her a sense of satisfaction that he found such joy in a simple meal.
She yawned. In Seattle she got into the office by eight o’clock, which meant getting
up at six o’clock. To Dat, that would be sleeping in. As he grew older he started
taking more naps, but he hadn’t yet gotten out of the habit of waking up before the
roosters. Mem used to tease Dat that he needed to wake up early so he wouldn’t miss
his first nap.
Mem
. The house was filled with her things. Mem’s mending in a basket by the rocking chair.
Her favorite mug hanging on a hook in the cupboard. Her shawl folded on the table
by the back door. Lydia pictured Mem wrapping it around her shoulders to go out to
feed the chickens or check on the squash in the garden, or just to step onto the porch
to watch the mountain finches flutter around the yard. But this was Lydia’s kitchen
now, at least for a while. She jotted down notes in her green spiral notebook—memories
mostly, and thoughts about what it was like to be here again. Then she pushed the
notebook to the side.
She’d started a grocery list and considered driving down to Eureka. If she was going
to stay here, she needed a few things from the store. Things she doubted they carried
at the West Kootenai Kraft and Grocery.
Her stomach growled as she thought about the Shoo-Fly Pie Mem had taught her to make.
Mem always called hers the Wet Bottom Shoo-Fly, which wasn’t the same as the Dry Shoo-Fly
that
Oma
Wyse made, which was better for dunking. Lydiamade a mental note to check the cupboards for the ingredients for Shoo-Fly Pie—and
then changed her mind. Maybe she should wait to make Mem’s favorite. Give their hearts
time to heal.
She took a sip of her coffee and glanced at her father. His eyes were fixed on Mem’s
rocking chair. Could he see her there still?
Shoo-Fly Pie. It was the last recipe Mem had sent Lydia in the mail. Lydia had pulled
out the recipe card from the envelope, read the latest West Kootenai news, and had
thrown the letter away. She tucked her fist under her chin and rested on it, thinking
of that now. What had the letter said? She wished she had kept it—kept all Mem’s letters.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Lydia glanced up at Dat. His eyes were on her. Warm, gentle, mournful.
“That’s an
Englisch
phrase if I’ve heard one.”
He chuckled. “We’ve lived around here three years yet. Things as these git picked
up.”
“I was trying to remember the last things Mem wrote to me about. A wedding, I think.
And did someone stop by to help you take down a dead tree in the back?”
“
Ja
. It was the tree yer mem used to have her clothesline on. It had to come down, otherwise
a bad wind would have sent it into our back porch. A number of the bachelors came
by to help…including Gideon.”
Lydia pretended hearing his name didn’t bring a fluttering of butterflies to her stomach.
“Seems like something that would happen. Folks are nice around here. Gideon was kind
to walk with me yesterday, although I hope he didn’t get too much of a teasing from
his bachelor friends.”
They’d had a nice walk, a nice talk, and that was all. But curiosity brightened Dat’s
eyes. What would Dat think if he knew that she and Gideon had briefly discussed her
staying?
Coming Home
. It would be a good title for a book. She’d already started writing down the jumble
of thoughts, feelings, and emotions balled up within her like the yarn in the basket.
Maybe she’d find some answers if she had a chance to get words on paper. Maybe writing
about Mem would ease the loss.
“I was wondering about something, Dat. About Mem’s last words—or your last conversation.
Since she didn’t know what was to come…”
He paused and lifted his head, scanning the timbered ceiling. It took him a few minutes
to answer. It wasn’t because he’d forgotten, she guessed, but because speaking of
Mem was hard.
“She was
She yawned. In Seattle she got into the office by eight o’clock, which meant getting
up at six o’clock. To Dat, that would be sleeping in. As he grew older he started
taking more naps, but he hadn’t yet gotten out of the habit of waking up before the
roosters. Mem used to tease Dat that he needed to wake up early so he wouldn’t miss
his first nap.
Mem
. The house was filled with her things. Mem’s mending in a basket by the rocking chair.
Her favorite mug hanging on a hook in the cupboard. Her shawl folded on the table
by the back door. Lydia pictured Mem wrapping it around her shoulders to go out to
feed the chickens or check on the squash in the garden, or just to step onto the porch
to watch the mountain finches flutter around the yard. But this was Lydia’s kitchen
now, at least for a while. She jotted down notes in her green spiral notebook—memories
mostly, and thoughts about what it was like to be here again. Then she pushed the
notebook to the side.
She’d started a grocery list and considered driving down to Eureka. If she was going
to stay here, she needed a few things from the store. Things she doubted they carried
at the West Kootenai Kraft and Grocery.
Her stomach growled as she thought about the Shoo-Fly Pie Mem had taught her to make.
Mem always called hers the Wet Bottom Shoo-Fly, which wasn’t the same as the Dry Shoo-Fly
that
Oma
Wyse made, which was better for dunking. Lydiamade a mental note to check the cupboards for the ingredients for Shoo-Fly Pie—and
then changed her mind. Maybe she should wait to make Mem’s favorite. Give their hearts
time to heal.
She took a sip of her coffee and glanced at her father. His eyes were fixed on Mem’s
rocking chair. Could he see her there still?
Shoo-Fly Pie. It was the last recipe Mem had sent Lydia in the mail. Lydia had pulled
out the recipe card from the envelope, read the latest West Kootenai news, and had
thrown the letter away. She tucked her fist under her chin and rested on it, thinking
of that now. What had the letter said? She wished she had kept it—kept all Mem’s letters.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Lydia glanced up at Dat. His eyes were on her. Warm, gentle, mournful.
“That’s an
Englisch
phrase if I’ve heard one.”
He chuckled. “We’ve lived around here three years yet. Things as these git picked
up.”
“I was trying to remember the last things Mem wrote to me about. A wedding, I think.
And did someone stop by to help you take down a dead tree in the back?”
“
Ja
. It was the tree yer mem used to have her clothesline on. It had to come down, otherwise
a bad wind would have sent it into our back porch. A number of the bachelors came
by to help…including Gideon.”
Lydia pretended hearing his name didn’t bring a fluttering of butterflies to her stomach.
“Seems like something that would happen. Folks are nice around here. Gideon was kind
to walk with me yesterday, although I hope he didn’t get too much of a teasing from
his bachelor friends.”
They’d had a nice walk, a nice talk, and that was all. But curiosity brightened Dat’s
eyes. What would Dat think if he knew that she and Gideon had briefly discussed her
staying?
Coming Home
. It would be a good title for a book. She’d already started writing down the jumble
of thoughts, feelings, and emotions balled up within her like the yarn in the basket.
Maybe she’d find some answers if she had a chance to get words on paper. Maybe writing
about Mem would ease the loss.
“I was wondering about something, Dat. About Mem’s last words—or your last conversation.
Since she didn’t know what was to come…”
He paused and lifted his head, scanning the timbered ceiling. It took him a few minutes
to answer. It wasn’t because he’d forgotten, she guessed, but because speaking of
Mem was hard.
“She was
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