Monday, January 9, 2017
Finding Mental Wellness in 2017
Happy New Year, 2017!!!!
Should we welcome her with open arms or hands in pockets? Hard to say. A bit of both, I think.
No one really knows what to expect in this brand new year, and many hope it's a whole lot better than the one we just left. I know from my front porch, 2017 has to be a brighter year than 2016 gifted me. Let's just say that looking forward brings more hope and sunshine than looking back ever does. It always has, I know, but it doesn't hurt to be reminded every once in a while.
Let's Chat does just that. It reminds us of the importance of talking and sharing. I am really loving the television ads aimed at mental illness. (Rather, mental wellness. Can we call it that instead? It's so much more positive. And much less critical. We all want to strive for mental wellness, even if we haven't experienced mental illness, which, I'm afraid to say, is more prevalent than ever in each one of us. I know.)
A woman talks to the camera about her feelings and her fears. She then smiles. Her face actually lights up to euphoria when she then states that she's feeling better because he's feeling better. The camera pans to a man. Depression hurts everyone, women and men. The message invites the audience to help friends who may be suffering silently. And all depression sufferers are pretty good at putting on a bright smile when they need to. They don't want to be a burden to anyone else. They don't want to bring anyone else down. Their heads are fuzzy. They can't find a clear thought, remember a conversation, make a decision, or even interact without real effort. Numbness takes over. Life has no colour. Or meaning. Or purpose. They just want to get away from that nagging voice in their head that continues to persecute them. That same nagging voice sneaks up on a lot of people, I know.
My wish for 2017 is to prevent that nagging voice from stepping foot in my brain. And maybe someone else's too! It's not easy. There's lots of interference out there! The daily news only reports all the bad and miserable events in the world. One's purpose in life as a parent is not always clear now that the children are grown and out of the house. A love of writing, or teaching or business gets quashed when editors or principals or bosses deem one's efforts inadequate. Canadians, in general, can emote negative energy when it comes to snow, and cold, and grey, dull days. It's not easy to have a thick skin every day of the year. Winter is particularly difficult for depression sufferers. Thank goodness for the sunshine that brings warmth. And hope. And a reason to get out of bed. Sometimes. It's also just as easy to roll back over, hide under the covers, and wait for the day to end. Those covers bring comfort. They hide the hurt. And the self-loathing. And the rest of the world. I know.
This first day back to school, back to work, after a two- week reprieve from the world if you were so blessed, is challenging for many. It's especially challenging if it wasn't a reprieve at all! And it isn't, most of the time. Christmas is exhausting for someone whose heart just isn't in it. Whose head isn't in it. Who's thankful the whole hyped-up holiday is over! Commercialism kills Christmas! It just does. It pushes consumers to overindulge in order to plan the perfect Christmas by buying the perfect gifts, decorating the perfect tree, and serving the perfect meal. (Damn you, Martha Stewart!!!) But Christmas is all about joy, isn't it? And friendships? And love? If you're not loving yourself, it's hard to love anyone else. As much as you do adore them. I know. Oh boy, do I know.
So, this is when that television ad comes into play. Helping friends who're suffering to find mental wellness means lightening their load, just a smidge. I'll help you out a wee bit:
Don't ask them to make decisions. Decision making takes confidence, which isn't happening at the moment. Offer two suggestions that they can agree to without too much effort on anyone's part:
"What should we have for dinner tonight? Pasta or pizza? There's a frozen box in the freezer, we can just heat that up and we're done. Ok?"
Don't be critical; offer some kind, positive words about their success today, no matter how small. Just getting out of bed, having a shower, getting dressed is HUGE:
"You look cozy in those pyjamas! Want to just curl up and watch a movie or listen to some music with me?"
Offer a hug, even if they're not in the hugging mood, and hold on like you mean it until you're the last one to let go. To experience mental wellness, everyone needs to feel loved, and needed, and wanted.
Most importantly, just be there. Physically be there. See the person. Look into those eyes and bring some hope to that heart inside. Listen to their words. Really listen without judgment or expectations. Take the time to show a new friend some love. It takes a minute to show a heart-felt smile, to say, "How are you today?" like you really mean it, or to intentionally drop a toonie in a cup of someone who is really having a hard time in life. We all deserve mental wellness.
Thank you, Marianas Trench for showing us more ways to promote mental wellness.
Here's to a year where mental wellness becomes an epidemic!!!
Should we welcome her with open arms or hands in pockets? Hard to say. A bit of both, I think.
No one really knows what to expect in this brand new year, and many hope it's a whole lot better than the one we just left. I know from my front porch, 2017 has to be a brighter year than 2016 gifted me. Let's just say that looking forward brings more hope and sunshine than looking back ever does. It always has, I know, but it doesn't hurt to be reminded every once in a while.
Let's Chat does just that. It reminds us of the importance of talking and sharing. I am really loving the television ads aimed at mental illness. (Rather, mental wellness. Can we call it that instead? It's so much more positive. And much less critical. We all want to strive for mental wellness, even if we haven't experienced mental illness, which, I'm afraid to say, is more prevalent than ever in each one of us. I know.)
A woman talks to the camera about her feelings and her fears. She then smiles. Her face actually lights up to euphoria when she then states that she's feeling better because he's feeling better. The camera pans to a man. Depression hurts everyone, women and men. The message invites the audience to help friends who may be suffering silently. And all depression sufferers are pretty good at putting on a bright smile when they need to. They don't want to be a burden to anyone else. They don't want to bring anyone else down. Their heads are fuzzy. They can't find a clear thought, remember a conversation, make a decision, or even interact without real effort. Numbness takes over. Life has no colour. Or meaning. Or purpose. They just want to get away from that nagging voice in their head that continues to persecute them. That same nagging voice sneaks up on a lot of people, I know.
My wish for 2017 is to prevent that nagging voice from stepping foot in my brain. And maybe someone else's too! It's not easy. There's lots of interference out there! The daily news only reports all the bad and miserable events in the world. One's purpose in life as a parent is not always clear now that the children are grown and out of the house. A love of writing, or teaching or business gets quashed when editors or principals or bosses deem one's efforts inadequate. Canadians, in general, can emote negative energy when it comes to snow, and cold, and grey, dull days. It's not easy to have a thick skin every day of the year. Winter is particularly difficult for depression sufferers. Thank goodness for the sunshine that brings warmth. And hope. And a reason to get out of bed. Sometimes. It's also just as easy to roll back over, hide under the covers, and wait for the day to end. Those covers bring comfort. They hide the hurt. And the self-loathing. And the rest of the world. I know.
This first day back to school, back to work, after a two- week reprieve from the world if you were so blessed, is challenging for many. It's especially challenging if it wasn't a reprieve at all! And it isn't, most of the time. Christmas is exhausting for someone whose heart just isn't in it. Whose head isn't in it. Who's thankful the whole hyped-up holiday is over! Commercialism kills Christmas! It just does. It pushes consumers to overindulge in order to plan the perfect Christmas by buying the perfect gifts, decorating the perfect tree, and serving the perfect meal. (Damn you, Martha Stewart!!!) But Christmas is all about joy, isn't it? And friendships? And love? If you're not loving yourself, it's hard to love anyone else. As much as you do adore them. I know. Oh boy, do I know.
So, this is when that television ad comes into play. Helping friends who're suffering to find mental wellness means lightening their load, just a smidge. I'll help you out a wee bit:
Don't ask them to make decisions. Decision making takes confidence, which isn't happening at the moment. Offer two suggestions that they can agree to without too much effort on anyone's part:
"What should we have for dinner tonight? Pasta or pizza? There's a frozen box in the freezer, we can just heat that up and we're done. Ok?"
Don't be critical; offer some kind, positive words about their success today, no matter how small. Just getting out of bed, having a shower, getting dressed is HUGE:
"You look cozy in those pyjamas! Want to just curl up and watch a movie or listen to some music with me?"
Offer a hug, even if they're not in the hugging mood, and hold on like you mean it until you're the last one to let go. To experience mental wellness, everyone needs to feel loved, and needed, and wanted.
Most importantly, just be there. Physically be there. See the person. Look into those eyes and bring some hope to that heart inside. Listen to their words. Really listen without judgment or expectations. Take the time to show a new friend some love. It takes a minute to show a heart-felt smile, to say, "How are you today?" like you really mean it, or to intentionally drop a toonie in a cup of someone who is really having a hard time in life. We all deserve mental wellness.
Thank you, Marianas Trench for showing us more ways to promote mental wellness.
Here's to a year where mental wellness becomes an epidemic!!!
Monday, August 8, 2016
Tuesday, July 5, 2016
OLSSBTH: The Wisdom of Olivia Dooley, Catholic Delinquent, Our Lady of the Sky and the Sun and the Birds and the Trees and the Honeybees Separate School, Bangalore, India
Olivia's purpose to find her sister Karina is now the new energy of 2016 and beyond in the real world.
"Male leaders are stepping down from their posts to empower females in their true right to lead: to serve with respect and compassion without the ego of centuries past. With humility and harmony; not intimidation. Without fear. For those who lead with arrogance, ignorance, or damnation, their lives and eternal spirits will be destroyed by their own frustrations and inner demons. Power is not absolute; it is to share and conserve, not to flaunt or distract. It belongs to all people, all genders, all sects, all religions, all ages and all creatures on this holy space we call our home on Earth. Amen."
"Male leaders are stepping down from their posts to empower females in their true right to lead: to serve with respect and compassion without the ego of centuries past. With humility and harmony; not intimidation. Without fear. For those who lead with arrogance, ignorance, or damnation, their lives and eternal spirits will be destroyed by their own frustrations and inner demons. Power is not absolute; it is to share and conserve, not to flaunt or distract. It belongs to all people, all genders, all sects, all religions, all ages and all creatures on this holy space we call our home on Earth. Amen."
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Yarns Amongst The Weave - Chapters 2 - 5
TWO
As she crouched beside the banister with her gangly legs folded up to her chin, her red braids hanging loosely over her knees, and her white bunny slippers looking over the top step, Gilda could barely hear the discussion downstairs over the loud ticking of the grandfather clock. She knew that making an appointment with a tea leaf reader wasn’t unusual. Her aunts Abigail and Mathilda had read tea leaves for many years, but mostly for fun. The readings of Cassandra Hotchkiss, on the other hand, Ridgeville’s newest forecaster of fortunes and fears, were taken much more seriously.
“I know what you are saying, Carlton,” Abigail replied, after she’d returned from leaving a phone message for Gilda’s mother, Helen. “This china cup has the power to change a person’s life forever.” Abigail gathered Gilda’s new teacup in her hands while Mathilda placed a pot of tea and a plate of freshly baked cookies on the coffee table in
front of Mr.Humphreys. She’d made them as a treat for Gilda’s lunch which wouldn’t be necessary now.
“There’s no ways we can lets this happen to our Gilda,” he stated. “She’s jus’ a child. Donts you agree?”
Abigail turned to Mathilda. “Gilda’s the same age now that we were when Father taught us to read tea leaves. You remember that, don’t you, Tilly?”
“Sure, but Abby, we haven’t read tea leaves in years.” Mathilda said, placing the cookies closer to Mr. Humphreys who proceeded to take them two at a time. “And Cassandra Hotchkiss has the entire town’s business these days.”
“For now, she does. It’s the perfect time to hand over the tea leaf reading reins to Gilda. Father documented everything, and we’ve got all his journals here in the house.” Abigail pointed to the leather bound books shelved behind the light blue wingback chair by the reading lamp. “But we’ll talk later ‘bout all that.”
Mr. Humphreys set his mug on the crocheted doily on the coffee table. He looked to his left and to his right as though he’d been tapped on both shoulders.
“What’s the matter, Carlton?” Abigail asked.
“Yous can’t tells nobody I tol’ you.” He wiped both palms in one solid motion from his lap to his knees, leaving streaks of perspiration on his blue polyester trousers.
“What’s got you all nervous, Carlton?” Mathilda asked.
“I saws Charles leaving Ida Schmidt’s house jus’ last month, too! When I calleds on Ida laters that day, she had that sames purple complexion as lasts time somebody’s tea
leaves was disturbin’.” Abigail moved to the edge of her seat. Mr. Humphreys looked her straight in the eye. “Miss Abigail, you’s gots to do’s somethin’s, and fast.”
“But why would Charles Khurser be seeking out fortune tellers?” Abigail asked. She curled a stray grey hair around her ear and straightened the strings on her red-rimmed bifocals hanging about her neck.
“Seems he’s gots somethin’ he needs to know,” he answered, that extra ‘s’ always sliding its way into his responses. His stare became more pronounced. “Hey, those there glasses is new, aren’t they?”
“Why yes, they are, Carlton,” Abigail replied with a blush, placing them on her nose.
“I’s like ‘em. Makes those green eyes of yours sparkles,” he added with a wink.
Abigail blushed even brighter.
“Good heavens,” Mathilda muttered. “A grade school crush, right before my eyes. Yuck.”
“Mathilda here picked them out,” Abigail added. “Said I needed more pizzazz in my wardrobe. Really! At my age, I just need a decent pair of spectacles, snazzy or otherwise.”
“And maybe some good eyes to really see what this man is getting at,” Mathilda muttered.
Abigail took off the glasses, let them swing on their strings, and then primped her hair. “But getting back to Charles.” Mathilda interjected. “Do you think it’s something from his past?”
“Coulds be,” he said, bending to take another sip of his tea, “but he beings a banker an’ all, it donts fit his personality.”
“There’s a lot we don’t know about this man my niece has married,” Abigail said, handing her guest the china plate. “Another cookie, Carlton?”
“Nope, better gets goin’ on my route,” he answered as he walked to the front door to pick up his navy canvas bag. Abigail and Mathilda followed. He turned his head towards Abigail and whispered. “Though I’s be keepin’ my ears open for any more news ‘bout you-knows-who.” Gilda, still in eavesdropping mode at the top landing, stood up and smoothed the creases out of her brown corduroy bell bottom pants, the hems of which never quite reached her ankles.
It’s true, she thought, we don’t know much about Charles’ life before he arrived in Ridgeville. She moved from the staircase to her bedroom at the top of the stairs. She glanced at the wedding photograph of her new family in the white frame on the dresser. Charles was holding Helen’s gloved hand in his, while Gilda and her brother Malcolm stood on each side of the newlyweds. Everyone was smiling on that sunny September Saturday, but she’d just now noticed how Charles’ smile was especially wide, wider than she’d seen in the last couple of months since he’d come to live at 29 Main Street East. Charles didn’t smile at all these days. Nevertheless, she believed Charles loved her mother. Her mother’s happiness was all that really mattered to her.
A pleasant, melodious ring, like the sound of joyous wedding bells, interrupted her thoughts. Abigail called up the stairs before she answered the telephone.
“It’s for you, Gilda. It’s your mum.” Abigail then picked up the phone. “Why hello, Helen. How are you and Charles this fine Monday morning? Glad to hear it. And young Malcolm?
As Gilda descended all thirteen stairs from her bedroom to the living room, she discovered something unusual about her aunts’ phone. She’d never questioned it before now, but it suddenly occurred to her that her aunts never answered the phone on the first ring, even if they were sitting in the same room, and they knew exactly who was calling before they’d even heard the caller’s voice on the other end of the line.
“Fine, dandy,” Abigail replied. “Well, here she is. Talk to you soon, Helen.” Abigail handed Gilda the phone.
Gilda pulled the long, ringletted cord into the kitchen so she wouldn’t interrupt the goodbyes between her aunts and Mr. Humphreys. The kitchen door closed behind her.
“Hi Mommy,” she said in a calm, quiet voice.
Helen’s voice quavered. “Is everything all right, Gildy? I just picked up my voice mail and heard Aunt Abigail’s message. Why didn’t you make it to school this morning? Aunt Mathilda’s car didn’t break down again, did it?”
Gilda didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t give her mother the real reason for her absence. After all, she hadn’t figured it out for herself. The news of Charles’
appointment with a tea leaf reader wasn’t enough of an excuse to miss school.
“I’m fine, Mommy. Just wasn’t feeling quite myself this morning.” It wasn’t a full-blown lie; her response did have some truth to it. How could she feel the same about herself if she didn’t know how she felt about her new stepfather?
“Do you need me to come over?” her mother asked with sincerity. “I can, you know. It’s not a problem. I’ll just ask Lottie to drive me.”
“I know, but I’m fine. Honest.”
“Are you sure everything’s all right, honey?” Helen asked. Gilda didn’t need to think about her response to that remark.
“It’s all good here, Mommy. Really. In fact, it’s great.” Gilda’s eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t tell her mother anything about the tea leaves, but holding it inside was harder than she thought.
“We can talk about it tonight if you’d like, after Aunt Mathilda and Aunt Abigail drop you off in town. You are coming home tonight, aren’t you, Gilda?”
“How ‘bout I let you talk to Aunt Mathilda about that?” Gilda answered.
“Ummm, sure sweetie,” Helen replied hesitantly, not really wanting to surrender the communication line with her daughter who, obviously, was not fine. “I’ll see you later tonight then,” Helen answered with a pause, filling the silent spaces in-between with a silent sigh. “Love you.”
“Love you too, Mommy. Bye.” Gilda leaned over to give Mathilda the phone. A tear rolled down her cheek before she had time to wipe it away with the sleeve of her woolen sweater. She quickly left the kitchen and stood in a hide-and-seek stance against the living room side of the kitchen door, not really knowing who or what she was hiding from.
THREE
The scent of stale tobacco lingered in the living room, haunting Gilda with the morning’s earlier events. Mr. Humphreys had just gone on his way to deliver the daily mail. Gilda watched Abigail as she stood near the front door, staring and talking into the oval picture frame by the deacon’s bench in the hallway. Gilda would often find her aunts conversing with their father’s photograph when they needed a little advice.
“I know you’re thinking what I’m thinking, Father,” Abigail whispered into the glass, “so we’re going to need your help, Nicholas Culpeper.”
Gilda said nothing; her mother and stepfather still on her mind.
Abigail turned to see Gilda outside the kitchen door.
“Oh hello, Gildy. Didn’t hear you come in. Everything all right with your mother?”
“Uh-uh.”
“And how are you doing?” she asked, taking the strings of her glasses and positioning their plastic red arms over her ears to study the tear stain on her niece’s cheek. Abigail held out an open hand. “Not very well, I can see.” She grabbed hold of Gilda’s hand and squeezed it tight.
“What do you say we do something fun today, hmmm? A day off school is special, and shouldn’t be wasted.” Abigail wiped the dampness from Gilda’s cheeks.
Gilda nodded. “Aunt Abigail?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“Yes, Gildy?” Abigail whispered back.
“I kinda overheard your conversation with Mr. Humphreys.”
“Oh, you did, did you?”
“Yes, and I was wondering, well, thinking really…”
“Spit it out, child.” Abigail removed her glasses. “What are you trying to say, dear?”
“Ok,” she said, then took a deep breath and pushed the air and the words out of her mouth in one solid, straight-forward question. “Where are we going to find out more about Charles?” Gilda asked, happy to have her thoughts out in the open.
“So, we’re on the same page, I see,” Abigail replied with a smile. She motioned Gilda to the kitchen. “We’ll just start at the beginning, my dear, the very beginning.” She called to Mathilda in the kitchen. “Tilly, did you find the book I asked about last night?” she shouted.
“Oh! Is that what you asked me?” Mathilda answered.
“What did you think I’d said?” Abigail asked.
“I thought you said to mind the chook.”
“Oh Tilly, now why would I say such a thing? We didn’t have chicken last night for dinner, for heaven’s sake,” she added.
“Yes, we did,” Mathilda replied.
“That was chicken?”
“Yes, pureed papaya chicken with roasted gizzard and spinach stuffing, it was,” Mathilda defended.
“An honest mistake,” Abigail laughed. “I could’ve sworn it was meatloaf. Oh, well, goodness golly,” she huffed, “we’ll have to get it ourselves then,” motioning to
Gilda as she pushed open the kitchen door. Her glasses trapezed across the mountainous terrain hidden beneath her white blouse and blue knitted vest. Meanwhile, Mathilda stood by the sink with her left ear to her left shoulder. Her right hand held a tiny eye dropper just above her right ear.
“Better take a double dose of those special ear drops, Mathilda dear,” Abigail muttered. “Then you’ll know what I’m saying next time.”
Mathilda used her father’s herbal remedy, almond oil extract, to clean the peanut butter out of her ears, as he liked to say. Her hearing was getting poorer, not because she was seventy-two years old, but because her ears produced more wax than most people’s ears. Of course she didn’t hear her sister’s final comment, for she had already made her way to the bathroom mirror to reposition the now-very-lopsided grey bun atop her head.
“And could you put the kettle on, please? Abigail called out even louder.
“Sisters!” Mathilda mumbled.
“Let’s jus’ take a gander up here, shall we?” Abigail whispered to Gilda. Like a secret passage, the attic door was hidden inside the pantry closet of the kitchen. Abigail donned her glasses, and picked up an old broom handle hanging from a hook inside the pantry door. She pointed the hook on the broom handle to a metal ring on the ceiling and pulled twice as though she was ringing the Sunday morning church bell. The ceiling door swung open. A dust-filled cloud and a musty scent escaped from the opening. Gilda wrinkled her nose and covered it with her hands.
“Smells like a hamster cage up there,” she said.
“Cedar chips, my dear, to keep away those long-tailed-four-legged interlopers, although my preference would be dried sweet woodruff,” Abigail explained. She reached above her head to the hinged wooden ladder folded inside the attic door and straightened it to the closet’s floor. “After you, Gildy,” she motioned with her hand. Gilda grabbed the supports and climbed the ladder. The ears of her bunny slippers bent under the rungs like the pages of her favourite novel. She studied the blackness of the hole in the ceiling and took a long breath.
“Pretty dark up here, Aunt Abigail.” Gilda paused on the top rung of the ladder.
Abigail grabbed a flashlight from the pantry shelf. “Here y’go.” She shone the night lamp to the right of the ladder. “See that string hangin’ off to the side?”
Gilda’s right arm flailed above her head. “Over here?” she asked.
“Yep, right-e-o!” Abigail cheered. “Now give a tug.”
“Got it,” Gilda answered. A naked light bulb hanging from the rafters illuminated a wall of books in the attic. Gilda crawled onto the attic floor, batting away a gallery of spidery artwork in her path. The filmy threads along the library shelves clung to her bangs like a baker’s hairnet. Gilda straightened her tall frame to a stand under the peak of the roofline.
“See anything?” Abigail called. “A book called Bright Beginnings, perhaps?”
Gilda uncorked a jar of dry green leaves on the top shelf. “Nothing yet,” she answered. She sniffed inside the jar. “Jus’ some dusty ol’ spices,” she said with a cough.
The whistling squeal of the kettle wailed from the kitchen.
“Tilly, will you get that, please?” Abigail called from behind the pantry door. No response. “Tilly? Tilly! Oh, Sheila’s sassafras,” she muttered. “Where is that woman?” She called up the attic stairs.
“Gilda? I’ll be right back!” Abigail hurried to the stove, then called once again back to Gilda. “On second thought, c’mon down, sweetie. We’ll get the book another time.”
“All right,” she answered. Tufts of grey dust collected on Gilda’s pant legs as she made her way back to the stairs. She brushed them off, creating a breeze that blew tiny tumbleweeds around the attic. A billowy blue and white scarf floated to the side of the attic opening, revealing a square, dark wooden box. Gilda hadn’t noticed the scarf on her way up the stairs. Sequins and embroidered threads were sewn in whimsical patterns of leaves and flowers along its edges. Gilda was intrigued by the exotic fabric, more so than the contents of the box beneath it.
Why would Great-Grandfather Culpeper keep such a frilly fabric to hide this box? Gilda asked herself. Had he traded it for tea or herbs on one of his trips to India? Or was it a gift for Great-Grandmother? The colours reminded Gilda of the blue oceans she’d seen surrounding the Caribbean Islands in the National Geographic magazines her father used to collect. He scrapbooked these pictures to plan their next big adventure.
“One day Gildy, I’m going to take us all to one of these tropical paradises,” he’d tell her after she’d said her bedtime prayers. “Just like the places in these pictures. Where do your dreams take you, Gildy?” he’d ask.
Gilda’s heart ached when she remembered her father’s dreams, the dreams he never fulfilled.
She gathered the blousy material between her hands as though it were a bouquet of spring flowers, full, fragile and fragrant, and placed it to the side. The brown wooden box hidden beneath it revealed nothing of its contents. It was perfectly square, matching the size of her English binder at school, and perfectly ordinary too, aside from the fancy script embossed along the sides in gold ink. Her great-grandfather’s full Christian name, Nicholas Sebastian Culpeper, was printed on all four edges in the most elegant font she’d ever seen.
It could even have been a gift from a King, she thought. As Gilda proceeded to lift the box’s thick wooden lid, the scent of cinnamon sticks and orange blossoms filled the attic. These were familiar aromas, having spent many Saturday afternoons with her nose in the tea jars at her aunts’ herb and tea shop. Spicy and heavy, these smells made her think of camel rides and snake charmers, like the stories of the Arabian Nights. She removed the lid, only to discover a smaller box within. The initials, GML, appeared on the top. She smoothed her fingers across the monogram.
“These are my initials,” she whispered. She lifted the lid to find a brown leather-bound journal. The words, Culpeper Curiosities, were printed on the cover. Before she could look into the book any further, Mathilda called to her from the bottom of the attic stairs.
“Gildy, I’ve made some tea. Would you like some?”
Gilda leaned over to the opening in the attic.
“Be right there,” she called. Gilda couldn’t leave now, not before discovering the contents of this book. She couldn’t let her tea get cold either, for that wasn’t polite. She replaced the lids on their respective boxes, gathered them in the scarf, and headed down the ladder for a cup of Culpeper tea and an explanation.
FOUR
As she entered the kitchen, Mathilda was taking her nearly famous cranberry and cauliflower muffins out of the oven.
“Oh my stars, Gilda,” she said all in a fluster, dropping the muffin tray onto the floor. “What on earth have you got there?”
Gilda bent down, setting the scarfed box to the side, as she collected the scattered baked goods rolling around on the checkerboard linoleum. “I found this box under this scarf in the attic. Do you know what it is?”
“Do I know? Why, of course I know.” Mathilda replied while handing Gilda a wicker basket for the muffins. “But do you know?”
“I know there’s a book inside,” Gilda answered. She stood up to carry the basket and the box to the dining room table where Abigail was already seated. “It all seems a bit mysterious.” Gilda and Mathilda took their seats at the pine harvest table, the same antique table that hosted all of their family gatherings. Gilda always sat to the left of Abigail and across the table from Mathilda.
“Just as it was meant to be,” Abigail smiled, placing a white linen napkin on her lap. She gently lifted the tea cozy off the teapot placed in the center of the table and began to pour the peach-coloured water into the teacups. “I can see you’ve already noticed the familiar monogram on the cover. Exquisite, isn’t it? As was your great-great grandmother.”
Mathilda held the sugar bowl and the honey pot close enough for Abigail to choose between the two sweeteners.
“Honey, please,” Abigail ordered, as though she were being served high tea at the Empress Hotel.
Mathilda frowned at the insult. “You can get it yourself, can you not?” She moved the honey closer to her own cup. “Or is her majesty now too tired to command her royal subjects any further?”
“You are in a snit, are you not, Miss Tilly?” Abigail moved the honey pot back to her cup, pushed the honey dripper into the golden pool, taking her time to make sure that every swirl was coated with the sugary treat. Mathilda stomped back to the cupboard in the kitchen, grabbed an even larger honey pot, and placed it beside her cup with a “so there” sort of gesture to her sister. Abigail shifted her knees and her attention solely to Gilda, purposely excluding her sister from the conversation.
“Now, what were we saying? Ah yes, your initials.” Abigail moved her honey pot and her teacup closer to her new position, and added even more honey to her tea, giving her sister an extra snub at the same time.
“They are the same as those on the box, Gilda, because your great-grandfather was very aware of the similarities between you and your great-great grandmother, his mother, even at your young age. Not only
physical characteristics, like your eye and hair colour, but the calm and intuitive look you gave him as a newborn. It was Father’s request that you have the same initials as his mother, Geraldine, GML.”
“But if Great-Grandfather was a Culpeper,” Gilda asked, “wouldn’t Great-Great Grandmother be a Culpeper too?” Thinking she was asking the obvious.
Mathilda moved her chair around the table and closer to Gilda’s, taking over the explanation by forcing Gilda to turn her back to Abigail.
“Strangely enough, my dear, your great-great grandmother kept her birth name. She was christened Geraldine Margarite Lundrum,” Mathilda explained. “She signed her name that way even after marrying Thomas Earl Culpeper in order to keep the Lundrum name alive. That Lundrum surname carried a strong reputation in these parts in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. Her father was a very wealthy and an extremely influential man in Ridgeling County. He made certain his five daughters kept their maiden names, as unusual as this practice was at that time.” Gilda wasn’t sure what all this meant.
Mathilda reached across the table for the covered basket and offered it to Gilda. “Muffin?” The invitation was not presented to Abigail, but she declined nevertheless.
“No, no, nothing for me, Tilly. I’m watching my waistline,” she smirked.
Gilda attempted to soften the sarcasm in the room. “Yes, please,” she answered ever so politely. “But I’m a Lundrum. How can that be?”
“Yes you are,” Abigail said, adding her third tablespoon of honey to her tea. Mathilda was unable to answer; she had already stuffed her mouth with one of the morning’s hot muffins. Abigail redirected Gilda’s attention to her end of the table by turning her chair towards her and away from Mathilda.
“When Benjamin Lundrum, no relation to Geraldine Margarite Lundrum, arrived on the scene from Saskatoon to marry your mother, there was no doubt he would be accepted into the family with open arms with a name like that one.”
“That’s a cool coincidence,” Gilda said.
Mathilda turned Gilda’s shoulders to face her own.
“Nothing in this world is a coincidence, Gildy,” Mathilda added, her mouth now empty. “Now I have a question for you.” She paused, giving Gilda enough time to reposition herself for the umpteenth time, pour herself some more tea, add her own teaspoon of sugar to avoid the treacle truce, and butter the warm muffin on her plate. “What’s an eleven-letter word for magic?” Mathilda asked.
“Can you give me a hint, Aunt Mathilda?” Gilda lowered her eyes to think about the question. She looked up from the table and stared into the snow-covered garden outside the dining room window. The Monday morning breakfast table welcomed citrus sunshine through the window’s lace curtains. It was a warmth Gilda savoured in this beloved country setting. In the western sky, pewter clouds loomed over the town of Ridgeville, reminding Gilda that her time in the country was drawing to a close.
Abigail appreciated the shift in Gilda’s disposition and attempted to lighten the mood. She rested her wrinkled cheek against Gilda’s and Mathilda did the same, quietly ending their quarrel.
“Look inside the teapot for your clue,” Abigail said. Gilda moved the teapot closer to her placemat and removed the lid. An infusion of mint, ginger and rose geranium tea leaves had steeped inside the Brown Betty, with only a few teaspoons of liquid left in the bottom.
“I don’t see anything but loose tea leaves, Aunt Abigail,” Gilda said.
“Look closely. Do they make a pattern of any kind?”
“Well, maybe. Those leaves over there,” she pointed, “are in the shape of Abraham Lincoln’s face, I guess.”
“Really? Quite the imagination too. Ok, what else?” Abigail asked.
“And these look a bit like a platypus,” Gilda pointed. “But I still don’t know an eleven-letter word for magic, Aunt Mathilda.”
“Tasseomancy, my dear. You’ve just had your first tea-leaf reading lesson,” she answered.
Abigail shifted Gilda’s box to the middle of the table and opened it. “I knew a smart girl like you would discover this box sooner or later. It was what Father liked to call his Herbal Bible. Let me show you something your great grandpa Culpeper showed me when I was your age.” She opened the leather bound journal to a messy collage of seed packets, pressed leaves, and hand-written notes taped willy-nilly across the page. “Now, where did I see that? Ah, yes, here it is.”
“So you’ve known all along about this book,” Gilda interjected, “but planted it for me to find? You’re quite the actor, Aunt Mathilda.”
“Thank you, my dear,” she said with a wink and a smile. “I do try my best.”
“It certainly got your attention, didn’t it?” Abigail turned two more brittle pages, using both hands to cradle one after the other until the book rested comfortably open to a translucent envelope with the pouch side facing out. A small rectangular paper, half the size of the envelope, stood tall inside. “Go ahead, Gildy. See what it says.”
Gilda removed the paper, noticing right away its unusual texture. “This paper feels weird… thin, almost slippery,” she said, shifting it between her fingers as it crinkled loudly with very little effort. “And it sounds like a candy wrapper.”
“Very good deduction, Gilda.” Abigail answered. “That’s what’s known as onion skin. When people wrote letters to anyone overseas, they used especially-light writing paper so it weighed very little and cost much less than regular stationery. Posting letters overseas was very expensive,” Abigail explained.
“This letter was from someone named Anwar in India!” Gilda said with surprise.
“Yes, Anwar was a very good friend of your great grandfather’s. He supplied the herbs and teas he needed for his business That beautiful scarf was a lovely added touch, don’t you think?” Abigail picked it up and wrapped it around Gilda’s shoulders.
Gilda started to read the letter. Dear Mr. Culpeper. She stopped. “If he was such a good friend, then why wouldn’t he say, Dear Nicholas?”
“Another very good question. Business partners addressed one another in a very formal manner back then, and do so even today, using Mr. Humphreys or even your
teachers as an example. Addressing people by Mr. or Mrs. maintains their professionalism and acknowledges respect. Friendly relations lead to foul relations in business,” Abigail said, the strings of her glasses now laced fondly around her fingers as she recalled Carlton’s earlier compliment.
Gilda continued reading.
I am sorry to inform you that our business dealings have come to an end. My father’s recent death has created some difficulties within my family, namely the successful selection of a suitor for my youngest sister. She now requires my assistance in finding a husband which places a great deal of pressure on me and my business. I have always valued our relationship in the past, and know that you will understand my predicament at this time. In the next couple of days I will be forwarding the name of another very reliable merchant in the area in hopes that his expertise will assist you in maintaining your business in Canada.
All the best to you and your family.
Sincerely, Anwar Punjab.
“So what happened after that?” Gilda asked. “Did Great Grandpa Culpeper find another supplier?”
“Afraid not, my dear,” Abigail said. “Father had decided to retire that same year, before knowing about Mr. Punjab’s situation, so when your aunt and I took over the business we needed to look elsewhere for teas. Not an easy task, let me tell you, all the way from Canada.”
“Some of your teas still come from India, don’t they?” Gilda asked.
“They do,” she answered, “and China and Ceylon as well. When we needed to source out a new supplier, we came across many other tea wholesalers. Now we have a
wider variety of teas than Father ever had in his store. If his business arrangement with Mr. Punjab had continued, we wouldn’t have thought to look elsewhere for herbs and teas. The letter came at just the right time. Again, you see, nothing is ever a coincidence in this world, my dear. Nothing. Remember that.”
Mathilda, now tired of listening while her freshly baked muffins sat neglected before her eyes, interrupted the history lesson. “Is anyone going to have anymore muffins here?”
“No, thank you, Aunt Mathilda,” Gilda replied.
“No thanks, Tilly,” Abigail answered. “Wouldn’t have considered cranberries and cauliflower. Your imagination is really something else when it comes to cooking,” she added.
Mathilda got up from the table, and proceeded to the kitchen, muffin basket in hand. “Then I’ll start the eggs and brussel sprouts for our real breakfast.”
“Splendid,” Abigail whispered to Gilda. “Not hard to understand why there’s no meat on these bones of mine,” she mocked, patting her thighs. “Think I’ll pass on the sprouts omelette, Tilly,” she called out to the kitchen. “But you go on ahead.”
Gilda got up from the table with the book, feeling badly about Abigail’s ill treatment, and followed Mathilda to the kitchen.
“Aunt Mathilda?” she asked. “Would I be able to take this book home with me for the week?” She replaced the letter within the envelope and closed the book, pulling the scarf closer around her neck.
“By all means, my dear. Go ahead. It’s yours now. But what will Charles say when he sees it?”
“Oh, I’m keeping this book hidden. No one will ever know it’s even in the apartment,” Gilda vowed.
“All right then. Now that the tutoring session is over, I’m taking orders. Two eggs and a side order of sprouts for you, right Gilda?”
“I’ll try,” Gilda answered. “but there’s already been a lot for me to digest this morning.”
FIVE
After breakfast, Gilda headed back to her room to pack up her things. Abigail peered into her room with a wide smile across her face.
“May I come in?” she asked. “I thought we could have another gander at that magic book of yours. Shall we?” The book was sitting wide open on Gilda’s bed. “You asked how we might find out more about Charles. And I see you’ve been studying some on your own.” Abigail commented on her great niece’s reading habits. “That’s good, but do remember to close the book once you’ve finished. There’s no telling what may slip out,” she replied. Gilda gave her aunt a peculiar look, not fully understanding what she’d meant. Abigail promptly returned her glasses to her nose, sat herself upon the bed with a
slap on the space beside her for Gilda to do the same, and turned to the index of Culpeper Curiosities. Halfway down the page, after LINTEL LISTENINGS and before NIGGLING NOTIONS was a chapter entitled, MINDFUL MEDITATIONS with ‘X3” in parentheses beside it.
“What does Mindful Meditations mean, Aunt Abigail?” Gilda asked.
“Oh, Father had some words of inspiration he liked to chant, just to get his sensory juices flowing, so to speak. He read passages aloud whenever there was something puzzling him. Casting the words into the air, he liked to say, attracted answers.”
“So what does ‘X3’ signify?” Gilda asked. “Does it mean we say it three times?”
“Not exactly,” Abigail answered, her eyelids closing slightly as though she was about to sneeze.
“It means we need three people to energize the chant.” Again, Gilda gave a curious look to her aunt whose expression was even more curious. Abigail stood up and called downstairs to Mathilda in such a way that her sister’s good ear could pick up the signal. “Thrice the chant, sister dear.”
Mathilda echoed, “By us three, all is clear.” Mathilda wasn’t quick on her feet or nimble like her lanky sister. She liked to say her bones were bigger than most, so it took her a little longer to get them moving, but it was Gilda’s nose that sensed her presence. Mathilda’s signature scent of almond oil extract made its way to the bedroom a few seconds before Mathilda did.
“Whoa, Aunt Mathilda,” Gilda remarked, now standing straight up with strands of her red hair blown into her face by her aunt’s windy and wondrous arrival. “Where’d you come from?” Gilda rubbed her eyes, then took another long look at the situation.
Mathilda shook out the folded edges of her long floral skirt and straightened the sleeves on its matching blouse.
“Just a wee bit of magic, my dear,” she answered in half breaths. “Nothing to be afraid of.” She looked to her sister. “Phew, that spell could use a bit of fine tuning, sister. It’s too quick for my liking. Maybe we could add another verse to slow down the travel time just a tad, hmm?” Mathilda bent over to wipe her brow with her apron and readjusted once again the lopsided grey bun on top of her head.
“No time for that now, Silly Tilly,” Abigail retorted. “Finish putting yourself together and stand here beside Gilda, will you?”
Mathilda scowled at her sister’s impatience, especially after her Silly Tilly comment. She despised being called Silly Tilly, but she didn’t say a word. Abigail quickly continued on.
The aunts carried on as though the act of instantly appearing at a predetermined location was as commonplace as taking the bus from one city to another. Abigail positioned Gilda’s book where everyone could read it, and stood on the other side of Gilda. “Now, when I say three, we’ll begin. Ready? One, two, three.”
Juniper, Ginger, Jonquils and Jasmine,
Send us the details of this gentleman’s passion,
Before the sisters had an opportunity to start into verse three, Gilda interrupted, holding her arms straight out like a school crossing guard in front of Abigail and Mathilda.
“H-h-hold on here a minute,” she announced. In her aunts’ house, she felt comfortable asking questions, no matter how ridiculous they may have seemed, whereas at the apartment, Gilda never questioned her stepfather’s actions, no matter the circumstances.
“Isn’t anyone going to explain all this? Gilda pointed at Mathilda, “First, you appear out of nowhere after I’d just left you in the kitchen,” she accused, “and you, Aunt Abigail, start us with an incantation like we’re witches or something? I mean, wh-where is all of this coming from? And why haven’t I seen these powers before now?”
Abigail and Mathilda took each of Gilda’s hands and answered in unison.
“Because it’s the power of three that sets the magic free,” they sang in perfect harmony. Gilda’s mouth gaped open and stayed that way. The sisters continued.
“Your discovery of the Culpeper Curiosities…,” sang Mathilda in high C.
“…and your weekend living properties…” Abigail finished in low C.
“…brought about these specialitieeeeeees!” they wheezed. Both sisters, while holding their sides as though they’d just completed Ave Maria, stopped to catch their respective breaths.
“So… you’re…saying…,” Gilda paused to think, “that if I hadn’t found Culpeper Curiosities and hadn’t been spending my weekends here in the country that the magic wouldn’t have happened?” Gilda squeezed her aunts’ hands.
“Precisely, my dear.” Mathilda answered. “We’re just sorry it took us so long to get you to this point.” She patted Gilda’s hand with her free one. “Any clearer?”
“Not really,” Gilda answered, her eyes all wide, “but I’m sure you’ll show me.”
“So,” Abigail started, “shall we continue, Sisters Three? Times a wastin’. Hands still joined? All eyes on the page? Ready? One, two, three.”
Colours of the universe, show us here,
The answers we seek for the questions we fear.
With the final word of the chant, the morning’s dull November clouds parted over 313 Ridgeville County Road.
“Look at that,” Gilda pointed to the window. “The sky has turned green.”
“Well, wouldn’t that jar your mother’s pickles,” Mathilda answered in amazement.
“Fine dandy, it’s just the answer we’re looking for,” Abigail gloated. “Thank you, Father.”
“But, I don’t get it. What does it all mean?” Gilda continued to stare at the chunk of green sky sandwiched between the grey clouds.
“It’s never good,” Abigail warned.
“But it’s unmistakably green,” Mathilda added as she peered through the window. “There’s never a doubt when the sky comes up green.”
“You see, Gilda,” Abigail began to explain, “colours have meanings of their own. For instance, black can mean death or confusion of the mind. Orange can mean birth or clarity of thought. But green…” She took a breath. “Green always means greed.”
“I don’t understand, then.” Gilda sat down on the bed beside the Culpeper Curiosities journal. She smoothed her hand across the white popcorn puffs on the bedcover. Mathilda joined her on the bed, creating a deep dip in the mattress that strained the bedsprings with a mournful groan. Abigail’s descent to the small space beside her sister was less noticeable.
“It would appear that Charles’ motivation in life is money,” Abigail said matter-of-factly. “It makes perfect sense, given he came to Ridgeville as a banker. Don’t you agree?”
“No… I mean,” Gilda stammered, “m-maybe, I mean, yes, that’s the present, but how does that give us a clue about his past?”
“This is where your great-grandfather’s journal comes in,” Mathilda patted the book. “Just look for the chapter about colour, then find green.”
Gilda opened the table of contents, scanning titles like ARTICHOKE AND AARDVARKS, and BELLY BUTTON BIZARRE, to the chapter on CHARACTER COLOURS. She flipped to page thirty-seven and skimmed the list.
“Here it is,” she pointed. “It says, those found under the colour green are likely to be the product of a mixed marriage?” Gilda looked to Abigail. “A mixed marriage? What does that mean?”
Abigail brushed her fingers across the page. “Read on, read on.”
“Green comes from combining red and blue. Red parentage denotes followings of the red planet, Mars. Blue parentage indicates a direction towards the ways of the moon.” It was then that Gilda stopped reading. “Oh no,” she exclaimed.
“What’s the trouble, Gildy?” Mathilda asked with only a smidgeon of concern in her voice.
“Well, you see,” she squinted, “there’s a note at the bottom of the page in teeny tiny print.”
Mathilda pulled an enormous magnifying glass from her apron pocket.
“Here you go. Now what does it say?” She looked to her sister who was giving her the look. “What?”
“Why, I’ve been looking for that magnifying glass for weeks,” Abigail whined. “And what do you need it for? Your eyesight is perfect.”
Mathilda chuckled to herself. “I was well aware you were looking for it,” she smirked. “All the more reason for not telling you where it was. Continue reading, Gilda.”
“It says, ‘If this is not the case, then the individual is just plain rotten.’”
Gilda closed the book.
Mathilda looked to Abigail. Abigail looked to Gilda. Gilda looked to Mathilda. They all got up from the bed.
“Oh my,” they all sighed, “there really is no time to lose.”
As she crouched beside the banister with her gangly legs folded up to her chin, her red braids hanging loosely over her knees, and her white bunny slippers looking over the top step, Gilda could barely hear the discussion downstairs over the loud ticking of the grandfather clock. She knew that making an appointment with a tea leaf reader wasn’t unusual. Her aunts Abigail and Mathilda had read tea leaves for many years, but mostly for fun. The readings of Cassandra Hotchkiss, on the other hand, Ridgeville’s newest forecaster of fortunes and fears, were taken much more seriously.
“I know what you are saying, Carlton,” Abigail replied, after she’d returned from leaving a phone message for Gilda’s mother, Helen. “This china cup has the power to change a person’s life forever.” Abigail gathered Gilda’s new teacup in her hands while Mathilda placed a pot of tea and a plate of freshly baked cookies on the coffee table in
front of Mr.Humphreys. She’d made them as a treat for Gilda’s lunch which wouldn’t be necessary now.
“There’s no ways we can lets this happen to our Gilda,” he stated. “She’s jus’ a child. Donts you agree?”
Abigail turned to Mathilda. “Gilda’s the same age now that we were when Father taught us to read tea leaves. You remember that, don’t you, Tilly?”
“Sure, but Abby, we haven’t read tea leaves in years.” Mathilda said, placing the cookies closer to Mr. Humphreys who proceeded to take them two at a time. “And Cassandra Hotchkiss has the entire town’s business these days.”
“For now, she does. It’s the perfect time to hand over the tea leaf reading reins to Gilda. Father documented everything, and we’ve got all his journals here in the house.” Abigail pointed to the leather bound books shelved behind the light blue wingback chair by the reading lamp. “But we’ll talk later ‘bout all that.”
Mr. Humphreys set his mug on the crocheted doily on the coffee table. He looked to his left and to his right as though he’d been tapped on both shoulders.
“What’s the matter, Carlton?” Abigail asked.
“Yous can’t tells nobody I tol’ you.” He wiped both palms in one solid motion from his lap to his knees, leaving streaks of perspiration on his blue polyester trousers.
“What’s got you all nervous, Carlton?” Mathilda asked.
“I saws Charles leaving Ida Schmidt’s house jus’ last month, too! When I calleds on Ida laters that day, she had that sames purple complexion as lasts time somebody’s tea
leaves was disturbin’.” Abigail moved to the edge of her seat. Mr. Humphreys looked her straight in the eye. “Miss Abigail, you’s gots to do’s somethin’s, and fast.”
“But why would Charles Khurser be seeking out fortune tellers?” Abigail asked. She curled a stray grey hair around her ear and straightened the strings on her red-rimmed bifocals hanging about her neck.
“Seems he’s gots somethin’ he needs to know,” he answered, that extra ‘s’ always sliding its way into his responses. His stare became more pronounced. “Hey, those there glasses is new, aren’t they?”
“Why yes, they are, Carlton,” Abigail replied with a blush, placing them on her nose.
“I’s like ‘em. Makes those green eyes of yours sparkles,” he added with a wink.
Abigail blushed even brighter.
“Good heavens,” Mathilda muttered. “A grade school crush, right before my eyes. Yuck.”
“Mathilda here picked them out,” Abigail added. “Said I needed more pizzazz in my wardrobe. Really! At my age, I just need a decent pair of spectacles, snazzy or otherwise.”
“And maybe some good eyes to really see what this man is getting at,” Mathilda muttered.
Abigail took off the glasses, let them swing on their strings, and then primped her hair. “But getting back to Charles.” Mathilda interjected. “Do you think it’s something from his past?”
“Coulds be,” he said, bending to take another sip of his tea, “but he beings a banker an’ all, it donts fit his personality.”
“There’s a lot we don’t know about this man my niece has married,” Abigail said, handing her guest the china plate. “Another cookie, Carlton?”
“Nope, better gets goin’ on my route,” he answered as he walked to the front door to pick up his navy canvas bag. Abigail and Mathilda followed. He turned his head towards Abigail and whispered. “Though I’s be keepin’ my ears open for any more news ‘bout you-knows-who.” Gilda, still in eavesdropping mode at the top landing, stood up and smoothed the creases out of her brown corduroy bell bottom pants, the hems of which never quite reached her ankles.
It’s true, she thought, we don’t know much about Charles’ life before he arrived in Ridgeville. She moved from the staircase to her bedroom at the top of the stairs. She glanced at the wedding photograph of her new family in the white frame on the dresser. Charles was holding Helen’s gloved hand in his, while Gilda and her brother Malcolm stood on each side of the newlyweds. Everyone was smiling on that sunny September Saturday, but she’d just now noticed how Charles’ smile was especially wide, wider than she’d seen in the last couple of months since he’d come to live at 29 Main Street East. Charles didn’t smile at all these days. Nevertheless, she believed Charles loved her mother. Her mother’s happiness was all that really mattered to her.
A pleasant, melodious ring, like the sound of joyous wedding bells, interrupted her thoughts. Abigail called up the stairs before she answered the telephone.
“It’s for you, Gilda. It’s your mum.” Abigail then picked up the phone. “Why hello, Helen. How are you and Charles this fine Monday morning? Glad to hear it. And young Malcolm?
As Gilda descended all thirteen stairs from her bedroom to the living room, she discovered something unusual about her aunts’ phone. She’d never questioned it before now, but it suddenly occurred to her that her aunts never answered the phone on the first ring, even if they were sitting in the same room, and they knew exactly who was calling before they’d even heard the caller’s voice on the other end of the line.
“Fine, dandy,” Abigail replied. “Well, here she is. Talk to you soon, Helen.” Abigail handed Gilda the phone.
Gilda pulled the long, ringletted cord into the kitchen so she wouldn’t interrupt the goodbyes between her aunts and Mr. Humphreys. The kitchen door closed behind her.
“Hi Mommy,” she said in a calm, quiet voice.
Helen’s voice quavered. “Is everything all right, Gildy? I just picked up my voice mail and heard Aunt Abigail’s message. Why didn’t you make it to school this morning? Aunt Mathilda’s car didn’t break down again, did it?”
Gilda didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t give her mother the real reason for her absence. After all, she hadn’t figured it out for herself. The news of Charles’
appointment with a tea leaf reader wasn’t enough of an excuse to miss school.
“I’m fine, Mommy. Just wasn’t feeling quite myself this morning.” It wasn’t a full-blown lie; her response did have some truth to it. How could she feel the same about herself if she didn’t know how she felt about her new stepfather?
“Do you need me to come over?” her mother asked with sincerity. “I can, you know. It’s not a problem. I’ll just ask Lottie to drive me.”
“I know, but I’m fine. Honest.”
“Are you sure everything’s all right, honey?” Helen asked. Gilda didn’t need to think about her response to that remark.
“It’s all good here, Mommy. Really. In fact, it’s great.” Gilda’s eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t tell her mother anything about the tea leaves, but holding it inside was harder than she thought.
“We can talk about it tonight if you’d like, after Aunt Mathilda and Aunt Abigail drop you off in town. You are coming home tonight, aren’t you, Gilda?”
“How ‘bout I let you talk to Aunt Mathilda about that?” Gilda answered.
“Ummm, sure sweetie,” Helen replied hesitantly, not really wanting to surrender the communication line with her daughter who, obviously, was not fine. “I’ll see you later tonight then,” Helen answered with a pause, filling the silent spaces in-between with a silent sigh. “Love you.”
“Love you too, Mommy. Bye.” Gilda leaned over to give Mathilda the phone. A tear rolled down her cheek before she had time to wipe it away with the sleeve of her woolen sweater. She quickly left the kitchen and stood in a hide-and-seek stance against the living room side of the kitchen door, not really knowing who or what she was hiding from.
THREE
The scent of stale tobacco lingered in the living room, haunting Gilda with the morning’s earlier events. Mr. Humphreys had just gone on his way to deliver the daily mail. Gilda watched Abigail as she stood near the front door, staring and talking into the oval picture frame by the deacon’s bench in the hallway. Gilda would often find her aunts conversing with their father’s photograph when they needed a little advice.
“I know you’re thinking what I’m thinking, Father,” Abigail whispered into the glass, “so we’re going to need your help, Nicholas Culpeper.”
Gilda said nothing; her mother and stepfather still on her mind.
Abigail turned to see Gilda outside the kitchen door.
“Oh hello, Gildy. Didn’t hear you come in. Everything all right with your mother?”
“Uh-uh.”
“And how are you doing?” she asked, taking the strings of her glasses and positioning their plastic red arms over her ears to study the tear stain on her niece’s cheek. Abigail held out an open hand. “Not very well, I can see.” She grabbed hold of Gilda’s hand and squeezed it tight.
“What do you say we do something fun today, hmmm? A day off school is special, and shouldn’t be wasted.” Abigail wiped the dampness from Gilda’s cheeks.
Gilda nodded. “Aunt Abigail?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“Yes, Gildy?” Abigail whispered back.
“I kinda overheard your conversation with Mr. Humphreys.”
“Oh, you did, did you?”
“Yes, and I was wondering, well, thinking really…”
“Spit it out, child.” Abigail removed her glasses. “What are you trying to say, dear?”
“Ok,” she said, then took a deep breath and pushed the air and the words out of her mouth in one solid, straight-forward question. “Where are we going to find out more about Charles?” Gilda asked, happy to have her thoughts out in the open.
“So, we’re on the same page, I see,” Abigail replied with a smile. She motioned Gilda to the kitchen. “We’ll just start at the beginning, my dear, the very beginning.” She called to Mathilda in the kitchen. “Tilly, did you find the book I asked about last night?” she shouted.
“Oh! Is that what you asked me?” Mathilda answered.
“What did you think I’d said?” Abigail asked.
“I thought you said to mind the chook.”
“Oh Tilly, now why would I say such a thing? We didn’t have chicken last night for dinner, for heaven’s sake,” she added.
“Yes, we did,” Mathilda replied.
“That was chicken?”
“Yes, pureed papaya chicken with roasted gizzard and spinach stuffing, it was,” Mathilda defended.
“An honest mistake,” Abigail laughed. “I could’ve sworn it was meatloaf. Oh, well, goodness golly,” she huffed, “we’ll have to get it ourselves then,” motioning to
Gilda as she pushed open the kitchen door. Her glasses trapezed across the mountainous terrain hidden beneath her white blouse and blue knitted vest. Meanwhile, Mathilda stood by the sink with her left ear to her left shoulder. Her right hand held a tiny eye dropper just above her right ear.
“Better take a double dose of those special ear drops, Mathilda dear,” Abigail muttered. “Then you’ll know what I’m saying next time.”
Mathilda used her father’s herbal remedy, almond oil extract, to clean the peanut butter out of her ears, as he liked to say. Her hearing was getting poorer, not because she was seventy-two years old, but because her ears produced more wax than most people’s ears. Of course she didn’t hear her sister’s final comment, for she had already made her way to the bathroom mirror to reposition the now-very-lopsided grey bun atop her head.
“And could you put the kettle on, please? Abigail called out even louder.
“Sisters!” Mathilda mumbled.
“Let’s jus’ take a gander up here, shall we?” Abigail whispered to Gilda. Like a secret passage, the attic door was hidden inside the pantry closet of the kitchen. Abigail donned her glasses, and picked up an old broom handle hanging from a hook inside the pantry door. She pointed the hook on the broom handle to a metal ring on the ceiling and pulled twice as though she was ringing the Sunday morning church bell. The ceiling door swung open. A dust-filled cloud and a musty scent escaped from the opening. Gilda wrinkled her nose and covered it with her hands.
“Smells like a hamster cage up there,” she said.
“Cedar chips, my dear, to keep away those long-tailed-four-legged interlopers, although my preference would be dried sweet woodruff,” Abigail explained. She reached above her head to the hinged wooden ladder folded inside the attic door and straightened it to the closet’s floor. “After you, Gildy,” she motioned with her hand. Gilda grabbed the supports and climbed the ladder. The ears of her bunny slippers bent under the rungs like the pages of her favourite novel. She studied the blackness of the hole in the ceiling and took a long breath.
“Pretty dark up here, Aunt Abigail.” Gilda paused on the top rung of the ladder.
Abigail grabbed a flashlight from the pantry shelf. “Here y’go.” She shone the night lamp to the right of the ladder. “See that string hangin’ off to the side?”
Gilda’s right arm flailed above her head. “Over here?” she asked.
“Yep, right-e-o!” Abigail cheered. “Now give a tug.”
“Got it,” Gilda answered. A naked light bulb hanging from the rafters illuminated a wall of books in the attic. Gilda crawled onto the attic floor, batting away a gallery of spidery artwork in her path. The filmy threads along the library shelves clung to her bangs like a baker’s hairnet. Gilda straightened her tall frame to a stand under the peak of the roofline.
“See anything?” Abigail called. “A book called Bright Beginnings, perhaps?”
Gilda uncorked a jar of dry green leaves on the top shelf. “Nothing yet,” she answered. She sniffed inside the jar. “Jus’ some dusty ol’ spices,” she said with a cough.
The whistling squeal of the kettle wailed from the kitchen.
“Tilly, will you get that, please?” Abigail called from behind the pantry door. No response. “Tilly? Tilly! Oh, Sheila’s sassafras,” she muttered. “Where is that woman?” She called up the attic stairs.
“Gilda? I’ll be right back!” Abigail hurried to the stove, then called once again back to Gilda. “On second thought, c’mon down, sweetie. We’ll get the book another time.”
“All right,” she answered. Tufts of grey dust collected on Gilda’s pant legs as she made her way back to the stairs. She brushed them off, creating a breeze that blew tiny tumbleweeds around the attic. A billowy blue and white scarf floated to the side of the attic opening, revealing a square, dark wooden box. Gilda hadn’t noticed the scarf on her way up the stairs. Sequins and embroidered threads were sewn in whimsical patterns of leaves and flowers along its edges. Gilda was intrigued by the exotic fabric, more so than the contents of the box beneath it.
Why would Great-Grandfather Culpeper keep such a frilly fabric to hide this box? Gilda asked herself. Had he traded it for tea or herbs on one of his trips to India? Or was it a gift for Great-Grandmother? The colours reminded Gilda of the blue oceans she’d seen surrounding the Caribbean Islands in the National Geographic magazines her father used to collect. He scrapbooked these pictures to plan their next big adventure.
“One day Gildy, I’m going to take us all to one of these tropical paradises,” he’d tell her after she’d said her bedtime prayers. “Just like the places in these pictures. Where do your dreams take you, Gildy?” he’d ask.
Gilda’s heart ached when she remembered her father’s dreams, the dreams he never fulfilled.
She gathered the blousy material between her hands as though it were a bouquet of spring flowers, full, fragile and fragrant, and placed it to the side. The brown wooden box hidden beneath it revealed nothing of its contents. It was perfectly square, matching the size of her English binder at school, and perfectly ordinary too, aside from the fancy script embossed along the sides in gold ink. Her great-grandfather’s full Christian name, Nicholas Sebastian Culpeper, was printed on all four edges in the most elegant font she’d ever seen.
It could even have been a gift from a King, she thought. As Gilda proceeded to lift the box’s thick wooden lid, the scent of cinnamon sticks and orange blossoms filled the attic. These were familiar aromas, having spent many Saturday afternoons with her nose in the tea jars at her aunts’ herb and tea shop. Spicy and heavy, these smells made her think of camel rides and snake charmers, like the stories of the Arabian Nights. She removed the lid, only to discover a smaller box within. The initials, GML, appeared on the top. She smoothed her fingers across the monogram.
“These are my initials,” she whispered. She lifted the lid to find a brown leather-bound journal. The words, Culpeper Curiosities, were printed on the cover. Before she could look into the book any further, Mathilda called to her from the bottom of the attic stairs.
“Gildy, I’ve made some tea. Would you like some?”
Gilda leaned over to the opening in the attic.
“Be right there,” she called. Gilda couldn’t leave now, not before discovering the contents of this book. She couldn’t let her tea get cold either, for that wasn’t polite. She replaced the lids on their respective boxes, gathered them in the scarf, and headed down the ladder for a cup of Culpeper tea and an explanation.
FOUR
As she entered the kitchen, Mathilda was taking her nearly famous cranberry and cauliflower muffins out of the oven.
“Oh my stars, Gilda,” she said all in a fluster, dropping the muffin tray onto the floor. “What on earth have you got there?”
Gilda bent down, setting the scarfed box to the side, as she collected the scattered baked goods rolling around on the checkerboard linoleum. “I found this box under this scarf in the attic. Do you know what it is?”
“Do I know? Why, of course I know.” Mathilda replied while handing Gilda a wicker basket for the muffins. “But do you know?”
“I know there’s a book inside,” Gilda answered. She stood up to carry the basket and the box to the dining room table where Abigail was already seated. “It all seems a bit mysterious.” Gilda and Mathilda took their seats at the pine harvest table, the same antique table that hosted all of their family gatherings. Gilda always sat to the left of Abigail and across the table from Mathilda.
“Just as it was meant to be,” Abigail smiled, placing a white linen napkin on her lap. She gently lifted the tea cozy off the teapot placed in the center of the table and began to pour the peach-coloured water into the teacups. “I can see you’ve already noticed the familiar monogram on the cover. Exquisite, isn’t it? As was your great-great grandmother.”
Mathilda held the sugar bowl and the honey pot close enough for Abigail to choose between the two sweeteners.
“Honey, please,” Abigail ordered, as though she were being served high tea at the Empress Hotel.
Mathilda frowned at the insult. “You can get it yourself, can you not?” She moved the honey closer to her own cup. “Or is her majesty now too tired to command her royal subjects any further?”
“You are in a snit, are you not, Miss Tilly?” Abigail moved the honey pot back to her cup, pushed the honey dripper into the golden pool, taking her time to make sure that every swirl was coated with the sugary treat. Mathilda stomped back to the cupboard in the kitchen, grabbed an even larger honey pot, and placed it beside her cup with a “so there” sort of gesture to her sister. Abigail shifted her knees and her attention solely to Gilda, purposely excluding her sister from the conversation.
“Now, what were we saying? Ah yes, your initials.” Abigail moved her honey pot and her teacup closer to her new position, and added even more honey to her tea, giving her sister an extra snub at the same time.
“They are the same as those on the box, Gilda, because your great-grandfather was very aware of the similarities between you and your great-great grandmother, his mother, even at your young age. Not only
physical characteristics, like your eye and hair colour, but the calm and intuitive look you gave him as a newborn. It was Father’s request that you have the same initials as his mother, Geraldine, GML.”
“But if Great-Grandfather was a Culpeper,” Gilda asked, “wouldn’t Great-Great Grandmother be a Culpeper too?” Thinking she was asking the obvious.
Mathilda moved her chair around the table and closer to Gilda’s, taking over the explanation by forcing Gilda to turn her back to Abigail.
“Strangely enough, my dear, your great-great grandmother kept her birth name. She was christened Geraldine Margarite Lundrum,” Mathilda explained. “She signed her name that way even after marrying Thomas Earl Culpeper in order to keep the Lundrum name alive. That Lundrum surname carried a strong reputation in these parts in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. Her father was a very wealthy and an extremely influential man in Ridgeling County. He made certain his five daughters kept their maiden names, as unusual as this practice was at that time.” Gilda wasn’t sure what all this meant.
Mathilda reached across the table for the covered basket and offered it to Gilda. “Muffin?” The invitation was not presented to Abigail, but she declined nevertheless.
“No, no, nothing for me, Tilly. I’m watching my waistline,” she smirked.
Gilda attempted to soften the sarcasm in the room. “Yes, please,” she answered ever so politely. “But I’m a Lundrum. How can that be?”
“Yes you are,” Abigail said, adding her third tablespoon of honey to her tea. Mathilda was unable to answer; she had already stuffed her mouth with one of the morning’s hot muffins. Abigail redirected Gilda’s attention to her end of the table by turning her chair towards her and away from Mathilda.
“When Benjamin Lundrum, no relation to Geraldine Margarite Lundrum, arrived on the scene from Saskatoon to marry your mother, there was no doubt he would be accepted into the family with open arms with a name like that one.”
“That’s a cool coincidence,” Gilda said.
Mathilda turned Gilda’s shoulders to face her own.
“Nothing in this world is a coincidence, Gildy,” Mathilda added, her mouth now empty. “Now I have a question for you.” She paused, giving Gilda enough time to reposition herself for the umpteenth time, pour herself some more tea, add her own teaspoon of sugar to avoid the treacle truce, and butter the warm muffin on her plate. “What’s an eleven-letter word for magic?” Mathilda asked.
“Can you give me a hint, Aunt Mathilda?” Gilda lowered her eyes to think about the question. She looked up from the table and stared into the snow-covered garden outside the dining room window. The Monday morning breakfast table welcomed citrus sunshine through the window’s lace curtains. It was a warmth Gilda savoured in this beloved country setting. In the western sky, pewter clouds loomed over the town of Ridgeville, reminding Gilda that her time in the country was drawing to a close.
Abigail appreciated the shift in Gilda’s disposition and attempted to lighten the mood. She rested her wrinkled cheek against Gilda’s and Mathilda did the same, quietly ending their quarrel.
“Look inside the teapot for your clue,” Abigail said. Gilda moved the teapot closer to her placemat and removed the lid. An infusion of mint, ginger and rose geranium tea leaves had steeped inside the Brown Betty, with only a few teaspoons of liquid left in the bottom.
“I don’t see anything but loose tea leaves, Aunt Abigail,” Gilda said.
“Look closely. Do they make a pattern of any kind?”
“Well, maybe. Those leaves over there,” she pointed, “are in the shape of Abraham Lincoln’s face, I guess.”
“Really? Quite the imagination too. Ok, what else?” Abigail asked.
“And these look a bit like a platypus,” Gilda pointed. “But I still don’t know an eleven-letter word for magic, Aunt Mathilda.”
“Tasseomancy, my dear. You’ve just had your first tea-leaf reading lesson,” she answered.
Abigail shifted Gilda’s box to the middle of the table and opened it. “I knew a smart girl like you would discover this box sooner or later. It was what Father liked to call his Herbal Bible. Let me show you something your great grandpa Culpeper showed me when I was your age.” She opened the leather bound journal to a messy collage of seed packets, pressed leaves, and hand-written notes taped willy-nilly across the page. “Now, where did I see that? Ah, yes, here it is.”
“So you’ve known all along about this book,” Gilda interjected, “but planted it for me to find? You’re quite the actor, Aunt Mathilda.”
“Thank you, my dear,” she said with a wink and a smile. “I do try my best.”
“It certainly got your attention, didn’t it?” Abigail turned two more brittle pages, using both hands to cradle one after the other until the book rested comfortably open to a translucent envelope with the pouch side facing out. A small rectangular paper, half the size of the envelope, stood tall inside. “Go ahead, Gildy. See what it says.”
Gilda removed the paper, noticing right away its unusual texture. “This paper feels weird… thin, almost slippery,” she said, shifting it between her fingers as it crinkled loudly with very little effort. “And it sounds like a candy wrapper.”
“Very good deduction, Gilda.” Abigail answered. “That’s what’s known as onion skin. When people wrote letters to anyone overseas, they used especially-light writing paper so it weighed very little and cost much less than regular stationery. Posting letters overseas was very expensive,” Abigail explained.
“This letter was from someone named Anwar in India!” Gilda said with surprise.
“Yes, Anwar was a very good friend of your great grandfather’s. He supplied the herbs and teas he needed for his business That beautiful scarf was a lovely added touch, don’t you think?” Abigail picked it up and wrapped it around Gilda’s shoulders.
Gilda started to read the letter. Dear Mr. Culpeper. She stopped. “If he was such a good friend, then why wouldn’t he say, Dear Nicholas?”
“Another very good question. Business partners addressed one another in a very formal manner back then, and do so even today, using Mr. Humphreys or even your
teachers as an example. Addressing people by Mr. or Mrs. maintains their professionalism and acknowledges respect. Friendly relations lead to foul relations in business,” Abigail said, the strings of her glasses now laced fondly around her fingers as she recalled Carlton’s earlier compliment.
Gilda continued reading.
I am sorry to inform you that our business dealings have come to an end. My father’s recent death has created some difficulties within my family, namely the successful selection of a suitor for my youngest sister. She now requires my assistance in finding a husband which places a great deal of pressure on me and my business. I have always valued our relationship in the past, and know that you will understand my predicament at this time. In the next couple of days I will be forwarding the name of another very reliable merchant in the area in hopes that his expertise will assist you in maintaining your business in Canada.
All the best to you and your family.
Sincerely, Anwar Punjab.
“So what happened after that?” Gilda asked. “Did Great Grandpa Culpeper find another supplier?”
“Afraid not, my dear,” Abigail said. “Father had decided to retire that same year, before knowing about Mr. Punjab’s situation, so when your aunt and I took over the business we needed to look elsewhere for teas. Not an easy task, let me tell you, all the way from Canada.”
“Some of your teas still come from India, don’t they?” Gilda asked.
“They do,” she answered, “and China and Ceylon as well. When we needed to source out a new supplier, we came across many other tea wholesalers. Now we have a
wider variety of teas than Father ever had in his store. If his business arrangement with Mr. Punjab had continued, we wouldn’t have thought to look elsewhere for herbs and teas. The letter came at just the right time. Again, you see, nothing is ever a coincidence in this world, my dear. Nothing. Remember that.”
Mathilda, now tired of listening while her freshly baked muffins sat neglected before her eyes, interrupted the history lesson. “Is anyone going to have anymore muffins here?”
“No, thank you, Aunt Mathilda,” Gilda replied.
“No thanks, Tilly,” Abigail answered. “Wouldn’t have considered cranberries and cauliflower. Your imagination is really something else when it comes to cooking,” she added.
Mathilda got up from the table, and proceeded to the kitchen, muffin basket in hand. “Then I’ll start the eggs and brussel sprouts for our real breakfast.”
“Splendid,” Abigail whispered to Gilda. “Not hard to understand why there’s no meat on these bones of mine,” she mocked, patting her thighs. “Think I’ll pass on the sprouts omelette, Tilly,” she called out to the kitchen. “But you go on ahead.”
Gilda got up from the table with the book, feeling badly about Abigail’s ill treatment, and followed Mathilda to the kitchen.
“Aunt Mathilda?” she asked. “Would I be able to take this book home with me for the week?” She replaced the letter within the envelope and closed the book, pulling the scarf closer around her neck.
“By all means, my dear. Go ahead. It’s yours now. But what will Charles say when he sees it?”
“Oh, I’m keeping this book hidden. No one will ever know it’s even in the apartment,” Gilda vowed.
“All right then. Now that the tutoring session is over, I’m taking orders. Two eggs and a side order of sprouts for you, right Gilda?”
“I’ll try,” Gilda answered. “but there’s already been a lot for me to digest this morning.”
FIVE
After breakfast, Gilda headed back to her room to pack up her things. Abigail peered into her room with a wide smile across her face.
“May I come in?” she asked. “I thought we could have another gander at that magic book of yours. Shall we?” The book was sitting wide open on Gilda’s bed. “You asked how we might find out more about Charles. And I see you’ve been studying some on your own.” Abigail commented on her great niece’s reading habits. “That’s good, but do remember to close the book once you’ve finished. There’s no telling what may slip out,” she replied. Gilda gave her aunt a peculiar look, not fully understanding what she’d meant. Abigail promptly returned her glasses to her nose, sat herself upon the bed with a
slap on the space beside her for Gilda to do the same, and turned to the index of Culpeper Curiosities. Halfway down the page, after LINTEL LISTENINGS and before NIGGLING NOTIONS was a chapter entitled, MINDFUL MEDITATIONS with ‘X3” in parentheses beside it.
“What does Mindful Meditations mean, Aunt Abigail?” Gilda asked.
“Oh, Father had some words of inspiration he liked to chant, just to get his sensory juices flowing, so to speak. He read passages aloud whenever there was something puzzling him. Casting the words into the air, he liked to say, attracted answers.”
“So what does ‘X3’ signify?” Gilda asked. “Does it mean we say it three times?”
“Not exactly,” Abigail answered, her eyelids closing slightly as though she was about to sneeze.
“It means we need three people to energize the chant.” Again, Gilda gave a curious look to her aunt whose expression was even more curious. Abigail stood up and called downstairs to Mathilda in such a way that her sister’s good ear could pick up the signal. “Thrice the chant, sister dear.”
Mathilda echoed, “By us three, all is clear.” Mathilda wasn’t quick on her feet or nimble like her lanky sister. She liked to say her bones were bigger than most, so it took her a little longer to get them moving, but it was Gilda’s nose that sensed her presence. Mathilda’s signature scent of almond oil extract made its way to the bedroom a few seconds before Mathilda did.
“Whoa, Aunt Mathilda,” Gilda remarked, now standing straight up with strands of her red hair blown into her face by her aunt’s windy and wondrous arrival. “Where’d you come from?” Gilda rubbed her eyes, then took another long look at the situation.
Mathilda shook out the folded edges of her long floral skirt and straightened the sleeves on its matching blouse.
“Just a wee bit of magic, my dear,” she answered in half breaths. “Nothing to be afraid of.” She looked to her sister. “Phew, that spell could use a bit of fine tuning, sister. It’s too quick for my liking. Maybe we could add another verse to slow down the travel time just a tad, hmm?” Mathilda bent over to wipe her brow with her apron and readjusted once again the lopsided grey bun on top of her head.
“No time for that now, Silly Tilly,” Abigail retorted. “Finish putting yourself together and stand here beside Gilda, will you?”
Mathilda scowled at her sister’s impatience, especially after her Silly Tilly comment. She despised being called Silly Tilly, but she didn’t say a word. Abigail quickly continued on.
The aunts carried on as though the act of instantly appearing at a predetermined location was as commonplace as taking the bus from one city to another. Abigail positioned Gilda’s book where everyone could read it, and stood on the other side of Gilda. “Now, when I say three, we’ll begin. Ready? One, two, three.”
Juniper, Ginger, Jonquils and Jasmine,
Send us the details of this gentleman’s passion,
Before the sisters had an opportunity to start into verse three, Gilda interrupted, holding her arms straight out like a school crossing guard in front of Abigail and Mathilda.
“H-h-hold on here a minute,” she announced. In her aunts’ house, she felt comfortable asking questions, no matter how ridiculous they may have seemed, whereas at the apartment, Gilda never questioned her stepfather’s actions, no matter the circumstances.
“Isn’t anyone going to explain all this? Gilda pointed at Mathilda, “First, you appear out of nowhere after I’d just left you in the kitchen,” she accused, “and you, Aunt Abigail, start us with an incantation like we’re witches or something? I mean, wh-where is all of this coming from? And why haven’t I seen these powers before now?”
Abigail and Mathilda took each of Gilda’s hands and answered in unison.
“Because it’s the power of three that sets the magic free,” they sang in perfect harmony. Gilda’s mouth gaped open and stayed that way. The sisters continued.
“Your discovery of the Culpeper Curiosities…,” sang Mathilda in high C.
“…and your weekend living properties…” Abigail finished in low C.
“…brought about these specialitieeeeeees!” they wheezed. Both sisters, while holding their sides as though they’d just completed Ave Maria, stopped to catch their respective breaths.
“So… you’re…saying…,” Gilda paused to think, “that if I hadn’t found Culpeper Curiosities and hadn’t been spending my weekends here in the country that the magic wouldn’t have happened?” Gilda squeezed her aunts’ hands.
“Precisely, my dear.” Mathilda answered. “We’re just sorry it took us so long to get you to this point.” She patted Gilda’s hand with her free one. “Any clearer?”
“Not really,” Gilda answered, her eyes all wide, “but I’m sure you’ll show me.”
“So,” Abigail started, “shall we continue, Sisters Three? Times a wastin’. Hands still joined? All eyes on the page? Ready? One, two, three.”
Colours of the universe, show us here,
The answers we seek for the questions we fear.
With the final word of the chant, the morning’s dull November clouds parted over 313 Ridgeville County Road.
“Look at that,” Gilda pointed to the window. “The sky has turned green.”
“Well, wouldn’t that jar your mother’s pickles,” Mathilda answered in amazement.
“Fine dandy, it’s just the answer we’re looking for,” Abigail gloated. “Thank you, Father.”
“But, I don’t get it. What does it all mean?” Gilda continued to stare at the chunk of green sky sandwiched between the grey clouds.
“It’s never good,” Abigail warned.
“But it’s unmistakably green,” Mathilda added as she peered through the window. “There’s never a doubt when the sky comes up green.”
“You see, Gilda,” Abigail began to explain, “colours have meanings of their own. For instance, black can mean death or confusion of the mind. Orange can mean birth or clarity of thought. But green…” She took a breath. “Green always means greed.”
“I don’t understand, then.” Gilda sat down on the bed beside the Culpeper Curiosities journal. She smoothed her hand across the white popcorn puffs on the bedcover. Mathilda joined her on the bed, creating a deep dip in the mattress that strained the bedsprings with a mournful groan. Abigail’s descent to the small space beside her sister was less noticeable.
“It would appear that Charles’ motivation in life is money,” Abigail said matter-of-factly. “It makes perfect sense, given he came to Ridgeville as a banker. Don’t you agree?”
“No… I mean,” Gilda stammered, “m-maybe, I mean, yes, that’s the present, but how does that give us a clue about his past?”
“This is where your great-grandfather’s journal comes in,” Mathilda patted the book. “Just look for the chapter about colour, then find green.”
Gilda opened the table of contents, scanning titles like ARTICHOKE AND AARDVARKS, and BELLY BUTTON BIZARRE, to the chapter on CHARACTER COLOURS. She flipped to page thirty-seven and skimmed the list.
“Here it is,” she pointed. “It says, those found under the colour green are likely to be the product of a mixed marriage?” Gilda looked to Abigail. “A mixed marriage? What does that mean?”
Abigail brushed her fingers across the page. “Read on, read on.”
“Green comes from combining red and blue. Red parentage denotes followings of the red planet, Mars. Blue parentage indicates a direction towards the ways of the moon.” It was then that Gilda stopped reading. “Oh no,” she exclaimed.
“What’s the trouble, Gildy?” Mathilda asked with only a smidgeon of concern in her voice.
“Well, you see,” she squinted, “there’s a note at the bottom of the page in teeny tiny print.”
Mathilda pulled an enormous magnifying glass from her apron pocket.
“Here you go. Now what does it say?” She looked to her sister who was giving her the look. “What?”
“Why, I’ve been looking for that magnifying glass for weeks,” Abigail whined. “And what do you need it for? Your eyesight is perfect.”
Mathilda chuckled to herself. “I was well aware you were looking for it,” she smirked. “All the more reason for not telling you where it was. Continue reading, Gilda.”
“It says, ‘If this is not the case, then the individual is just plain rotten.’”
Gilda closed the book.
Mathilda looked to Abigail. Abigail looked to Gilda. Gilda looked to Mathilda. They all got up from the bed.
“Oh my,” they all sighed, “there really is no time to lose.”
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Hiking Margaret River - the Cape to Cape Track
Hiking Margaret River - the Cape to Cape Track
I lived in Mt. Helena, W.A. for a year when I was on my teacher exchange, and spent a great deal of time in Margaret River.
There's nothing like it in the world. How amazing is the beauty of this Aussie coast, one most travelers don't bother to explore because the East Coast is more popular.
I think my most memorable spot was our trek through the Karri forest. Incredible trees, they are. Australia is definitely a must-see for its flora, and, of course, its fauna.
Laurel Karry
I lived in Mt. Helena, W.A. for a year when I was on my teacher exchange, and spent a great deal of time in Margaret River.
There's nothing like it in the world. How amazing is the beauty of this Aussie coast, one most travelers don't bother to explore because the East Coast is more popular.
I think my most memorable spot was our trek through the Karri forest. Incredible trees, they are. Australia is definitely a must-see for its flora, and, of course, its fauna.
Laurel Karry
Friday, February 19, 2010
Yarns Amongst The Weave- Chapter One
PROLOGUE
When Ben and Helen Lundrum were selecting a name for their baby girl, they wanted one that represented the women who had influenced their lives the most, namely, Helen’s great aunts Abigail and Mathilda Culpeper. Some combinations, such as Abilda and Matigail, weren’t very appealing, until they finally decided upon the perfect name, Gilda.
Now, at twelve years of age, Gilda Mae Lundrum was beginning to dream of far away places, any place far, far away from her stepfather and her family’s tiny apartment at 29 Main Street East. She soon blossomed into a girl with lofty aspirations. Her great aunts Abigail and Mathilda planted every one of those seeds.
ONE
The package arrived Monday morning. With one hand resting on his mailbag and a toothpick sticking out of his mouth, Carlton Humphreys stood on the porch and rapped on the glass panels of the farmhouse door. His bicycle, tailored with snow tires and Par Avion stamps stuck along the cross bar and front fender, waited patiently beside the driveway, its bulging saddle bags distributed evenly across the rack on the back fender.
Gilda was just on her way to her Aunt Mathilda’s car, fondly referred to as Frankie, for her ride to school after a weekend’s stay in the country with her two favourite aunts. She exchanged an especially cheerful greeting with Mr. Humphreys as soon as she noticed the parcel in his hands.
“Good morning, Mr. Humphreys. How are you today?”
“Fine, Miss Gilda, jus’ thankful to be’s on this side of the grave marker,” he answered.
“Oh, that graveyard humour of yours, Mr. Humphreys,” Mathilda replied. “Please, come in.”
In addition to his day job with Canada Post, Mr. Humphreys worked at Ridgeville Memorial Gardens as the grounds keeper.
“Can’t stays long, though.” The toothpick shifted from one side of his mouth to the other with one sweep of his tongue. An extra “s” followed verbs, nouns and even pronouns, giving his words a chance to slither from one to the next. “Pastor Simmons needs the last of these here invites for December’s Spaghetti Dinner,” he said in his most business-like voice, “and delivered by three, or else theres won’t be enough time to place the orders for Mrs. Marchese’s famous meatballs. Needs a good month or so to prepares ‘em. They’s the reasons everyone in Ridgeville comes out, you know.”
He shook the snow of his boots on the front mat, stepped further into the front hallway under the globe-shaped ceiling fixture for better light, and thumbed over the stack of rubber-banded envelopes in the large inner pocket of his bag before closing the storm door behind him.
“Oh, and this fancy parcel’s addressed to you, little lady.” Mr. Humphreys’ long, wrinkled digits poked out of his knitted finger mittens to present a perfectly square box to Gilda. The eau-d’ Export A wafting from his blue uniform explained the yellow stains on his teeth and the middle finger on his left hand. He pointed out the box’s red stamps and stickers. “Says fragile, so yous gotta be extra careful op’nin’ it. Bein’ an experienced mail carrier and all, I’s knows alls about safely deliverin’ precious parcels.” He stood with his hazy blue eyes fixed on the box.
“Thank you, Mr.Humphreys.” Gilda looked at her watch. Mr. Humphreys did not blink. He didn’t even seem to be breathing save for the two stray white nose hairs that stirred every three seconds. He was not in a hurry to leave, at least not before he witnessed the contents of that box. No news got past the postman, not in Ridgeville.
Gilda looked to Mathilda. Mathilda checked the pendant watch hanging flatly against her chest on its thick gold chain.
“We’ve got time, Gilda,” she said. “Open it up!” She couldn’t stand the suspense, either. Her eyes were glued to the box. She could never keep a secret, nor could she stand having one kept from her. “Who do you think it’s from?” she asked. With Mathilda’s poor hearing she couldn’t hear the sweeping sound of Abigail’s suede moccasins across the hardwood floor, but she sensed her sister’s presence, and moved closer to the box as if it was her secret, too.
“A parcel for Gilda?” Abigail rubbed her hands together. “Fine dandy. Who could that be from, I wonder?” Her eyes shifted from Mathilda to Mr. Humphreys and back again. “I don’t remember you orderin’ anything, Tilly. I know I didn’t,” she said. An inquisitive look appeared on Gilda’s face, while a satisfying grin crossed Abigail’s lips.
Gilda studied the box for clues of its origins, slid her thumbnail across the layers of clear tape along its seams and unfolded the cardboard flaps. A black and red-edged leaflet with
thick black lettering sat atop the many layers of tissue paper and bubble wrap protecting the contents within.
“Thomas J. Lipton Ltd?” she read aloud. The name of the popular tea company meant nothing to her as she skimmed over the ten-page booklet with little interest.
“I’ll hold it for you, Gildy,” Mathilda offered, while Gilda carried on with the box. Once she’d peeled away all the wrapping, she looped her forefinger though the handle of the object, and held it up as though making a toast.
“It’s a … teacup,” Gilda replied without much enthusiasm. “Uh, I don’t get it. Who would send me a teacup?” From the outside it looked like an ordinary teacup with hand-painted wild briar roses on the front and back. Decorating the inside was an entire deck of miniature playing cards, filling the bowl in a scattered fifty-two pick-up sort of style. The words, The Cup of Knowledge, were inscribed in old English text along the lip.
“Ho-ley mo-ley, Miss Gilda,” Mr. Humphreys replied as the corners of his eyes and lips began to twitch. “Do you knows what thats is?” He snatched the cup from Gilda’s finger before she had time to answer. “Now wha’s would a good girl like you needs with a thing like that? I’s seen Cassandra Hotchkiss with one of those. Donts needs to says much else now, does I?” Mr. Humphreys may not have been highly educated in English conjugation, but he certainly knew a great deal about the language of witchcraft, especially when that business involved Cassandra S. Hotchkiss. “You knows whats the “S” stands for, donts you?”
“Yes, Mr. Humphreys,” Abigail answered, rolling her eyes. “We know all about Cassandra S. Hotchkiss. You mention her name every time you’ve delivered an intriguing parcel to her door.”
Mathilda disguised her voice to sound as though her throat was full of cigarette smoke.
“It’s Madame Sorceress to you,” she sniggered.
Gilda provided an involuntary snort to further illustrate the absurdity of the claim.
“Oops, pardon me,” she giggled.
“It’s no’s laughin’ matter.” Mr. Humphreys’s facial tics became more pronounced. “Remember whens we learnt about all the happenings. On’y things left on her last client’s saucer was those tea leaves in the shapes of a snake. ” Abigail glared at Mathilda while Mathilda’s eyes shifted from Abigail to Gilda and back again. Gilda’s head played monkey in the middle between her two aunts, trying to understand their silent dialogue.
“What’s the matter?” Gilda asked. “What does that mean? A snake at the bottom of a tea cup? Why are you looking at me that way?” Gilda opened her hands for Mr. Humphreys to return her tea cup. Abigail cleared her throat.
“We can talk about this later, Gilda. You’re going to be late for school.”
“There’s still time, Aunt Abigail,” Gilda replied. She wasn’t leaving this juicy conversation. “Who was Cassandra Hotchkiss’s last client, Mr. Humphreys?” Gilda asked impatiently.
Mr. Humphreys paused, turned his head towards the window on the storm door behind him and scanned both ends of the porch. He shifted his mailbag forward and then closed the heavy wooden door behind him. His eyes caught the attention of Abigail and Mathilda who seemed to be holding their respective breaths.
“Her lasts client, I’ms afraid to say, Miss Gilda, was yours stepdaddy, Charles Khurser.”
Without making eye contact with anyone, Gilda politely excused herself from the hallway, handed the tea cup to Abigail, and headed towards the second floor staircase. Mathilda made a bee-line for the kitchen as Abigail placed the teacup on the coffee table in the front room and made her way to the telephone.
“Would you excuse me, Mr. Humphreys? I think I’d better make a call.”
When Ben and Helen Lundrum were selecting a name for their baby girl, they wanted one that represented the women who had influenced their lives the most, namely, Helen’s great aunts Abigail and Mathilda Culpeper. Some combinations, such as Abilda and Matigail, weren’t very appealing, until they finally decided upon the perfect name, Gilda.
Now, at twelve years of age, Gilda Mae Lundrum was beginning to dream of far away places, any place far, far away from her stepfather and her family’s tiny apartment at 29 Main Street East. She soon blossomed into a girl with lofty aspirations. Her great aunts Abigail and Mathilda planted every one of those seeds.
ONE
The package arrived Monday morning. With one hand resting on his mailbag and a toothpick sticking out of his mouth, Carlton Humphreys stood on the porch and rapped on the glass panels of the farmhouse door. His bicycle, tailored with snow tires and Par Avion stamps stuck along the cross bar and front fender, waited patiently beside the driveway, its bulging saddle bags distributed evenly across the rack on the back fender.
Gilda was just on her way to her Aunt Mathilda’s car, fondly referred to as Frankie, for her ride to school after a weekend’s stay in the country with her two favourite aunts. She exchanged an especially cheerful greeting with Mr. Humphreys as soon as she noticed the parcel in his hands.
“Good morning, Mr. Humphreys. How are you today?”
“Fine, Miss Gilda, jus’ thankful to be’s on this side of the grave marker,” he answered.
“Oh, that graveyard humour of yours, Mr. Humphreys,” Mathilda replied. “Please, come in.”
In addition to his day job with Canada Post, Mr. Humphreys worked at Ridgeville Memorial Gardens as the grounds keeper.
“Can’t stays long, though.” The toothpick shifted from one side of his mouth to the other with one sweep of his tongue. An extra “s” followed verbs, nouns and even pronouns, giving his words a chance to slither from one to the next. “Pastor Simmons needs the last of these here invites for December’s Spaghetti Dinner,” he said in his most business-like voice, “and delivered by three, or else theres won’t be enough time to place the orders for Mrs. Marchese’s famous meatballs. Needs a good month or so to prepares ‘em. They’s the reasons everyone in Ridgeville comes out, you know.”
He shook the snow of his boots on the front mat, stepped further into the front hallway under the globe-shaped ceiling fixture for better light, and thumbed over the stack of rubber-banded envelopes in the large inner pocket of his bag before closing the storm door behind him.
“Oh, and this fancy parcel’s addressed to you, little lady.” Mr. Humphreys’ long, wrinkled digits poked out of his knitted finger mittens to present a perfectly square box to Gilda. The eau-d’ Export A wafting from his blue uniform explained the yellow stains on his teeth and the middle finger on his left hand. He pointed out the box’s red stamps and stickers. “Says fragile, so yous gotta be extra careful op’nin’ it. Bein’ an experienced mail carrier and all, I’s knows alls about safely deliverin’ precious parcels.” He stood with his hazy blue eyes fixed on the box.
“Thank you, Mr.Humphreys.” Gilda looked at her watch. Mr. Humphreys did not blink. He didn’t even seem to be breathing save for the two stray white nose hairs that stirred every three seconds. He was not in a hurry to leave, at least not before he witnessed the contents of that box. No news got past the postman, not in Ridgeville.
Gilda looked to Mathilda. Mathilda checked the pendant watch hanging flatly against her chest on its thick gold chain.
“We’ve got time, Gilda,” she said. “Open it up!” She couldn’t stand the suspense, either. Her eyes were glued to the box. She could never keep a secret, nor could she stand having one kept from her. “Who do you think it’s from?” she asked. With Mathilda’s poor hearing she couldn’t hear the sweeping sound of Abigail’s suede moccasins across the hardwood floor, but she sensed her sister’s presence, and moved closer to the box as if it was her secret, too.
“A parcel for Gilda?” Abigail rubbed her hands together. “Fine dandy. Who could that be from, I wonder?” Her eyes shifted from Mathilda to Mr. Humphreys and back again. “I don’t remember you orderin’ anything, Tilly. I know I didn’t,” she said. An inquisitive look appeared on Gilda’s face, while a satisfying grin crossed Abigail’s lips.
Gilda studied the box for clues of its origins, slid her thumbnail across the layers of clear tape along its seams and unfolded the cardboard flaps. A black and red-edged leaflet with
thick black lettering sat atop the many layers of tissue paper and bubble wrap protecting the contents within.
“Thomas J. Lipton Ltd?” she read aloud. The name of the popular tea company meant nothing to her as she skimmed over the ten-page booklet with little interest.
“I’ll hold it for you, Gildy,” Mathilda offered, while Gilda carried on with the box. Once she’d peeled away all the wrapping, she looped her forefinger though the handle of the object, and held it up as though making a toast.
“It’s a … teacup,” Gilda replied without much enthusiasm. “Uh, I don’t get it. Who would send me a teacup?” From the outside it looked like an ordinary teacup with hand-painted wild briar roses on the front and back. Decorating the inside was an entire deck of miniature playing cards, filling the bowl in a scattered fifty-two pick-up sort of style. The words, The Cup of Knowledge, were inscribed in old English text along the lip.
“Ho-ley mo-ley, Miss Gilda,” Mr. Humphreys replied as the corners of his eyes and lips began to twitch. “Do you knows what thats is?” He snatched the cup from Gilda’s finger before she had time to answer. “Now wha’s would a good girl like you needs with a thing like that? I’s seen Cassandra Hotchkiss with one of those. Donts needs to says much else now, does I?” Mr. Humphreys may not have been highly educated in English conjugation, but he certainly knew a great deal about the language of witchcraft, especially when that business involved Cassandra S. Hotchkiss. “You knows whats the “S” stands for, donts you?”
“Yes, Mr. Humphreys,” Abigail answered, rolling her eyes. “We know all about Cassandra S. Hotchkiss. You mention her name every time you’ve delivered an intriguing parcel to her door.”
Mathilda disguised her voice to sound as though her throat was full of cigarette smoke.
“It’s Madame Sorceress to you,” she sniggered.
Gilda provided an involuntary snort to further illustrate the absurdity of the claim.
“Oops, pardon me,” she giggled.
“It’s no’s laughin’ matter.” Mr. Humphreys’s facial tics became more pronounced. “Remember whens we learnt about all the happenings. On’y things left on her last client’s saucer was those tea leaves in the shapes of a snake. ” Abigail glared at Mathilda while Mathilda’s eyes shifted from Abigail to Gilda and back again. Gilda’s head played monkey in the middle between her two aunts, trying to understand their silent dialogue.
“What’s the matter?” Gilda asked. “What does that mean? A snake at the bottom of a tea cup? Why are you looking at me that way?” Gilda opened her hands for Mr. Humphreys to return her tea cup. Abigail cleared her throat.
“We can talk about this later, Gilda. You’re going to be late for school.”
“There’s still time, Aunt Abigail,” Gilda replied. She wasn’t leaving this juicy conversation. “Who was Cassandra Hotchkiss’s last client, Mr. Humphreys?” Gilda asked impatiently.
Mr. Humphreys paused, turned his head towards the window on the storm door behind him and scanned both ends of the porch. He shifted his mailbag forward and then closed the heavy wooden door behind him. His eyes caught the attention of Abigail and Mathilda who seemed to be holding their respective breaths.
“Her lasts client, I’ms afraid to say, Miss Gilda, was yours stepdaddy, Charles Khurser.”
Without making eye contact with anyone, Gilda politely excused herself from the hallway, handed the tea cup to Abigail, and headed towards the second floor staircase. Mathilda made a bee-line for the kitchen as Abigail placed the teacup on the coffee table in the front room and made her way to the telephone.
“Would you excuse me, Mr. Humphreys? I think I’d better make a call.”
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