agitation on some. And we did it! We figured out exactly how to compensate for all sorts of things, how to build up contrast, how to reduce it. We felt like a couple of miracle workers.
When we came out of the darkroom after three hours, Mom was in the kitchen, working on her quilt. She looked up and laughed. "You two sounded like a couple of crazy people in there," she said, "shouting at each other."
I giggled. We
had
been shouting. "Don't leave it in the developer so long, you moron!" I had shouted at Will. "You'll ruin it!"
"I'm
trying
to ruin it!" Will had bellowed back. "So I can figure out how to do it perfectly! How can you learn anything if you won't take risks?"
And
I
was supposed to be teaching
him.
"Lydia," Will explained to Mom that night,
sitting down to have a cup of tea before he went home, "genius disregards the boundaries of propriety. Genius is permitted to shout if shouting is productive."
Mom laughed again and snipped off the thread as she completed a red-and-white-striped square from a sunsuit I wore when I was three years old. She likes Will. "Well," she said, "I've been living with creative genius long enough that I should know that by now. Charles has been known to shout at his typewriter, if you can believe that."
Will nodded very seriously, chewing on the stem of his pipe. "Oh my, yes. It would be necessary to shout at one's typewriter now and then, I would think. Machinery needs that kind of discipline occasionally. Just today I was shouting at my truck radiator."
Mom was smiling as she measured off a new square in the quilt. It was good to see her relaxed and smiling, the way she used to be, for a change. "How about your homework, Meg?" she asked. "You're not disregarding the boundaries of your homework too, are you?"
I groaned. But I'm keeping up with school, same as always. Suddenly, though, algebra and American history seem pretty dull compared to other things that are happening. I'll be glad when the term ends next month so that I can spend more time on
photography. Molly will be completely well by then, too, and things will be easier. And I'll be able to see a lot of Ben and Maria.
Will took me to meet them just after they moved in. Molly came, too; I was surprised that she wanted to, because she's been so miserable and self-conscious about the way she looks that mostly she stays in our room. But when I asked her, she said what the heck, there wasn't anything better to do.
The three of us walked across the field on a hot, sunny Saturday afternoon that smelled like new growing things. We could have gone down the road, of course, but it seemed like the sort of day when walking across a field would be a nice thing to do. Wild flowers were just beginning to appear. They always take me by surprise. It seems, each year, as if winter will go on forever, even back in town. Then when you've resigned yourself to a whole lifetime of grayness, suddenly bright bursts of yellow and purple and white spring up in the fields, and you realize they've been hiding there all along, waiting.
Will was carrying a heavy stick that he sometimes uses when he's walking, especially in the rocky fields. He pointed here and there with the stick, at the little blossoms in the field and the shady border of the woods, as we walked along.
"
Anemonella thalictroides, Cerastium arvense, Cornus canadensis, Oakesia sessilifolia,
" he said. Molly and I glanced at him, grinned at each other, and didn't say anything.
"
Uvularia perforata,
" Will went on, pointing with his stick to a light yellow, tiny, bell-shaped flower.
"Can you say that three times fast?" asked Molly, laughing.
"Yes," grinned Will back at her.
Suddenly I decided that he was really putting us on. "You're making all that up, Will!" I hooted. "You big phony! You had me fooled for a minute, too!"
He looked down his nose at me in a haughty sort of way, but his eyes were twinkling.
Then he pushed aside some underbrush with his stick, and pointed to
When we came out of the darkroom after three hours, Mom was in the kitchen, working on her quilt. She looked up and laughed. "You two sounded like a couple of crazy people in there," she said, "shouting at each other."
I giggled. We
had
been shouting. "Don't leave it in the developer so long, you moron!" I had shouted at Will. "You'll ruin it!"
"I'm
trying
to ruin it!" Will had bellowed back. "So I can figure out how to do it perfectly! How can you learn anything if you won't take risks?"
And
I
was supposed to be teaching
him.
"Lydia," Will explained to Mom that night,
sitting down to have a cup of tea before he went home, "genius disregards the boundaries of propriety. Genius is permitted to shout if shouting is productive."
Mom laughed again and snipped off the thread as she completed a red-and-white-striped square from a sunsuit I wore when I was three years old. She likes Will. "Well," she said, "I've been living with creative genius long enough that I should know that by now. Charles has been known to shout at his typewriter, if you can believe that."
Will nodded very seriously, chewing on the stem of his pipe. "Oh my, yes. It would be necessary to shout at one's typewriter now and then, I would think. Machinery needs that kind of discipline occasionally. Just today I was shouting at my truck radiator."
Mom was smiling as she measured off a new square in the quilt. It was good to see her relaxed and smiling, the way she used to be, for a change. "How about your homework, Meg?" she asked. "You're not disregarding the boundaries of your homework too, are you?"
I groaned. But I'm keeping up with school, same as always. Suddenly, though, algebra and American history seem pretty dull compared to other things that are happening. I'll be glad when the term ends next month so that I can spend more time on
photography. Molly will be completely well by then, too, and things will be easier. And I'll be able to see a lot of Ben and Maria.
Will took me to meet them just after they moved in. Molly came, too; I was surprised that she wanted to, because she's been so miserable and self-conscious about the way she looks that mostly she stays in our room. But when I asked her, she said what the heck, there wasn't anything better to do.
The three of us walked across the field on a hot, sunny Saturday afternoon that smelled like new growing things. We could have gone down the road, of course, but it seemed like the sort of day when walking across a field would be a nice thing to do. Wild flowers were just beginning to appear. They always take me by surprise. It seems, each year, as if winter will go on forever, even back in town. Then when you've resigned yourself to a whole lifetime of grayness, suddenly bright bursts of yellow and purple and white spring up in the fields, and you realize they've been hiding there all along, waiting.
Will was carrying a heavy stick that he sometimes uses when he's walking, especially in the rocky fields. He pointed here and there with the stick, at the little blossoms in the field and the shady border of the woods, as we walked along.
"
Anemonella thalictroides, Cerastium arvense, Cornus canadensis, Oakesia sessilifolia,
" he said. Molly and I glanced at him, grinned at each other, and didn't say anything.
"
Uvularia perforata,
" Will went on, pointing with his stick to a light yellow, tiny, bell-shaped flower.
"Can you say that three times fast?" asked Molly, laughing.
"Yes," grinned Will back at her.
Suddenly I decided that he was really putting us on. "You're making all that up, Will!" I hooted. "You big phony! You had me fooled for a minute, too!"
He looked down his nose at me in a haughty sort of way, but his eyes were twinkling.
Then he pushed aside some underbrush with his stick, and pointed to
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