napkin and handed it to the young man.  Like the perfect gentleman he proved to be, he thanked her and then waited until she had got a serving for herself before he took his first bite.

Her thoughts were jumbled and she felt bashful, not sure how to make conversation with this "fly boy."  As it turned out, Aviator Mertz was very charming and somehow knew just how to talk to her, complimenting the wonderful cooking and making her laugh out loud with his pleasant sense of humor.  She found herself relaxing and enjoying his attention, but she still held some reserve, not wanting him to know (or to admit to herself) that he was quietly stealing her heart.

But it was he who charged her with putting a lasso around his heart when she pulled out the cherry  pie for dessert.

"How could you possibly know, Berniece," he said, "that cherry pie is my absolute favorite?  While I am glad to be out on my own now, hundreds of miles away from home, I have to admit that I do miss my mother's cherry pies!  There are several cherry trees on my parent's farm, so that is the pie we had the most!"

That box lunch under the big shady tree on the grounds of the Baptist Church was the beginning of a romance that blossomed quickly, and led to a very happy marriage.  They raised two daughters who are now married with their own children and living in other parts of the country.  Although his flying career took him away from home often, they made the best of the time they had together, building a solid marriage, a godly home, and serving faithfully together in church.

Many years later after Aviator died, Berniece decided to put her cooking talent to good use by teaching at Culinary College in Big Town.  After that she accepted the job as our Bed & Breakfast Chef. She has spacious quarters here at the B&B and appears to be content.

We are so blessed to have Berniece in our employ.  She is mature, solid in her character, and can be counted on to come through for me without fail time after time.

Memory Conundrum

The lilacs are especially lovely this year, delicately-scented in varying shades of purple against the rich bluey-green foliage.  

On this particular morning all was quiet at Grammys Place B&B, our most recent guests having left after breakfast.  It wouldn’t be quiet for long, however, as we were expecting a crew of men to come next week to power wash the exterior of our charming home and then to re-stain the cedar siding in the week after that.  There would be workmen everywhere with their trucks in the circular driveway, scaffolding to dodge and keeping a close watch on the draping of plastic to protect bushes and patio furniture.

I decided this would be a perfect opportunity to enjoy a good book on the porch, close to the aforementioned lilacs.  Sometimes I have to remind myself to take it easy -- there is always something crying for my attention. Whatever it might be this morning could wait.  

However, my reverie did not last long, and I have to say that there was no one to blame but myself.  My feet were propped up and the book was comfortably in hand, but my thoughts raced on to my mental “to do” list; and of course, I could think of something I had left undone, a matter that required my attention before the day would close.

A family of good people lived down the road who have three handsome and mannerly sons, one of whom had sent us an announcement of his university graduation.  The commencement ceremony would be tomorrow and I had not sent a gift yet.  If I hurried about it, I could get a card and thoughtful but not too ostentatious present into the mail today, which would arrive in his mail box on exactly his very special day.  I would go shopping after lunch, which would allow me the freedom to continue reading my book just a little longer.  

But after a few pages it occurred to me that I couldn’t remember the young man’s name.  There are the three boys, and their names all begin with the same letter.  I never had trouble remembering the eldest’s name, Linus, because he was so cute as a ten-year old with a skinny body and a large lawn mower, wanting to know if I needed my grass cut.  I declined his offer since we have Spud to do that for us, but the young man made a positive impression on me and I have always been able to recall his name, Leon.

It was his two younger brothers whose names never did stick with me, for whatever reason.  Laban? Leonard?  That didn’t seem quite right.  

I carried my conundrum with me into the kitchen where Berniece was just finishing lunch preparations for Beloved and me.  I carried our plates into the dining room and my husband joined me at our favorite table for two beside a window overlooking the back acres of our property.

After saying a brief prayer of gratefulness for the sandwiches, I asked Beloved, “What is the name of the Markovich’s middle son, the one who is graduating from the university tomorrow?  I have been racking my...”

“Lowell,” Beloved interrupted me between his bites of ham and cheese sandwich.  

I put my sandwich on the plate in front of me and sat back.  “Are you sure?  That doesn’t sound right.”  He nodded his head since his mouth was full, apparently quite sure that he was correct.  I shook my head and retrieved my sandwich.  

“I need a method to help me remember those boys’ names,” I said.

Beloved swallowed his bite.  “You need a mnemonic,” he said.  

“No, I need a method,” I replied.

“That’s what I said,” he said.  

“No, you didn’t.  You said I needed a, a, I don’t know what you said, but I need a method, a means to remember the boys’ names, like a rhyme or something.”

Beloved clamped his lips closed, put his food down and just stared at me across the table.

A small, shall I say, “discussion” ensued, the details of which I will not bore you.  Suffice it to say that over lunch I learned a new vocabulary word that although helpful, rhymes with “demonic”, which nearly describes the irritation I felt toward my Beloved until I understood he was trying to help me.  

So, armed with this hoity-toity word, I did indeed come up with a method to remember the neighbor boys’ names.  Their parents named them in alphabetical order: Lester, Lowell, and Luther.  

Actually, I learned two things over lunch. The first was a new term to describe what I was in need of, and the second was to not rush to judge those who are trying to share unfamiliar information with me.

Well.  Enough of that.  I need to go shopping for Levi.

Where We Go on Sundays

Whistlestop Baptist Church

Malorie

Malorie the Oven Cleaner

Last night when we went to bed, the room was hot, so I opened one of the windows just an inch or two, which was enough to let in some of the cold air that was blowing strong outside.  As long as I don't have to be out in the wind, I love to hear it whistling through the crevices of this old house.

However, once we were well into a deep sleep, rain began to fall with a vengeance and I had to stumble to the bathroom for a towel to wipe up the accumulated water on the sill and firmly shut the window closed all the way.  It was with great delight that I was then able to crawl back into bed and seek out the warmth of my Beloved who lay softly snoring in his flannel nightshirt, completely oblivious to the housekeeping task I had just completed.

With the Easter luncheon, egg hunt, and Primitive Annual Fishing Derby Part One and Part Two out of the way, we had blocked off a few days at Grammys Place Bed and Breakfast for no guests so some necessities could be addressed.  When I woke hours after the wind and rain event, I had a vague sense that this day would be a challenge but wasn't exactly sure why.

Beloved and I had a lovely breakfast on the deck  but Berniece in her haste to leave the house for a much-deserved day off, forgot  to use the new goldenrod dishes I had purchased earlier in the week.  That was disappointing but we could pull them out tomorrow.

Then Beloved grabbed his computer case and left the house for some important business meetings in downtown Whistlestop. I am glad to be able to say that seldom does he have to work away from home, but he has spoiled me immensely with his presence in our home office all day long.  There is just something missing from my peace when he has to be away for extended periods.  

Not only would Beloved and Berniece be gone for the rest of the day, but we had told all of the staff they could take leave with pay, which left me at home alone.  Now normally I don't mind having that time to myself because that great epic novel I am writing is always beckoning my attention, and I do get some of my best work done when I am completely undisturbed. 

Ah, but that's the problem.  I would not be home alone.  One of the necessities I had yet to cross off of my 'to do list' this week was to get the ovens cleaned.  Berniece has done this for me in the past, but the arthritis in her knees makes that an arduous chore at best; so after the last cleaning, she asked if perhaps I could hire someone to come in and do it for us.  So spoiled have I been with her care of the ovens in the past, I was at a loss to know who to ask.  

Mandy Sue heard of my dilemma and told me that Melinda the Truck Stop Waitress had used  a  young gal by the name of Malorie to clean her ovens recently.  That seemed a good enough reference for me, although  the girl had a sad story.  She was born with an unfortunate rebellious nature that had colored all of her life.  Apparently there was a defining time when she was in the third grade.  All students are required to memorize their multiplication tables, but Malorie refused, preferring to rely on her fingers to count things out.  

As the rest of us can well understand, doing addition and subtraction with fingers tends to work out fairly well, but multiplication and division gets pretty complicated with that system.  In spite of threats from her daddy and being forced to sit in a corner with a printed card of the 'times tables' (as she liked to call them), she to this day would never win any arithmetic prizes.  And as a result of that, she had a  difficult time maintaining  employment  in retail, but she could clean ovens.

Also to her credit, she was very artistic, as I could readily see when she arrived at my front door an hour late.  There she was in all of her glory. Her idea of how to dress for work was far from my notions.  She stood, chewing a wad of orange gum, which had made her tongue abnormally colorful.  I have to admit that I sort of stalled while we were still standing at the door, hoping that maybe this was a mistake, that she was somebody else or at the wrong house.  As I stepped back to allow her inside, she actually retreated a bit and then turned to remove that gum and plunk it on the arm of one of the porch rocking chairs, which in doing so allowed me to see the most ugly backpack hanging off her bare shoulders.  

Malorie's monstrous backpack

It appeared to be a toothy bug-eyed monster with fangs.  She noticed that I was observing it and smiled brightly, "Oh, you like it?"  (silly assumption!)  And then she explained as she walked into the entry hall. "I designed and made it myself!"  

"Hmm."  It was clear nobody was buying her creations, thus the oven-cleaning gig.

I led her into the kitchen where she slipped the monster backpack off, which made it easier to see she was actually wearing a purple halter top with a low-plunging cleavage and bare back.  The poor girl didn't have enough fabric for modest clothing, to be sure.  I would not be able to let that one go.

"Ah, Malorie, are you sure you won't get a chill with that top?"  I forced myself to not insert the word skimpy with my inquiry.  

She turned to face me.  "Oh no, ma'am!  Cleaning ovens is hot, messy work!  I'll be just fine, thank you!"

"All the same, I'll have you wear this apron so you don't get your outfit dirty." I handed over the cutest apron I've got, since I thought that would gain her artistic approval and we could move past this awkward interchange.  

I will give the girl credit with one thing.  She arrived wearing her plastic gloves, which indicated a mindset to actually do the work.  The pink pearl cuff links were a curious addition but I said nothing about them.  I also thought that lime green feather thing in her hair might prove bothersome, but having raised my own young people years ago, I know the wisdom of choosing your battles, so remained silent about that, too.

Ready for work

I could have remained at the kitchen table to watch her, but the process would be long, smelly, and hot, so I decided to show some trust.  It was cool and pleasant on the deck.  My computer and I found a shady spot where I was within hearing distance should Malorie seek me out or if I heard foreboding sounds.

me, at work on that novel, on the deck

My novel-writing quickly drew all of my attention.  I wrote fast and furiously before my aging  mind had opportunity to forget the thoughts in my head.  My heroine was tied to railroad tracks by the bad guy, her nose itched terribly with no way to scratch it, and a family of skunks was steadily making its way in her direction.  A honey bee was buzzing about her neck, obviously drawn in by her Ode de Fleur cologne she had splashed on during her morning rituals, just moments before Black Jack had kidnapped her for ransom from her rich but out-of-town uncle.  And then, of course, the inevitable 9:05 a.m. train was going to come by very soon...

A chirping bird out on the swing set in the yard diverted my attention for a few minutes, and then I realized I was hungry.  With the oven out of use, I continued to sit there, contemplating what we could have for lunch.  I, of course, would offer something to Malorie, since Grammys Place B&B is known for excellent cuisine.  I had no idea if she had packed a lunch in that monster bag of hers.  

I closed up my computer and carried it into the dining room, leaving it on one of the many lace-covered tables, and then peeked into the kitchen.  Malorie was sitting at the small table under a window, sketching fashions with colored pencils!  My ire immediately rose to the surface and it was all I could do to speak with a steady voice.

"Taking a break," I squeaked out.  She looked up at me briefly,  pointed with her azure blue pencil toward the stove, and then looked back down to her drawing.  "It's working," she said.

"No."  I sucked in my breath and knew my next words would decidedly give away my anger, but to my great fortune, my employee resumed speaking before I could.  "I've got the oven cleaner  running now.  The timer says it should be done in about 15 minutes."  

Whaat?!  I wanted to sputter but managed to fake composure while I strode over  to the stove.  Sure enough, the little missy had set the controls for the automatic oven cleaning feature and as she said, it would be timed out and done very soon.  

Now it was for sure and without a doubt that I was the one who looked foolish!  I had hired this girl to come in to scrub my ovens to a sparkly clean with elbow grease, but she was shrewd enough to not only notice hard labor would be unnecessary, but had turned on the dials herself and expected payment for sitting around drawing pictures!

I whirled around to face her, embarrassed and angry at the same time.  Being a good woman, I sought feverishly for clearness of thought and mind to know how to respond.  But looking over her pink sunglasses Malorie smiled and again spoke before I could.  

"Not to worry, Ma'am." She said. "This actually happens quite often, and when it does, I cut my bill in half.  I will be wiping out the ovens with a damp cloth once the temperature has cooled down sufficiently.  The automatic cleaning feature does tend to leave a small pile of ash on the oven floor, which I will gladly remove.  I'll replace the oven racks for you and be out of here before you know it."

I had to sit down, and chose the chair across the table from my companion.  For somebody who couldn't multiply and divide, she had figured out how to add up common sense and subtract a few dollars from my wallet.  It was all in a day's work for her without committing any crime at all.

We shared baloney sandwiches  and when she slid my copy of the bill to me across the table, I saw that plenty had been charged to me for my lack of knowledge about my own stove and was at the same time grateful she had not had to scrub for me.  That would have cost me quite a bit more.

Later, I watched as she left my B&B with that lime green feather bobbing as she moved.  Under that odd costume was a pretty sharp-witted gal; but she would not be adding to her wallet or subtracting from mine ever again.