Be careful today
and heed these words
and save yourself some pain:
To play the fool
is quite the game,
or sometimes,
not a game at all –
the Lord of Misrule
is cunning and cruel
and rejoices in a fall.
*It’s coming a bit late in the afternoon, I know, but if you indulge in a little April Fool’s trickery today, please remember this: It’s only a joke if everyone’s laughing.*
Addie had never put much stock in silly superstitions. They existed all around her, from her mother’s belief that you should enter and leave by the same door, to her father’s insistence that you must always leave one apple in the orchard at the end of a harvest. Even the local preacher, who steadfastly believed that hearing an unattended church bell meant a parishioner would die. He’d had the bells taken down last year. Don’t do this, always do that. Lest you invite bad luck, lest you tempt the devil, lest this and that and the other thing that never, ever happened.
“Stupidity and fantasy,” Addie told her mother, as they swept the front porch one cool day in the early spring. “Y’all will worry yourselves sick over nothing and then celebrate when nothing happens.”
“I taught you better than that, Addie May,” her mother said.
“You taught me to gather acorns in a thunderstorm. What kind of nonsense is that?”
“The smart kind,” her mother answered. “Now be careful where you sweep. Watch your sister’s feet.”
Addie’s older sister, Emmy, seventeen and pretty as a peach, sat in an old rocking chair near the door, humming and stringing green beans for dinner.
“Or what, Ma?” Addie said. She stopped what she was doing, held the broom upright and put her other hand on her hip. “What’ll happen if I sweep under Emmy’s feet?”
“She’ll never get married,” her mother said. “That’s what.”
“That is absolutely ridiculous,” Addie said, and with a grand gesture, she swept the broom right under the rocking chair, brushing the bottoms of Emmy’s shoes.
“Addie!”
That was both her mother and Emmy, in a tone she knew all too well. The tone meant trouble. As in, she was in it.
“Oh fine,” she said. “I’ll go inside and peel potatoes.”
“Yes you will, Addie May,” said her mother. “And you will apologize to your sister, too.”
“What for?” Addie whined.
“Right now, Miss Priss.”
“She’s not even engaged!”
Her mother answered by way of a stern look and a raised eyebrow.
Addie sighed and turned to Emmy. She said, “I am sorry for sweeping under your feet, lest you never get married and end up a lonely old crone.”
She dropped the broom and ran inside before either Emmy or her mother could reply. She went to bed that night with a fresh scolding from both her parents, and without supper.
In the morning, Addie stayed in her bed for a little longer than usual. She listened to the breeze and the birdsong, and watched the world wake up from her window. When the sun hung high enough to cast shadows on the fields, she snuck outside – easy, since her family had already started their daily chores – and climbed the old oak tree in their back yard. She sat on a thick branch, twirling a leaf in through her fingers.
“Who cooks for you…”
That came from somewhere above her, she thought, and looked up, scanning the branches and searching the leaves.
“Who cooks for you…”
And she spotted it, perched about ten feet above her head, a Barred Owl, looking out ahead with its wide, dark eyes.
“What are you doing out here?” Addie asked.
The owl did not reply.
The second Addie moved to climb higher, the owl flew away.
“Well, that’s disappointing,” she said to herself. “Guess he didn’t want to talk.”
Addie sighed, something her mother said she was unnaturally good at, and climbed down. Sooner or later, she’d have to get this day started, and now was as good a time as any. As she made her way back to the house, she fell in step with her mother, coming back from the barn.
“Hi, Ma,” she said. “I’ll go get the eggs here in a minute.”
“We’re going into town for groceries around lunch, so don’t take too long,” her mother told her. “Where’ve you been this morning?”
“I didn’t feel good,” Addie lied. “I slept in, and then when I felt a little better, I climbed the oak tree to get some fresh air.”
“My little monkey,” her mother said. “You feel all right now?”
“Yes ma’am,” Addie said. “And I saw an owl when I was in the tree.”
Her mother said nothing, but her eyes grew wide.
“It was real pretty, Ma. It almost talked to me.”
Her mother grabbed her arm and pulled her through the kitchen door. Addie stumbled behind her.
“What is it, Ma? What’d I do?”
“Are you absolutely certain, Addie May Bailey, that you saw an owl in that tree?”
“Yes, Ma,” Addie answered.
“Not some other bird?”
“No, ma’am. It was definitely an owl.”
“God protect us,” her mother said. And then, “You stay here. I’m going to get your sister and Pa.”
“Ma! What’d I do? Am I in trouble?”
Her mother hurried out the door without answering, and all Addie could do was wait. She sat down at the table, and wrung her hands together. She didn’t think she’d done anything wrong. She was a little late getting started on her chores, but she had time to get them done, and she hadn’t stained her dress or hurt herself climbing the tree.
About fifteen minutes later, her mother returned, this time with her father and sister in toe, and said, “Now Addie, you tell your Pa what you saw in the tree.”
“An owl,” Addie answered.
“Are you sure?” her father asked.
“Yes, sir. It hooted at me. It had big eyes.”
Her mother and father shared a look, and her sister sat down beside her at the table.
“Why do you always make trouble?” Emmy rolled her eyes and rested her chin in her hands. “Had to go and climb that tree, didn’t you?”
“Emmy hush,” her mother said. “What do you think we should do, Giles?”
Addie stared at her father. He looked calm, but she could see the little vein in his forehead that always popped out when something worried him.
“We’ll just be careful,” her father said. “Nothing else we can do.”
Addie couldn’t take it anymore. She stood up, and the chair she’d been sitting in fell behind her.
“Pa, what’s wrong with me seeing an owl? I don’t understand.”
Her mother answered, wrapping her arms around herself. “They say,” she said, “that if you see an owl in daylight, that means a death is coming.”
Her father and sister were silent, but they looked between Addie and her mother. Emmy picked up the chair.
“Are you serious?” Addie asked.
“As a heart attack,” her mother answered.
“Oh, good grief!”
“Addie,” Emmy screeched.
“More silly superstitions and stupid made-up stories!” Addie fumed. She turned on her family and pointed a straight, stiff finger at all of them. “You’re all crazy!”
She stamped out of the room to the chicken coop, and by the evening, with her chores done and her family still walking on eggshells, she felt exhausted.
“You just watch,” she said. “Nothing will happen. Nothing ever happens, and y’all just sit there and worry your lives away. Not me!”
She went to bed without supper again.
The next day, from down in the town, a bell rang. It rang every few minutes, all day.
“I thought Pastor Cory took the bells down,” Emmy said.
“He did,” her mother answered, and shuddered.
“Must be from somewhere else,” Addie said.
The day after that, Mrs. Williams, an old widow from their church, hobbled up to their house and knocked on the door. Addie saw her coming from her window, and walked downstairs just in time to hear her say that it was terrible, what had happened. Addie stayed hidden, just around the corner.
“What happened, Mrs. Williams?”
That was Emmy.
“That poor boy, Jonah Evans,” Mrs. Williams said. “Fell in the silo.”
“What?”
Her mother, Addie thought.
“Nothing the doctor could do,” Mrs. Williams said.
“So he’s dead?”
Emmy again, her voice shaking.
“Poor boy,” Mrs. Williams said.
Addie walked into the room and said, “That’s terrible.”
Emmy turned on her. Addie had never seen Emmy in such a state. Red eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. Addie moved to comfort her, to put her arms around her, but Emmy flinched away.
“This is all your fault,” she screamed, and she ran out of the room and up the stairs.
Addie just stood there, dumbfounded, waiting for someone to explain.
“How…” she started, and then stopped.
Her mother looked over in the direction of the stairs. “Addie,” she said, “go to your room.”
And so Addie did.
That night, she crept down the hall and padded into Emmy’s room.
“Emmy,” she whispered.
Emmy lay in her bed, tucked tight beneath the covers and facing the wall.
Addie crawled in beside her, and pulled her into a hug.
“I’m sorry,” Addie said. “I’m sorry about what happened to Jonah.”
Emmy sniffled and said, “We were going to get married one day.”
“I didn’t know he liked you that way,” Addie replied.
“He didn’t,” Emmy said, and Addie could tell she was crying. Her shoulders shook, and her voice sounded thick and tight. “Not yet, but he would have.”
Addie didn’t respond. She just held Emmy as she cried. She fell asleep with her sister in her arms, and when she woke in the morning, Emmy was gone.
Weeks went by, and then months. The weather turned warm, and though the world around them felt alive and in motion, Addie and Emmy barely spoke. In April, Addie left a four-leaf clover on Emmy’s pillow. In May, Addie saw the owl again as she spent a morning lounging, or perhaps hiding, in the oak tree. She told no one, and as far as she knew, no one died and nothing bad happened. And then, in June, Emmy pulled Addie aside one day as she kneaded dough for their dinner.
“I have something to tell you,” Emmy said.
“I’d be happy to hear it,” Addie answered, and smiled.
“I met a boy,” Emmy said. “His name is Robert, and I think I want to marry him.”
Addie thought for a moment, and remembered something her mother had told her a very long time ago. Another silly superstition, yes, but perhaps, in this particular case, the right one. A dream that meant good fortune, and a sign of good things to come. Something happy.
She smiled, and took Emmy’s hand in hers, covering both in fine, white flour.
“Emmy, that’s wonderful,” she said. “And I have to tell you, because I think it’s a sign.”
Emmy looked at her with all the hope she thought she’d ever see.
Addie said, “Last night, I dreamed of bees.”
Emmy squeezed Addie’s hand and said, “You know what Ma says about dreaming of bees!”
Addie had never put much stock in silly superstitions, it was true. But right now, in this moment, she wanted to believe in this one.
“Yes,” Addie said. “I know exactly.”
************
Thank you for reading! This is the third of twelve stories I’ll write as part of my 2022 Short Story Challenge. Twelve months, twelve stories, and the theme this year is: Folklore
Here are the first two, if you’d like to read them:
I hope you join me in the challenge! I think it’s going to be a very good year for stories. But just reading is good, too, and I’m glad you’re here.
The next story will be posted at the end of April.
I write poetry
to leave a piece
of me
behind.
I write to
look back and
forward,
to dance
on the edge,
to quiet the
frenzy
in my head.
Or just to sit back,
and look
and see.
There’s no wrong
reason,
I think,
to write poetry.
A slant
of words,
a twist
of the tongue,
can change
the world.
How fortunate
are we,
the writers,
that such a
magic
can be ours?
I’ve really been enjoying the monthly poetry challenges over at Fake Flamenco! March’s challenge is to write a shadorma around the theme of light and darkness. I wrote two, because it was fun. 😊
Here’s one for Graham, who I often call “my guiding star.”
You’re my light
A star in the dark
Shining down
On my path
A guide in the deepest night
To bring me home safe
And here’s another one, revisiting a poem I wrote back in 2020, called “Free Will.” It was already sort of composed around a theme of light and shadow, and it was interesting to take a look at it two years later and retool it for a specific poetry form.
We are light
And also darkness
Both reside
In us all
And we choose how they balance
Each moment we live
I’m looking forward to April’s challenge!
*March is Women’s History Month, and tomorrow, March 8th, is International Women’s Day. I wrote a poem around this time last year – you can find it here – and so it felt right to post something this year, too. I hope you like it, and please be sure to take some time this month (especially tomorrow) to appreciate all of the amazing women in your life, past and present. I have many. They have my heart.*
************
Eve
A story we’ve heard:
The first of us all
(to fall) –
help-meet and wife,
made and prized,
then punished,
removed and reviled.
The woman who
became a warning.
And history became
both judge and jury,
gave us no choice,
no voice.
The story became ours,
but it never belonged to us.
And before, and now,
down in our bones
we know it.
We know:
It is human to fall
and rise again,
to seek,
to learn,
to live in curiosity.
And so,
can we reclaim her,
weave her story anew
and see her,
this mother of mothers?
Blood of our blood –
can we finally love
(not blame)
her?
Just a fun, silly something for this sunny Friday. Enjoy!
Good morning from
the Land of Almost There,
where we celebrate
a week’s close
with friends and beer.
Tonight, we’ll pretend
the work’s at an end
for two days’ time
and change, and
hang our hopes on
brighter days
when we’ll be free
to do as we please.
This is your invite.
Don’t be late!
“She must be lonely,” I say, and inch closer to my mother, burrowing into her shoulder. “She must be bored, too.”
“She’s not lonely, sweetheart,” says my mother. She pulls the blanket tighter around us, and we huddle together, gazing up at the night sky.
This is our tradition, every February, to greet the end of winter, and to say goodbye to the lady in the stars. Tonight, we sit together on a blanket in the sand, listening to the rhythm of the waves and the cold wind blowing through the dune grass.
“I’d be lonely,” I say. “And I bet she’s tired of the quiet, too.”
“She’s very old,” my mother tells me, “and very wise. She sees all of us, and our joys bring her joy. She’s not lonely, with the whole world and the moon and stars to keep her company.”
My family has lived on this island for as long as anyone can remember. We’re as tough as the sea and as sturdy as the land, my mother says. Together here, we’ve made it through ferocious storms and sweltering summers. We’ve learned how to live on the outskirts, on the edge of the country, and all that time, we’ve passed down the story of the lady and her home in the winter sky. And tomorrow, I’ll leave her, and my family, and this island, forever.
“James is a good man,” my mother says, “and he’ll take care of you. You’ll make lots of friends. You’ll have pretty babies, and you’ll be happy.”
She always could read my mind.
“You can come to visit,” she says. “A boat ride across the bay isn’t a trip across the ocean.”
“I know,” I say. And I do, but right now, the bay feels a lot like an endless, angry ocean, dangerous and impossible to cross.
“The lady was scared, once, too,” my mother reminds me. “She had to leave her home and family.”
“The stars needed a guardian,” I answer back, parroting the story I’ve known my whole life. “And she was chosen among all her people to be that guardian, and she accepted, because she was brave and smart, but also because she was kind.”
“Most importantly because she was kind,” my mother clarifies.
“I’m not kind,” I say. I sit up and fidget with my bootlaces. “And I’m not brave, either.”
“You’ve never been afraid of the waves,” says my mother.
“I can swim.”
“And you’ve always taken care of the gulls,” she says.
“I can’t stand to see them hungry.”
“Other people would call them a nuisance,” my mother tells me.
“I find other people to be a nuisance,” I say.
“You want to argue,” she says, “and I understand. The lady didn’t think she was brave or smart, or kind. She ran. You’re not planning on running?”
“No,” I say, and sigh. “No, I’m not going to run away. Where would I even go?”
“See!” my mother says with a laugh. “You’re very smart.”
I lie back and look up. The stars shine bright white, like diamonds on black satin.
I know what it’s like in the city, where the stars hide from the streetlights. I’ve read about it, and about the crowds and the noise.
“The lady tried to hide,” I say, continuing the story, “but the moon found her, and reminded her that imperfect things can still light the way in the dark.”
My life will look very different from my mother’s, and from what I envisioned when I was small. Back then, many families called our island home, and children ran on the beach, and lovers huddled together on the dunes, and old grandfathers sat at the pub to drink ale and tell stories. Most of them have gone now, and there certainly weren’t any men of marriageable age left for me to choose from when the time came. And so my father chose for me, a well-to-do man on the mainland, with a nice brick house and an old family. Like ours, but not like ours at all.
“The moon lit her way into the sky and walked with her to her new home,” my mother says. “And there, she cares for the stars and watches the world.”
“And they say,” I add, finishing the story, “that if the world should ever need her, strong and caring guardian that she is, she will leave the sky and walk the earth again.”
“There is always a path home,” my mother says. She reaches down and squeezes my hand. “But you might find you like your new one better, and that it gives you purpose and something to care for, just like the lady.”
“The lady isn’t real,” I whisper.
“She’s as real as you and me,” my mother says. “She’s as real as this island and the ocean, and as real as the moon and the stars.”
“She’s just a story.”
“And like I said before, you just want to argue.”
“I don’t,” I say. “I really don’t. I’m just pointing out the truth. The lady isn’t real. I’m leaving tomorrow. Everything’s going to change.”
I stand up, walk out to the water. I let it slide over my boots, and I can feel the cold through the leather. I’ve probably ruined this pair. I don’t care. I hear my mother behind me, her steady steps in the sand. She places a hand on my shoulder. I turn, and she sweeps a stray hair off my cheek. My cheek is damp, and I realize I’ve been crying. She does, too.
“My brave, smart, kind girl,” she tells me. “Your life will be just as beautiful and vibrant as you want it to be. That’s your choice to make.”
“And even the lady had a choice,” I say.
“Your father chose James,” my mother says, “because he is a good man. You can choose him, too.”
James has written me letters and sent me pictures. He’s told me all about the life we’ll lead together, and how excited he is to marry his island woman. We’ve exchanged books, and shared our favorite memories. I don’t love him yet, but I know I can.
“I do,” I tell her. “I have. But I wish I could have both, James and this island. His home and mine. Why do women always have to choose?”
“Because only women are strong enough to do it,” my mother says. “But don’t tell your father I said that.”
We smile together, and turn back towards the dunes. It’s time to go home, for the last time.
“Someday,” my mother says, “I hope you’ll tell your children about the lady. I hope you’ll tell them about this island and our life here.”
“I will,” I tell her, and I mean it with every fiber of my being, right down to my soul. “I will.”
************
Thank you for reading! This is the second of twelve stories I’ll write as part of my 2022 Short Story Challenge. Twelve months, twelve stories, and the theme this year is: Folklore
Here’s the first story, if you’d like to read it:
I hope you join me in the challenge! I think it’s going to be a very good year for stories. But just reading is good, too, and I’m glad you’re here.
The next story will be posted at the end of March.
I don’t know if this is a thing that happens in other places, but here in Virginia, before we get on with actual spring, we usually have a first spring, or what some people call a “fool’s spring.” And, well, I think we’re there.
It’s beautiful and sunny and in the 60s (Fahrenheit) today, and will be tomorrow as well. But I don’t think winter’s quite ready to let us go, and it’s supposed to be cold and possible snowy on Sunday before warming up again next week. So, I guess we’ll see.
Virginia, y’all. She always keeps her people guessing.
Anyway, I wrote a poem about it, because it just felt like the right thing to do.
**********
Winter’s chill softens.
The sun and air and wind
turn gentle and warm
and the ground begins to thaw.
All around the sounds of new life –
a world rife with breeze and birdsong –
but first impressions
can be wrong
and beauty’s a fickle thing.
Here in Virginia,
it remains to be seen
whether this is truly spring.
Another one for the poetry challenge over at Fake Flamenco!
The challenge for February is to write a pareado with the theme of friendship. Well, I’d never written a pareado before, and y’all, it was a lot harder than I thought it would be! But friendship certainly has a place in my heart, what with the Better Friendships podcast that I co-host with one of my besties. So, even though it was difficult, I had to give it a try. The results?
A true friend is a guiding star
who lights the way even from afar.
No one walks life’s path alone
who has a friend in heart or home.
…Not my best work. But it was still super fun! And if you want to participate, the challenge is open until February 12th.
When my child asks
why my hair is going gray,
I will say:
“Those are my stardust streaks.”
I will tell her we’re all made
of earth and star stuff,
and one day, once again,
that’s what we’ll be.
And I’ll remind her
that it’s not a tragedy
to say goodbye, even though
it’s sad for a time,
because she can always
find me in the night sky.
*I read Star Mother by Charlie N. Holmberg this morning. It clearly left me feeling inspired (see: this poem, above), and I’d highly recommend it if you’re looking for something to read this week.*
A Virginia Writer's Diary 