CW class 2016 :)

Merry Weather

                I remember, as a child, watching a blue rust speckled plane soar across fields out my bedroom window. Mother tucked us inside as Father emptied solvent on wide open meadows. Being this close to the marshes, that ran up and down the coast, produced obscure results. On one hand, the land was a green cotton blanket lain out sweetly like swept grass. On the other, mosquito and insect infestations halted all prospects of generosity and pleasure. As the population developed in the area, many harbor towns converted the marshlands into fresh soil for farming by buoying up the land and draining salty water back into the sea.

The new farms greatly affected the shellfish hatcheries my father had set up just outside our home and caused him to investigate other options. Thankfully grandfather had left the old plane. As the transition to farming developed, repellant soon became like honey, the glue that keeps a hive together. Soon the blue rust speckled plane had long yellow hoses and nozzles attached as a lucrative investment. On one side of the plane I remember watching father paint adhesive and attach a hand painted sign that read, “Merry Weather’s Wheat Protection Service.” He chose this name partly because my mother’s name was Merry and partly because he said the muggy weather was what kept him in business; father had a peculiar sense of humor.

 From sun up to sun down father worked laboriously, scouring for pockets of hazy brown patches against verdant valleys full of fresh green stalks. Mother blamed grandfather for father leaving. She said, “The plane and radio corralled him.” After he left the only correspondence we received were my father’s long winded letters explaining about Hitler and society and how we should never look down our noses at other human beings. A few months later the letters stopped coming. Officers dressed in uniform came with a crate of belongings. I remember old worn bed sheets that were wrapped around unfinished letters and pictures he had taped to a mirror and a purple heart. The last letter written was never signed, it read:

Dear Merry,

I love you more with each passing day. My love is so secure and so abound I feel like I am right there in the home with you and the girls I love so. Please send pictures of our little heaven. And of you and Lillian and Lizzie. I want to hold in my hands what is held in my heart already.

That night Lizzie (my sister of two years younger) and I escaped on a little canoe our father had built for shellfish catching. We took a pile of newspapers and propaganda with Hitler’s name and face on it. We burned them in the marshes, whaling,

            “We hate Hitler. We hate him. He took our Daddy.”

Then we fastened a little white cross around the tree father set his plane by to be sprayed off; our appendage to funeral services where men and women covered their faces in black cloth. We called it, “the landing place.” Father would be proud. After the funeral mother acted different. Father always said she was, “of the pure in heart and filled with kindness.” There had never been quarreling in our home growing up. Although, mother was not happy with our father’s enlistment. Regardless, she tried to accept the reasons behind it with earnest endeavorment. After father’s death; her tasks impeded themselves. She busied herself endlessly and never talked much. She took in laundry from the neighbors for pennies and dimes- and learned to survive loneliness.

            Elizabeth Merry Wentzel, my sister, was born two months early. At birth the doctor told my parents that she would not live long and urged them to prepare a casket. Just in case, he made a small hand sized cast for her tiny arms and legs to “form” in. Her bones had not yet developed and I remember my mother saying she had no hair on her body, not even eyelashes. She adored Lizzie and talked about how she fit in father’s one hand as a preemie. She had a small heart condition that needed to be monitored and her health was a bit slighted but mostly just tiredness and her legs and arms grew into themselves. She was checked annually for the heart and prescribed vitamins. 

When father was alive he concerted that Lizzie was “much too academic to busy herself in the kitchen.” We all knew this was his excuse to make sure his daughter was not pushed too much with household chores. He bought her as many books as needed to keep her busy and from helping mother and I too much with laundry and kitchen work and sewing. Since she tired easily I would have her read to me as I did chores, instead of asking for help. Even in the canoe, I paddled mostly. I made her read as payment, I loved her story voice. Once I grabbed a great big tortoise out of the water and threw it on her lap. She hated me after this incident. She was much more pleased when we found starfish beneath tidal water. Lizzie, “oohed and awed” over them and we gazed at different colors and sizes; holding them lovingly like little children. If only we were mermaids we would say.

            A crimson sparrow lived on a brook inlet nearby and I often admired it in summertime when the reeds grew taller with age. This was before father’s enlistment. The tiny bird reminded me of Lizzie for some reason. It wept profusely against green dominion- and yet sang so vibrant, splashing its color against a sea of green. I wanted Lizzie’s song to sing so vibrant; even though she was different in a way. She had less strength and I felt protection for her, as an older sister. I wasn’t much older but still old enough to feel this way. After my father’s death I went out in the canoe by myself and spotted this sing song creature. Looking at it distantly, I realized Lizzie and Mother would need more protection from me. Just like the little red bird, as the gentle breeze carried it through preying reeds to safety in a nest.

***

             

            Five years have passed since father’s crash, the war is over with. Burning Hitler’s swastika in our backyard wasn’t the end, but it was shortly after. Mother still listens to the radio at night, like she and father had. When we heard that the wicked man had killed himself mother cried. I wasn’t expecting this reaction as my sister and I danced and jumped off the sofa in happiness. Mother hadn’t cried since Dad left, when she hugged the uniform outside our kitchen window Lizzie and I pressed our faces at. Lizzie is stronger now, each year passing brings her a more secure life. I am in school now and childhood is fading behind.

            Today, after lessons, I went to the marshes with a fishing pole and watched little water spiders dash about happily. Lilies were out for spring and I found a silent pool to rest in. I am not much for fishing, but I do love trout; my favorite variety. Although Salmon fillets are nice if cooked right. There is cod in here and smelt and eel. Yuck. I noticed some trout eggs while staring into a clear pool- a good place to land my line.

When Lizzie and I were little we would take her science book on the canoe. She finished her assignments as father requested and I finished shell collecting for the day. We made a game of matching fish with the names in her book. The distance from fresh water pools to the ocean is roughly fifteen miles. The tidal waves rise and fall over the area; it is hard to discover the line between the two waters, I see a glittering trout in the stream I am day dreaming into. Perhaps the mother of the spawn. I am always amazed at the stories Lizzie and I had read, concerning migration. Trout lay their eggs only in fresh water and then travel out to the sea; each year they return to the exact same location to lay again. Such a remarkable discovery we had made, as children. I think of Lizzie and mother and of never leaving the cottage and the marshes. And then of places across the ocean that I’ve learned about in class like London.

            I am now twenty, although Lizzie and mother do not seem to notice my womanhood. “What if I suddenly flew away, like the little red sparrow that is so often neglected, would mother and sister be okay?” I ask the trout I espied these questions, silently. She touts her tail and splashes back while leaping. Jim is a kind man, charming and handsome and he owns a farm twenty miles down the stream. Sober is nice, but equally boring. When Jim came by to take me shucking and for his mother’s pie he lost his hat in the stream. Then added up the costs for me of the ribbon around it and the felt and the tip of the feather that had waxing. The total was evenly, $2.5612. I feel cautious to say yes to what he is proposing and less cautious about joining a shipping crew and flailing away. Jim will never leave the farm he is tied to with ribbon that matches his hat in the stream, deep crimson- and I shall never leave all my red sparrows.

In the school yard the girls caught my dress with their toes, they did this on purpose and told me that I should get fancier ribbons. I feel aloof when I am not here wading in my kickers to keep ocean salt from eroding my dress hem. Albeit alone and aloof I have parted with my dignity and intend on bringing fresh fish to Mrs. White, she will see my earnest sacrifice even if she doesn’t like my cursive. Since the girls stepped on my dress, I have been much more careful to only wear play clothes when fishing. And before school I iron my ringlets and hem with an iron. I feel uncomfortable parading at times, and yet happy to be noticed- especially by Jim.

***

            Beneath the L shaped staircase that separates the kitchen and living room there is a small storage closet. I have a coat hiding inside, it is wool and has mittens inside. When Jim comes late at night, I silently insert myself in the stuffing. I have wool inside my ears and cannot hear what my heart is saying, “you do not love this man. You do not love Jim.” I ignore the stuffing and put mitten on and go outside beneath stars and hear the wind rustling reeds and water lapping on the shore by the steam. We pass father’s plane at the gate and guilt consumes my wishes, to feel alive and free of all shame. Last night, while walking, Jim paused beneath a tree bough and put me on it. He stood in front of me and opened his mouth like a fish. I leaned in, trying to mimic Jane Austen and fell into the marshes with a splash. Jim seemed reluctant to divulge his secret he promised before we left. Instead he opened his coat pocket and told me to put my hand inside. I felt around foolishly because I didn’t want to pick it up. I felt like warm sunshine in the night and wondered if my face was all red, my stomache turned and I asked him to take me home before picking it up. At the gate Jim said,

            “You could be my queen and I would serve you lovingly.”

I told him I hadn’t felt well ever since the tree bough incident and wanted to rest. He asked if he could come back tomorrow to check on me but I said to wait a week. I do this to him when the monthly visitor comes, so I don’t think he minds.  

***

The week is almost up and I feel more confused as the days pass by. I have decided to tell Lizzie. I know she will have a firm opinion, as she always does. Lizzie is always fixed on her feelings. I will have to lure her out, she is not as fond of fishing. Although, she hasn’t see the crimson bird I spotted and it’s nest, I shall offer her a reward with little bird eggs to look at.  

“You aren’t going to get married just to get away from me are you?” Lizzie asks, half soberly.  

“I would only be a county away, it is just past the line”

            “Then it is mother you are running from?” She teases me.

Lizzie stares, distantly.

            “You will marry someday too, you know that right?” I say, trying to catch her attention.

            “Are there any boys at school you like?”

I look at my sister, admiringly. She was beautiful and young and spirited and sassy. Even despite the health. She is not flirtatious and I noticed this last time, when we all went playing in the rain. Mrs. White said it would be fine and the boys chased the girls and Lizzie sat alone by some tall weeds peering at everyone as if they couldn’t see her hiding face. I fidget under her awkward surveillance and succumb to my irrational feelings,

            “I do love him, you know.”

My cheeks flush like they do when I lie and Lizzie does not receive this information with any slight of affection. She seems to detest Jim, I feel her judgement.

            “You are just marrying to get away and you know it.”

            “I am not.”

            “You are and I will prove it.”

            “How will you prove my love?” I examine her cautiously. We are fighting.

            “Go to the landing place by the cross and tell father you love Jim then,” She says.

I didn’t respond. I thought she was being a baby and jealous. We returned home in silence. The red sparrow, laughing in the breeze.

***

I am awake in bed, staring at the moon outside my window. I ache to hold the ring and put it on my finger and dance with Jim outside. I wonder what it would be like to be the farmer’s wife in Wheimer County; wearing long gowns to church on Sunday and attending the fish market in juxtoposition. I creep down the stairs carefully to the closet and sit down on my wool coat for comfort. Laying head on knee, I notice Lizzie’s American Literature book on wood flooring. I flip pages and open a folded piece of paper with dried flowers in it and a dog-eared page titled Celestial Love by a man named, Em-er-son. The last stanza speaks of love,

Without a false humility;
For this is love's nobility,
Not to scatter bread and gold,
Goods and raiment bought and sold,
But to hold fast his simple sense,
And speak the speech of innocence,
And with hand, and body, and blood,
To make his bosom-counsel good:
For he that feeds men, serveth few,
He serves all, who dares be true.

I set the book down and begin to cry.

            Reaching for the door, I notice a bright light shining in the keyhole. The light is strange and very bright. Instinctively I cover my eyes and blindly try to open it, the door is locked.   The door is locked. I search for the spare key on the hook above and find nothing. Kneeling down I peer beneath the door, suspecting a grandious event of candles lit like Christmas morning, the crevice is dark. As by no other choice I look inside the light and spy a very elaborate scene that looks to me of snow glowing. As my eyes adjust the light beams fade away like curtains displaying a mirror image of a familiar place of mine, the marshes- I blink re-affirming. Intoxicated by colors that are much more vivid I reach for the doorknob again, only this time it opens. The air is warm and sun shining. I see Lizzie in a garden sleeping.  

Trodden grass marks a path opening to a large circular pattern of grasses mown. The perimeter is filled with elongated stalks of irises with gold and purple wings. Lizzie is sleeping on an elongated bed and her feet can barely squeeze in. Lizzie’s bone condition formed her legs much shorter than mine, it is part of her health condition. I am astounded that her legs appear now longer, she is taller than me it looks like. Her skin is missing the little freckles that dot her arms and legs and face and her skin beneath is luminous. Her hair is not sun kissed with auburn streaks but jet black against satin sheets. Her eyelashes are thick and heavy and look as if they would weigh down her eyes if she opened them. I envy her prettiness.  

As Lizzie tosses her head to the other side, I run to hide behind the iris leaves. I watch her sit up and call, “Lillie, is that you Lillie?” I am much too shy and tongue tied to say anything. Staring at the long thick lashes, I see her eyes are very striking, heavens blue. This is still my Lizzie I tell myself, all her features are the same. She swings her long legs over the bed I notice she cannot walk on them. She wobbles all over the circular grass calling for me and stumbling. She stops getting up on the last lapse and crawls back to the bed and goes to sleep.

My father is standing next to me in the shape of a tree, he was there where Lizzie was wandering to and then he became something more familiar to me. The tree is still whistling in a warm summer breeze. Father steps inside the garden and says this to me,

            “She is not ready yet, Lillie. She needs to sleep.”

                        “Father,” I exclaim.

                        “I have missed you so much, please come to me.”

He is unable to come and I feel frozen and stiff. I do not want to come to take him away from Lizzie’s bed.

                        “I love you daughter, you are strong and brave. Go with Matilda.”  

My Austrian grandmother takes my hand, she is stepping out of the same tree.

 “Am I awake? I feel I must be dreaming?” Thinking that I really do not feel tired and pinching my skin.

 “You are awake, Lilly. That is why you must come with me. I will seize this opportunity,” the grey haired woman says.

I follow the woman out of the garden towards my canoe. The seats are not worn and the mud is all cleaned out of the bottom. I do not want to leave, I want to stay close to Lizzie and Father. The woman does not seem to care. She unties the canoe. I notice that the stars are out in midday. And the marshes now appear to be gardens; all full of various flowers and little animals popping up heads.

            The woman is now motioning me to get in. I feel I must despite Elizabeth. Knowing Father is there makes the departure necessary, I don’t want to disappoint him. I want to see my reflection in the stream to see if I have changed like Lizzie. Father still looks the same. I am too embarrassed with the woman staring. The light is fading and I see a dark tunnel ahead,  

            “There is no darkness in the light and no light in the darkness,” Matilda says, “beware of the change in weather.”

Suddenly the sky is black and I hear howling. I am frightened and scream loudly. I hear Matilda laughing at me.

            “You are fine, Lillie,” she says.

            “Get me out of here. I am scared!” I yell back.

“We are entering another realm. They are just on-lookers, unable to enter. They are much more jealous than you’ll ever be. Everyone wants something for nothing these days,” she says.

“What do they want?” I feel calm again.

 “Just tell them to shut up and go away, the light will form again,” Matilda explains.

I wait for the light to come back, trusting this woman. A curtain lifts in front of me or is it shining fog? My eyes squint from the influx of light. Matilda leans in whispering,

            “This is your childhood, be careful not to touch.”

I see the coastal plains I am familiar with. My father’s airplane is by the cottage; it looks new again, without rust. Lizzie is in the front yard carrying a basket of shellfish, she looks five.

            “Go deeper,” the woman says, “try to remember other things.”

I do not know what this woman is talking about, she is strange. I watch Lizzie carrying the pail, I am pacified. I can hear the woman but do not necessarily care. She takes out a book and begins reading, but in my head I only hear Lizzie’s voice,

Where is beauty?

Is it buried with Papa in a tree with flowers on it?

I am a flower; waiting to be picked.

I close slowly with time.

Will I be?

Picked.

I wait for father’s voice.

He awakens me from sleep, he is a tree inside me.

 “Lizzie,” says he,

“I have chosen for you.”

“You have?” I say back.  

“You are a flower on a stem; keep blooming.”

“Is he here yet?” I ask patiently.

“No. He is coming.”

“Now?”

“No, not yet.”

“Will it be for love?”

“It will.”

“I will wait then, to hear you speak.”

“Until then, child.”

Matilda snaps the book shut in an obvious manner, hiding it beneath her seat.

            “So you are thinking of getting married?” she says sternly.

I feel startled with her openness but respond anyway, “Yes, Jim has asked me. I have not responded yet.”

I feel awkward if not frightened, how does she know these things?

“Don’t worry, I am not here to harm. I only want to help you find your wish. Do you wish for love?”

I do not answer, again, I feel flushed and exhausted with her questioning. Floating down the azure stream I notice there are stars in it, or it could be reflections from the sky. Two children are playing on a hill. I hear laughing and they are running with kites. I know it is me because of a little blue swan dress I am wearing, my favorite childhood dress. The little boy, I do not recognize. He is handsome for a little boy, with bright blue striking eyes. At the end of the string is a lavender kite; my favorite color. The boy has one as well, his kite blends in with the sky. I notice it finally, while suspended beneath a billowing cloud that rolls tumultuously. The boy takes the long string from the little girl and ties it along his on a giant oak tree. The kites flap in the breeze that dance on my cheeks.

Matilda stand up on the boat, I hold each side, afraid of tipping. She calls to the children, “Come quick children. Lillie is awake inside her heart.”

The children run to the water’s edge, staring. They are as mesmerized as I am. We will part soon, we are still drifting down the stream. The little girl, with little blonde ringlets in her hair holds up a red crimson ribbon and blows it to me like a kiss.

            “Do not touch,” Matilda says sternly, “let the wind carry it behind,” she says.

The ribbon flitters as it floats lazily and lands in the stream as we pass.

            “It is your wish,” she explains.

A rainbow trout leaps up and catches it, brining on the surface. Matilda is still standing, unafraid. I am riveted, arms balancing.

            “Children,” she says pointing towards the tree, “look!”

Matilda points back to where the kites play; dancing. A large white owl has just swooped in and landed. He sits on the branch, “hooting.” The kids smile in amazement and run back to see.

            “You gave the gift of wisdom to your inner child.” Matilda says.

            “I didn’t do anything,” I say.

            “You wished for love, do you love Jim?” Matilda asks.

I feel placid and overwhelmed and embarrassed. I am sure she knows my inward answer.

 “Marry for love, not for riches. Marry for happiness, not for comfort. Marry when your soul protrudes and you can say no, no longer. Marry when it becomes your hearts wish,” Matilda says.

She points to the little boy we are parting from, “Marry him,” she says, “He is your true love.”

I look over at the tree, the boy is missing. I see father and I waving and Lizzie is there wearing long legs and mother is swooning over our cotton dresses with swans on them.

            “Where is the boy?” I ask.

“Do you remember the kite the boy was holding?” she says.

“Yes, although at first I couldn’t see it, as it blended in with the sky.”

“Exactly. He is still there waiting patiently, in your heart.”

I smile at Matilda lovingly.

            “And for now your father will be your tree, he lives here deep inside your chest.” She points to my heart again, “Listen to that voice, please.”

Dark curtains open again, followed with hauntings. Matilda calls out, “get out of here you lazy beasts. You do nothing but scare beautiful children like these. She is mine.” The light comes in, looking around I realize the stream has traveled a circumference back to where we started. Where there is no time.

I walk past Lizzie’s bed in the garden to a familiar door attached to an L shaped staircase and walk inside. I stumble on Lizzie’s Literature book and flip to the back where the poem is written. Lizzie’s signature is at the bottom. Mother is in the kitchen singing and baking morning breakfast. I motion Lizzie to come grab baskets to fetch eggs. She seems to understand.

“I am not going to marry Jim,” I say, casually.

            “I told you it was for the wrong reasons,” she says back.

            “Maybe you were right. I just couldn’t tell Dad when I finally tried.”

I look at the stream beside the hen house and catch my reflection. I see Matilda’s face, she winks at me and holds a finger to her lips. A red herring jumps in the water up ahead; in a pool of salted water amongst weeds.