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Authors: Richard Peck
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round-trip to Chicago for me, so I could go on with Joey to have some Christmas with Mother and Dad. It must have cost Grandma her last skin. First, though, we’d keep Christmas right here around the spindly tree in the warm front room. Just the three of us, like the old summer visits. Grandma and Joey and me.
But what I remember best about that evening is the three of us walking home from church. I see us yet, strolling the occasional sidewalks with our arms around Grandma, just to keep her from skidding, because she said she was like a hog on ice. And every star above us was a Christmas star.
Hearts and Flour
After several weeks of hard winter, this end
of the county is enjoying a January thaw. Mrs.
Dowdel, a lifelong resident, observes that “A
January fog will kill a hog.”
—“Newsy Notes from Our Communities” The Piatt County Call
W e’d just finished up a Saturday breakfast when we heard a pecking of sharp heels out on the back porch. Grandma looked up. A shape showed in the steamy window of the back door. There came a fumbled knocking.
“Better let her in,” Grandma said.
It was Mrs. L. J. Weidenbach, the banker’s wife. Fools rush in, and she plunged past me into the kitchen.
Grandma looked her up and down. Mrs. Weidenbach’s hat spilled black artificial cherries off the brim. Her upper arm clamped a big pocketbook, and her coat featured a stand-up muskrat collar. Grandma considered the fur with a professional eye. Her gaze fell to Mrs. Weidenbach’s hemline, though she had to peer around the table to see. This may have been when Grandma saw that skirts were getting shorter.
Mrs. Weidenbach showed a good deal of leg. “I won’t keep you, Mrs. Dowdel,” she sang out, “as I see you are a busy woman.”
Having polished off a plate of scrapple and corn syrup, Grandma lolled. “I will cut the cackle,” Mrs. Weidenbach said, “and come straight to the point.”
Mrs. Weidenbach never came straight to the point. Her voice dropped. “Word will have reached you about poor Mrs. Vottsmeier over at Bement.”
“Will it?” Grandma said.
Mrs. Weidenbach clutched a chair back and leaned nearer. “The Change,” she said.
“If she’s thinkin’ about making a change, who could blame her?” said Grandma. “Vottsmeier’s no prize.”
Mrs. Weidenbach rested her eyes. “I mean the Change of Life.” She tried not to notice me nearby.
“Hitting her hard, is it?” Grandma inquired without interest.
Mrs. Weidenbach clutched her own furry bosom and reeled. “The night sweats! The hot flashes! Of course it’s nothing to what I suffered, but ...”
Still, I wouldn’t go away. I was just off her elbow, hearing every forbidden word. And she was coming to the best part. Her voice fell. “And her womb dropped.”
“Do tell,” Grandma said. “How far?”
“She says it feels like it hit the floor.” Mrs. Weidenbach gave me a cold shoulder because I was sticking like Grandma’s glue. “But as you know, I never gossip.”
Grandma lurched in surprise. Coffee jumped out of her cup.
“All I am saying is Mrs. Vottsmeier is out of the running.”
A dreadful vision of Mrs. Vottsmeier trying to run with some of her insides bouncing on the floor almost sent me reeling.
“And so we are up a gum stump about our Washington’s Birthday tea. It’s our sacred tradition to serve cherry tarts to honor General Washington. And as the world knows, there is nobody to touch Mrs. Vottsmeier for her cherry tarts.” Mrs. Weidenbach’s eyes snapped. “She is a plain woman, but there is poetry in her pastry.”
“Who’s throwing the party?” Grandma said.
“Who?” Mrs. Weidenbach blinked. “Why, the DAR, of course. The Daughters of the American Revolution, of which I have the honor to be president.”
The DAR was a club of only the best ladies in town. They all traced their families back to the Revolutionary War (our side).
“As I expect you are aware,” Mrs. Weidenbach said, warming up,
But what I remember best about that evening is the three of us walking home from church. I see us yet, strolling the occasional sidewalks with our arms around Grandma, just to keep her from skidding, because she said she was like a hog on ice. And every star above us was a Christmas star.
Hearts and Flour
After several weeks of hard winter, this end
of the county is enjoying a January thaw. Mrs.
Dowdel, a lifelong resident, observes that “A
January fog will kill a hog.”
—“Newsy Notes from Our Communities” The Piatt County Call
W e’d just finished up a Saturday breakfast when we heard a pecking of sharp heels out on the back porch. Grandma looked up. A shape showed in the steamy window of the back door. There came a fumbled knocking.
“Better let her in,” Grandma said.
It was Mrs. L. J. Weidenbach, the banker’s wife. Fools rush in, and she plunged past me into the kitchen.
Grandma looked her up and down. Mrs. Weidenbach’s hat spilled black artificial cherries off the brim. Her upper arm clamped a big pocketbook, and her coat featured a stand-up muskrat collar. Grandma considered the fur with a professional eye. Her gaze fell to Mrs. Weidenbach’s hemline, though she had to peer around the table to see. This may have been when Grandma saw that skirts were getting shorter.
Mrs. Weidenbach showed a good deal of leg. “I won’t keep you, Mrs. Dowdel,” she sang out, “as I see you are a busy woman.”
Having polished off a plate of scrapple and corn syrup, Grandma lolled. “I will cut the cackle,” Mrs. Weidenbach said, “and come straight to the point.”
Mrs. Weidenbach never came straight to the point. Her voice dropped. “Word will have reached you about poor Mrs. Vottsmeier over at Bement.”
“Will it?” Grandma said.
Mrs. Weidenbach clutched a chair back and leaned nearer. “The Change,” she said.
“If she’s thinkin’ about making a change, who could blame her?” said Grandma. “Vottsmeier’s no prize.”
Mrs. Weidenbach rested her eyes. “I mean the Change of Life.” She tried not to notice me nearby.
“Hitting her hard, is it?” Grandma inquired without interest.
Mrs. Weidenbach clutched her own furry bosom and reeled. “The night sweats! The hot flashes! Of course it’s nothing to what I suffered, but ...”
Still, I wouldn’t go away. I was just off her elbow, hearing every forbidden word. And she was coming to the best part. Her voice fell. “And her womb dropped.”
“Do tell,” Grandma said. “How far?”
“She says it feels like it hit the floor.” Mrs. Weidenbach gave me a cold shoulder because I was sticking like Grandma’s glue. “But as you know, I never gossip.”
Grandma lurched in surprise. Coffee jumped out of her cup.
“All I am saying is Mrs. Vottsmeier is out of the running.”
A dreadful vision of Mrs. Vottsmeier trying to run with some of her insides bouncing on the floor almost sent me reeling.
“And so we are up a gum stump about our Washington’s Birthday tea. It’s our sacred tradition to serve cherry tarts to honor General Washington. And as the world knows, there is nobody to touch Mrs. Vottsmeier for her cherry tarts.” Mrs. Weidenbach’s eyes snapped. “She is a plain woman, but there is poetry in her pastry.”
“Who’s throwing the party?” Grandma said.
“Who?” Mrs. Weidenbach blinked. “Why, the DAR, of course. The Daughters of the American Revolution, of which I have the honor to be president.”
The DAR was a club of only the best ladies in town. They all traced their families back to the Revolutionary War (our side).
“As I expect you are aware,” Mrs. Weidenbach said, warming up,
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