The Appearance of Death, chapter 4

 (If you'd like to start back at chapter 1, please click here.)

Chapter 4

I fell asleep that first night pretending to read Embalming: History, Theory, and Practice. Actually I was rereading Dorothy Sayers's Whose Body?. I woke in the morning when Jeffrey slammed the front screen door on his way to school as only a running six year old boy can do. I jumped at the noise, yelled in the middle of my dream about embalming Bob Hope prematurely, and the heavy textbook fell from the bed to the floor.

“Mom?” Karen's voice drifted down the hall. “You alright?”

“Fine, dear,” I mumbled, smearing the drool from my face.

The clock on the night stand told me it was 7:30. That meant Rick had been gone an hour, as had Jimmy, and only Karen waited on my motherly ministrations. I'd need to rise at 5:30 to get the jump on this family and make them a hearty breakfast. I tripped down the hall, dragging the tail of my bathrobe belt behind me. Karen was propped on Pillow Mountain, staring at a mug cradled in her hand.

“Rick always makes me coffee,” she said.

“That's nice.”

“Coffee makes me sick,” she added. “So I wait until he's gone to throw it out.” She held it out to me. “In the bathroom sink.”

I obeyed. “Why don't you tell him you hate it?”

“Oh, I do. And then he researches new coffee blends that are supposed to make sick people feel better.” I sat on the edge of her bed. “So I stopped telling him, because he was spending too much time looking for a new brew for me. I just tell him this one is fine. It makes him feel better.” We both laughed.

“That's kinda sweet,” I said. “I smooth her comforter and hold her hand. “Green tea?”

“Yeah.”

“Honey?”

“No. Just plain, especially in the morning.”

“Breakfast?” I asked. “Oatmeal?” Something bland seemed wise. “Cheerios? Grits? Eggs?”

She slid down in the bed. “Ugh – no eggs.” She seemed to turn a bit green. “And no milk in anything. I can't do milk.”

“Toast?”

She smiled. “And butter.”

I stood up to go, but she asked, “What fell on the floor this morning?”

I paused, fabricating a plausible falsehood. “Last night's reading that I left on the bed,” I answered.

“Oh?” Karen was always looking for a new read. “Anything fun?”

“Dorothy Sayers. Whose Body?.”

“Oh, ugh, Mom! Not more dead body reading!”

I laughed. “Honey, this is just your average murder mystery. Nothing close to a mortuary science textbook. I couldn't help the smile that twitched teasingly at the corner of my mouth. Karen frowned.

After toast and tea, she rested. I cleaned the bathrooms and mopped the kitchen. A note for Rick on the counter, propped beside a tasty turkey sandwich, applesauce, and a slab of cinnamon spice cake, completed my duties. Karen was sleeping deeply when I left the house at 11:00, heading for Pine Street.

Peace Valley Funeral Home is the only funeral home in the county, outside of Newberry, the county seat. Although located downtown, the unassuming, one-story brick building is on the outskirts in a wooded area. Live oak trees and skirted magnolias crowd the sidewalks, and mosquitoes drone among the leaves. The other buildings on Pine Street are mostly Victorian two-story homes in various stages of gentle decay. True to my natural clutziness, I tripped on a tree root that shoved up the brick walkway leading to the door. I composed myself and walked inside.

A skinny, nervous, 60ish woman with flaming orange hair sat behind the desk.

“May uh hepp yoo?” she asked in languid Southern drawl.

“Hi, I'm Ivy Monson,” I said as I reached my hand across the desk toward her. It was met with a claw of terrifyingly long fingernails, slathered in bright pink polish. I gingerly touched her wrist with my fingertips and retreated. “Is the funeral director in?”

“Emery's in the back,” she replied, shoving her gum into her cheek. Her eyes studied me quizzically and twinkled a bit. “He's havin' his noon whiskey.” She stood up. “Just a sec.” She disappeared behind a curtained doorway. “Mistuh Plott! There's a woman out heuh to see yoo!” she called.

I discovered Emery Plott to be a true, old-fashioned Southern gentleman, such a rare man in our modern world. He sat behind his desk, portly, mustached, single, intelligent, non-commital, and around 80 years old. His health and longevity have depended on drinking three snifters of neat whiskey each day: one between lunch and his nap, one between dinner and his evening cigar, and one in the middle of the night if he is working in the morgue. I began by telling him why I was in Peace Valley, to which he merely nodded. I like to study people, and found him to be a fascinating specimen. From his penetrating eyes I guessed he might feel the same about me. I had never interviewed to be a mortuary assistant before and felt I was doing an awkward job of it. I tried not to drift into morbid detail about my untidy life and focused on my zealous interest in funeral work.

When I finished Mr. Plott leaned back in his rolling swivel chair with a long creak from its ball bearings. He closed his eyes. “So you finished your studies in Georgia?” His soothing, elegant drawl fell on my ears like an old, beloved tune.

“Yes, sir. Outside Atlanta in Decatur.”

“I know it well,” he said, his eyes still closed. “Gupton-Jones. And you performed acceptably on your licensing exam?”

“I did.”

His eyes popped open and he studied me. He crossed his fingers and tapped his fingertips together lightly on the edge of his mustache. I knew he was pondering some important idea that he'd been wrestling with for a long time.

“Mrs. Monson,” he began, “I would like to see your documentation.” He cleared his throat. “The work here,” and with one hand vaguely waving through the air he included it all – the scuffed oak desk, the red-headed receptionist, the elderly gray cat snoozing in the waiting room, the caskets, the chapel, the morgue, the refrigerators – “has been my life's commitment, a trust, a fidelity to my neighbors.” He sighed. “I feel it is coming to an end.” He paused and wagged a finger at me. “Not quite yet, of course, but coming.” He was silent for a while and studied a file of papers on his desk.

“I need an assistant, Mrs. Monson,” he said quietly and slowly, “and I would be willing to consider you, contingent upon viewing your documentation and license.” He looked up and smiled, and his blue eyes twinkled. “Are you interested?”

Mentally, I had to rewind his last words and listen to them again in my brain before I could process them. He was offering me a job. I simply couldn't believe it!

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir!” I replied. “I am definitely interested!”

So began my new career at Peace Valley Funeral Home and my new adventure with Emery and his long-nailed, red-headed secretary, Patty Goyle. I was terrified and thrilled. It seemed that my new life was actually happening! Mr. Plott walked me back to the reception area.

“Miss Goyle, this is Mrs. Monson,” he said in that reverent, patient voice I would learn to know so well. “She will be returning in the morning with some documentation for me.” Miss Goyle's head snapped around in my direction and she pierced me with her gaze. “I believe we have found some assistance for our labors, Miss Goyle, and I am quite thankful.” He turned to me and shook my hand. His hand was limp and cold, and he barely held mine as he waved it listlessly back and forth a few times.

“Thank you, Mr. Plott. I'll be back in the morning.”

Karen was mortified.

“Mama! No! That creepy place is just five blocks from my house! What will my friends say? Now I can't lie and tell them you're a nurse!” Karen had moved to her afternoon position on the front porch. A fan overhead and a glass of iced green tea in hand make a deep, Victorian front porch nearly perfect in the spring, especially for people-watching. She and I were observing her neighbors do yard work.

“Hush, Karen. They'll hear you.”

“Hear me! With the Instant Grapevine Communication in this town, they probably already know!” she retorted.

“Well,”I replied. “Maybe they'll be happy to have somebody besides Mr. Plott handle their loved ones' arrangements when they die.”

She leaned back in her chaise lounge and plumped her pillow. “Ha!” she said. “That old geezer? Emery Plott will probably be the first person you bury.”

copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, chapter 3

 (To read chapter 2, click here.)

Chapter 3

“Oh,” she said. Her mouth turned down. “You brought Beau.”

Karen lay on a rickety wicker chaise lounge on her front porch, sipping green tea. She was wearing her Miss Piggy slippers and Rick's plaid bathrobe.

“Of course I brought Beau. Can you imagine him living with your daddy in that 4^th floor apartment, alone all day, fighting with Sebastian?” Sebastian was Sam's new Siamese cat. “I think not.”

Karen's face softened. She gazed down at Beau's big black eyes and heart-shaped ears. “Oh well. He can stay in your room.” She slipped her cell phone from her pocket. “I see you spent over at hour at Stop-and-Go.”

“Dang!” I thought. “I forgot to turn off my Google Maps Share Location setting when I got to town.”

“And you were up at 1:30 a.m. Really, Mom? You shouldn't drive that late. Nothing good happens after midnight, remember that.” Karen is a bossy daughter, but quite caring.

“I know, I know.”

“You should've gone to Rick's for coffee. He was there at 6:30, and his brew is so much better. Lottie is a pain in the neck.”

“Yes, I met Lottie. She looked tired,” I replied.

“Rick does the morning shift himself.” Karen sat up, and an empty tub of Haagen-Dazs White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle ice cream fell to the floor. I said nothing.

“Breakfast,” Karen said shortly, and scooped up the little carton. “I usually buy their Green Tea flavor. Hideous.” We went inside.

The house was not in so bad a state as I'd expected. Yes, the kitchen counters were crowded with dirty dishes and pots. Yes, the cat hair was thick on the ground. Yes, the laundry was reaching Mt. Mitchell's height. I could knock out all those jobs in a day. Karen, however, looked drained. We sat in the living room. She was spooning sugar into her green tea.

“Don't you think that defeats the purpose of its health benefits?” I asked as I sank into a wing-back chair and plopped my feet on a stool. Beau slinked under my chair.

Karen gave me her Karen look, which says silently, “Mom, don't even --”

I didn't ask how she was feeling. Chemotherapy had left her fatigued, nauseated, and from the look of her legs, a bit bruised.

“When's your next treatment?” I asked.

“Next Friday. Then I'm done for a while, we hope.” She straightened her husband's bath robe over her knees gracefully for my benefit, but I knew she was trying to hide the bruises from me. She doesn't want me to worry.

“You've still got your hair!” I said brightly.

“I know!” And she bounced her shoulder-length locks and turned her head. “Not bad! Still, it does come out in handfuls sometimes. But it looks full.”

A few minutes later she went back to bed and I attacked the kitchen. I'm a firm believer that if the kitchen is tidy, the rest of the house will follow. By noon, the kitchen was done, the second load of laundry was in, and I was vacuuming. I heard the front door slam. Rick was home for lunch.

“Hiya, Mom-in-law!” he said, and gave me a passing kiss on the cheek. “Welcome!”

“Glad to be here,” I replied.

Rick doesn't like to impose. He didn't assume I'd made him lunch. He went quietly to the freezer, pulled out a Hot Pocket, and was about to put it in the microwave.

“Rick!” I yelled from the dining room. “None of that junk food, young man!” I rush into the kitchen. “There's homemade macaroni and cheese in the oven. And some fruit salad in the frig.”

“Yumm,” he moaned, closing his eyes. “I smelled it, but thought it must be my starved imagination.” He laughed.

“Nope, your nose is working fine. And I'm making spaghetti for supper.”

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “My favorite! And … garlic bread?”

“Of course.”

We ate lunch together in the kitchen. We talked about how Karen's doing, about the coffee shop, about the boys' school. Then I asked my question, the question I'd been waiting to ask.

“Rick, is there a funeral home in Peace Valley?”

He cut me a look. “Oh boy,” he muttered. “Karen is going to kill you if you go that route. You know that, don't you?”

“Well,” I replied, “I have to work. No – I want to work. And that's the work that fascinates me. She's just going to have to accept that I'm a weird mama, that's all.”

He stabbed a chunk of watermelon. “Yeah, there's a funeral home. It's on Pine Street, downtown, just before it turns into,” here he paused and then laughed, “I never thought of it before, but just before Pine turns into Cemetery Road. That's appropriate!”

“And convenient,” I added, and we laughed. Rick laughed like a man who hadn't done it enough lately. “I might stop by and introduce myself, see if there's the slightest chance of a job.”

Rick stacked our plates and moved to the sink. “I doubt it,” he said. “Emery Plott's been there forever. He does it all himself. Well, he has a secretary. And he's got somebody who does the heavy work now – transporting bodies, I think. Still, it wouldn't hurt to ask.”

Rick was mindlessly swirling dish water around and gazing out the window into the backyard. “Did Karen tell you?”

“Tell me what?” The air in the kitchen became still, as if a little bomb was about to drop. I felt a pain in my stomach. I waited.

“She wants to have another baby.”

That tight balloon of anxiety that all mothers keep stored in their chests in order to worry appropriately for their children, no matter how old they are, suddenly deflated in relief. “Oh! Is that all?” Rick turned to me, and I knew I'd said the wrong thing.

“I mean,” I corrected, “Um, that's not a good idea! She can't get pregnant while she'd on chemo.”

“She shouldn't,” he replied. “That doesn't mean she can't.”

“But she's not --”

“No.” He shook his head. “She just wants a baby. One more baby, she says. I think she wants a baby girl.”

I paused, looking for the bright side. “That must mean she's hopeful for the future, right? And it means you have a happy marriage, I think.”

Something about Rick's face told me I had walked into private territory. “Yes, we do.” Then he smiled at me. “Don't want to worry you, Mom-in-law, but if Karen's moody or seems sad, I thought you should know it's because she wants a baby and really can't have one right now.”

“Well, thank you, Rick.” Now the aura in the kitchen was distinctly awkward. “More fruit salad?”

“Nope,” he said, wiping his wet hands on a towel. “Gotta dash. Come by the coffee shop sometime this afternoon if you have time. I want to show it to you!” And he was gone.

Karen napped on and off through the afternoon. Jimmy, who is four, came home at 1:00 from pre-school, and Jeffrey, who is six, arrived at 3:30. They were a whirlwind of squeals, stories, hugs, snacks, running feet, sticky fingers, and adventures out the back door. Dinner was basically ready, so I sat on the porch stoop and watched them climb up and down a rope into their tree house. It was perfect weather for outdoor play: cool, breezy, no mosquitoes. Sweater weather. The boys were wearing capes and shining flashlights into the tree tops in spite of the late afternoon sunlight. I heard the phone ring inside. Karen answered it.

“Mom!” she screeched from her bed of leisure, “It's Daddy. He says, how do you get ink out of a silk tie?” These calls come several times a week from my husband. We've been separated four years now, but he still calls me first when it involves shopping, cooking, washing, cleaning, gardening, or interpersonal relationships.

I hollered back to Karen, “Tell him it's hopeless. Throw that tie in the trash.”

“Daddy says you bought him that tie on your honeymoon!”

“All the more reason …” I began.

Karen's voice talked softly with Sam for a few minutes as the sunlight faded and the boys' flashlights twinkled in the tree. I heard Karen humming. She always hums when she puts on her make-up. Then I heard Sam come in the front door and go upstairs. This house feels peaceful, I think. Peace Valley. Maybe this can be home for me.

“Supper time!” I called. “Last one here is a rotten egg!”

(To read chapter 4, click here.)

copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

The Appearance of Death, chapter 2

 

(Here's the next chapter of this book. If you want to read chapter 1, click here.)

Chapter 2

Peace Valley, South Carolina was utterly silent at 1:30 a.m. when I turned onto Main Street and pulled into the dry cleaners parking lot. Beau was sound asleep and drooling onto the passenger seat. As I turned the engine off he slipped into an exciting dream. His paws quivered, his legs shook, and his nose twitched as he chased down his imaginary prey. A stroke on his head settled him, and I reclined my seat and drifted into dreaming too.

I woke as the trash truck slammed its way from business to business at 6:45. The street lights flickered off. I popped my seat back up and straightened my blouse. The long parking lot stretched from one cluster of shops to another – hardware store, thrift store, farm and feed store, bank, county extension office, day care, junk store imagining itself to be an antique mall, a few empty store fronts, and a tired little diner on the corner.

“Coffee,” my brain said to me.

I obeyed my brain. I ran a comb through my hair, popped a mint in my mouth, and moved the Volvo (whose name is Simone) down the street.

“I'll be right back, Beau,” I whispered. “Coffee calls.”

The hours posted in the diner window said, “6:00 am– 8:00 pm daily.” It was now 6:53. However, the stained paper sign hanging crookedly on the door said, “Sorry, we're closed.” I saw movement behind the counter. A head wrapped in a scarf bobbed up and down. I tapped on the door ever so softly.

A gruff voice croaked, “We're not open yet! Can'tcha read the sign?”

In Atlanta this would not be tolerated. But in Small Town, America, the gruff lady behind the counter is the boss of the world, and one didn't argue. I bit my lip and tried the door. It was unlocked. A bell clanged as I slid invisibly through the door and melted into the nearest booth. The scarfed head popped above the counter. I shrunk into the booth corner.

“I said we're not --” she started.

The look on my face must've told her I wouldn't be any trouble. Perhaps the mascara smudges under my eyes? The crumpled blouse? The Volvo seat pattern pressed onto my cheek?

“Hmph,” she said. “I'll be with ya when I'm done with this 'ere machine.”

By 7:30 the Stop-and-Go Diner was hopping. I was two cups of coffee into my day and had met a few of the regulars. One particularly friendly woman sat opposite me in another booth.

“What brings you to Peace Valley?” she asked between bites of bacon.

“My daughter lives here,” I replied. “Karen Kennedy? Maybe you know her? Her husband used to work at the bank.”

After a few seconds of blank ignorance her face lit up. “Sure! Rick who lost his job!” She frowned. “Sorry to hear about that.” She turned to address her biscuits and sausage gravy.

I'd never heard of Peace Valley, South Carolina, until Karen and Rick moved here seven years ago right after they got married. Rick started his job at the small town bank, Karen sailed right into teaching first grade, and life looked grand. Sam and I waited patiently in Atlanta for the first grandbaby to come along.

I never thought I'd be moving to Peace Valley myself seven years later, living in Karen and Rick's guest room decorated with her faded pink furniture from high school. But here I am, starting over. Shrinking into the corner of the diner booth is just a euphemism for my life right now: being small, invisible, fragile. That's what I tell myself on cup-of-coffee #3 after a night's sleeping in Simone. Karen will soon whip all such notions out of me. I really moved to Peace Valley to take care of Karen, who has cancer. Her Hodgkins lymphoma is treatable, but she wanted me to take care of the two boys so she could rest. To be honest, she's been resting her whole adult life. After four years at Wofford College, during which she flip-flopped among three majors, she drifted back home, became a barista, toyed with interior design, and married Rick. One year of teaching ill-behaved six year olds convinced her to have children herself, and she's been at home ever since, figuring out ways to get her friends and their mothers to take care of her. Karen has always been adept at looking pitiful.

It helps that she's tiny. I'm 5' 7” and stout. Karen barely tops 5 feet tall and is slim and blond with pale blue eyes. She has a constant look of sleepiness, so every mother-type she meets says to her, “Sweetheart, you look worn out! Come sit down. Can I get you somethin'?” It does help that she's also truly sweet and unfailingly kind. I believe Karen could get a prison warden to bring her a glass of sweet tea with lemon. It's her gift.

Now she spends most of her time in bed drinking green tea and watching Youtube videos. I know because she calls me most days to tell me what she's learned on Youtube. She's collecting recipes for me to try, cleaning tricks I can implement on her carpets, child-rearing advice as I help her raise the two boys, and a host of craft ideas to enjoy with her to alleviate her boredom. I fully anticipate becoming the full-time shopper, chef, dishwasher, maid, housekeeper, babysitter, gardener and chauffeur. In this respect my job description won't have changed at all from when she lived at home with Sam and me.

When Rick worked at the bank, they took out a nice loan and bought a fine Victorian house a few blocks away from downtown Peace Valley along a shady boulevard. Karen took me on a tour of it right away, walking me around via her cell phone. A deep wrap-around porch softens the lines of two sides of the house. Tall ceilings, tall windows, slow ceiling fans, chair rails, pine floors, creaky antiques, flouncy curtains, and a stunning magnolia tree overhead – Karen had the perfect house until Rick lost his job. Since then, it's been a strain. In order to cope, he decided to double his debt, open a downtown coffee shop with an Air B&B on the second floor, and go into business for himself. Somehow, I don't know how, they are squeaking by.

I do wonder if they'll be charging me rent on the guest bedroom. I don't want to be a mooch. Last week I talked with Karen about my finding a job in Peace Valley.

“Whadya want to do?” she asked between bites of cream cheese bagel. She moved her cell phone to the other hand. I heard her lick the jelly off her finger.

“Oh, anything,” I said.

“Secretarial?” she asked. I hate secretarial work.

“You wanna help in the coffee shop or the B&B?” I also detest waiting tables and cleaning the same space over and over. Then I broached the sticky topic of my recent job pursuit.

“You know, I did just finish at Gupton-Jones. I could always ….”

“Mom!!” Karen screeched over the phone. “Do not even mention that horrible occupation! I will never live it down if you move to Peace Valley and become the local undertaker!” Karen gasped for air and continued. “I haven't told any of my friends about your latest scheme! I liked it better when you wanted to be a lingerie designer for Victoria Secret. At least then they didn't cringe!” She admitted she'd been telling her friends that I was in nursing school. She just failed to tell them the bodies I was working on were already dead.

“But sweetie,” I broke in, “I really enjoy it. It's fascinating work, and hardly any women are in the field. And it's a very people-oriented job, you know --”

“Mother! They're dead people!”

That was last week. I may not bring it up again with her right away, but I'm not giving up on my new career. Even Peace Valley must have its share of dead people, and at some point every family needs a funeral director. I finish my third cup of coffee at the Stop-and-Go Diner. Lottie, the scarf-wearing old woman behind the counter, is slinging fried eggs, grits, biscuits, and fresh coffee around at lightning speed. The counter is full of plump fannies on vinyl seats, and nearly every booth is full. I hate to leave, but it's 8:30. Rick left for work long ago, the boys are at pre-school, and I must go face my daughter. Aside from needing constant care, she has only one fault. She doesn't like dogs.

(To read chapter 3, click here.)

copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

A New Book for You to Read:

 (Friends, this is a book I wrote a while back, just for fun. Some of you might enjoy it -- a light-hearted mystery set in the South. Here is the first chapter.)

The Appearance of Death

Chapter 1

I chose to leave Atlanta late one night and drive along I-20 into South Carolina after midnight. Beau, my sweet Pomeranian, snored quietly in the passenger seat of my old blue Volvo. Except for the semi-trucks lining the exit ramps like sleeping seals, the road was mostly empty, and I had time to think. I was leaving it all behind – 32 years of marriage, my home and friends, my ridiculous string of jobs and community college classes. My husband Sam and I had lived apart for four years already, he in his dinky apartment and I in mine. Bless his heart, I don't think he intended for everything to fall apart so badly. He still thought I'd be there for him. He called at least once a week for one of my recipes because he can't toast bread and he had no money to go out to eat. Gone are the halcyon days of a large family home, a riding mower, a man cave, a fat paycheck, cigars in the den and supper on the table at 6:00. I do feel sorry for him, truly, I do. I knew after our first five years of marriage that we'd probably made a mistake, and after ten years that we certainly had. It took him a lot longer to accept the fact that he could not simultaneously have his secretary, his old girlfriend, his Playboy magazines, and me too. Sadly, he did not calculate how difficult life would be without his cook. It's been a shock to his digestion.

For four years after we split up I stuck around in Atlanta, wearily listening to his phone calls, fielding nosy questions from acquaintances and sympathy from friends, tolerating frowns from old ladies at church because I'd “left my husband.” I well remember when he called me more than three years ago, as I was moving into my dreary apartment in East Atlanta. By then he was trying to sell the house.

“Ivy, do you want the oak sideboard?” he asked.

“No, Sam. I'm renting a 600 square-foot apartment. I don't have room.”

“Does anybody want a sideboard? What about the kids? Karen? Ronnie?”

“Sam, nobody on the planet wants a sideboard these days. Take it to the thrift store.”

“I can't. I don't have the truck anymore.”

“What'd you do with the truck? Don't tell me you gave it to that …!”

“Don't you call her that, Ivy,” he interrupted.

“ … that pea-brained little ...”

“Ivy,” he cautioned.

“Well, she's a twit,” I countered, referring to his secretary Dawn, for whose pleasantries he would lose his job with State Farm. “Why'd you give her the truck?”

“Her car died. Transmission. Anyway, I don't know what to do with all this junk.”

All that junk. The effluence of 32 years of marriage. That was his grandmother's sideboard. My mother's mahogany bedroom set. The dining room table with our son Ronnie's name carved in it with a Swiss army knife. All unwanted. I felt instantly sad.

“Call Salvation Army or Goodwill. See if they will send a truck, and give it all to them. I don't want any of it.”

A year later Sam began using me as a dating service. He'd worked his way through all the younger women he knew and was moving on to my friends. He'd usually call on Thursday nights.

“Ivy,” he asked me last summer, “Do you think Doris Pritchard would go out with me?”

“I had lunch with her last week, Sam,” I replied. “She explicitly told me to tell you not to ever ask her out. All my friends are tired of you asking them out.”

“Ivy, I'm lonely.”

“How 'bout the secretary, Dawn? Did she finally get tired of you?”

“Ivy, that's unkind. She moved back to Oklahoma with her folks. She wants to go back to school.” I nearly choked on my frozen pizza at this reply.

“I hope you got your truck back.”

“Oh, she totaled it last year.”

“Well,” I continued, trying to be helpful, “there's always Penny, your old squeeze from high school. What happened to her?”

“Ivy, she got married. Didn't you get an invitation? She married Henry Fincher, and they moved to Pensecola.”

“Looks like you're out of gals, Sam. You'd better start clubbing downtown. I don't know what to tell you.”

He was silent a minute. “You wouldn't consid --”

“No,” I spat back. “No No No. I'm sorry you're lonely, Sam, but I got Beau, and I'm not lonely. I'm just fine.”

Click.

It took me those four years to realize that I needed to leave town, that jettisoning the furniture, the house, the time-share on the beach, the faded wedding dress and the framed wedding photos was a long process I'd nearly completed. I'm a slow learner.

Of course, he continued to call because Sam never thinks things are as bad as they really are. But that phone call changed something inside me, and I began gathering up the tattered fragments of my self-esteem and thinking of starting something new. I joined Weight Watchers and lost two dress sizes. I dyed my hair dirty blond and cut it short. I started taking new classes at Gupton-Jones College in Decatur. Finally, six weeks ago I threw my old cell phone in the trash and got a new number. That drove Sam crazy, and he started calling our daughter, Karen. When the 6-month lease on my apartment was done, I packed my few boxes and bags, put Beau in his plush doggie bed in the front seat, whispered good-bye to Atlanta, and drove away.

When I crossed the state line into South Carolina after midnight on that drive a month ago, I rolled down the windows. Beau growled. I cranked up the oldies station and sang along with Debby Boone and Barry Manilow. Miles of pine forest along the interstate made the world pitch black, and the air was heavy with the strong scent of pine. Strands of hair whipped around my face. It felt so good to be leaving, to be starting over, to shed the scaly gloom of my life. Barry Gibb began to sing and Beau chimed in with a piercing howl. I laughed, scratched his soft head, and breathed deeply of the night air. I hadn't laughed in a long time. I was stepping across a line, through a portal, into uncharted water.

copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen

(Read chapter 2 by clicking here.)

My Favorite Authors

 Gretchen Joanna (fellow blogger and friend) asked me recently about my favorite writers, so here they are, with a bit of commentary:

Favorites from years ago:

MFK Fisher (Will I read my collection of her books again in my lifetime? Maybe!)

Anthony Trollope (I may read his Barchester series once more.)

Miss Read (I still enjoy her occasionally.)

Tasha Tudor (I still have a collection and look at them sometimes.)

Mary Stewart (Stewart is a tried and true favorite for about 45 years, esp. her Merlin trilogy.)

Gladys Taber (I wish she wrote fiction!)

Angela Thirkell (She's wonderful, and I enjoy nearly all of her books and plan to read her again. I particularly enjoy her books set immediately after WW2.)

Current Favorites:

Josephine Tey (My absolute favorite! I slowly dole out her novels so as not to read them up too quickly.)

Mary Stewart (See above)

Angela Thirkell (See above)

Elspeth Huxley (I loved her African trilogy.)

Elizabeth Goudge (I did stop reading two of her books mid-book that I did not enjoy enough to keep reading: The Child from the Sea and Island Magic. But her The Scent of Water is one of my all-time favorite books.)

Ngaio Marsh (light reading)

Sigrid Undset (Lavrensdatter trilogy)

Occasional Reads:

Rosamunde Pilcher (only when there's nothing else to read)

GK Chesterton (I haven't read much of him yet, but he remains on my list.)

Margery Allingham

Alexander McCall Smith (only Botswana)

I base my love of a writer on his/her voice -- the sound of the words, the flow, the vocabulary, the sentence and paragraph structure. I don't enjoy writers who are too flowery, too hokey or colloquial, or too self-aware. I want a writer for whom writing seems an easy, natural action; I don't want to hear the "work" of editing in the text.

The setting of a book is also important to me. I love houses, and if there's a big country house in the story, I'm partially hooked. I enjoy a bit of history (not too much of that) and a bit of romance. A strong heroine is a plus, and I enjoy a book told in 1st person narration.

This list doesn't include the classics that remain on my shelves (Austen, Homer, Chaucer, etc.), nor does it include the many single beloved volumes from various authors. I also have a good selection of poetry and anthologies.

Projects in Progress!

 I made a youtube video about the various knitting projects I'm currently working on, so there's a photo up there of the projects -- a large bag with a brown sweater in it, a medium bag with a gray bobble scarf, and a small bag with a new pair of socks. All in process. Also, a pair of fingerless gloves and the last socks.

The new pair of socks are being knitted simultaneously on one circular needle. I've never tried this before! A bit complicated at first, but I hope I'm getting the hang of it.

The new baby doll blanket is well underway, but my sewing machine bobbin winder decided to be rebellious. Adam is looking at it now. I hope to have the blanket mailed off to the littlest granddaughter on Monday.

The farmers market has been rather slow the last 2 weeks. Lots of rain and "wind tide" has driven water into the road near the market. But we vendors still show up and have fun.

The kitties are doing their hard work of resting on the bed most of the day.

Leo, the Bookends

 This post is bookended by photos of Leo, our male tabby cat. He's such a sweet boy! Can you tell?

I've been working with that brown wool and finally got it washed, spun, plied, and balled up prepared to knit. Finally!

The fabric is from the thrift store, but such a pretty, delicate, and soft flannel. I plan to sew a sweet baby doll quilted blanket with it, for my granddaughter for her upcoming birthday. We're buying her a baby doll bed, and the blankie should be just right.

Last week I made a new batch of shampoo bars because I was totally out. They'll need to cure for a few weeks with a fan blowing on them. They make my studio smell quite nice.

Gretchen Joanna mentioned to me that she'd like to know what writers I enjoy. Josephine Tey is certainly one. This was an excellent story. If you've not tried Tey, think about reading one of her mysteries. My favorite of hers is called Miss Pym Disposes.

The flowers up there are called Chinese Chives. We saw it blooming across the street from the farmers market and assumed it was Queen Anne's Lace. But one vendor looked it up on her phone, and discovered it was Chinese Chives, which we'd not heard of before.

We're enjoying cooler weather and especially in the morning, there's a cool breeze in the air. It's officially autumn!