Bulking Up

I was watching this squirrel poking around looking for seeds and corn and realized that it was no longer sleek but it had fluffed up for winter.  I don't know if this is the squirrel that made meals of the suet cake but I wouldn't be surprised if it was.

I spent most of the day sorting out recipes for the next bout of Investment Cooking.  I wanted to choose at least a few different recipes because I'm getting tired of some of them and because the weather's changing so it seems like slow cooker season.  Time for stews, casseroles, and other winter food.

My knitting mojo is at a low ebb.  I need something simple to knit during tomorrow night's Zoom guild social knit (since I'm the host) and I'm finding that I have a hard time following a pattern and talking.  So I've been putzing along on this dishcloth, making it last.

04 November--Barbara Malcolm, The Seaview. 

Edward sat with me pulling nails in the afternoon while Silas went on an errand he said couldn’t wait.  He came driving back in his dusty black pickup truck and pulled a cot and bedroll out of the back.  He carried it past me not stopping to answer when I said, “What are you doing?”  I looked at Edward who was smiling at his hands as he pulled nails and stacked wood.  “Do you know what he’s doing, Edward?”

A huge grin that traveled from his chin to his hair split his face.  “Silas mad now, Mrs. Rose.  He say he not going to let no more fools make fires in your parlor nor t’row their empties on the floor.  He sleeping here until further notice.”  Admiration colored the young man’s voice.  “Silas a good man, Mrs., you lucky he helping you.”  He nodded agreement with his own words.

“Yes, Edward,” I said, looking after the young man tromping into the hotel, “he’s a good man and, yes, I am lucky that he’s helping me.”

The sun was setting when the three of us finished cleaning up the back garden.  Edward had piled all the reclaimed wood into a back room off the entry and lined up the cans filled with nails.  “There.  Now no one will be coming into the yard and taking away our wood to heat up his nights,” he said, dusting his hands off on the seat of his pants.

I liked Edward; he wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box, not by a long shot, but he was a hard worker and seemed honest and loyal.  He and Silas worked well together, silently moving around in the rooms, seldom speaking more than a few words but getting things done.  We stacked the wooden packing crates in the room too, along with the partial sheet of plywood that had been our table that day.

As Silas double-checked that the back door was locked and padlocked I said, “Tell me about Uncle Iggy.”

He laughed and shook his head.  “Uncle Iggy is the black sheep of my father’s family.  He learned a trade and is the soberest of sober citizens.  Dad and the rest of his brothers and sisters work at resorts, run restaurants, own beach bars.  My Uncle Clive, he even has a band that plays all over this part of the Caribbean.  You have probably at least heard them, if not danced to them.  Johnno’s has them booked every Sunday night for the jump-up.”

“Jump-up?”

“Yes, the jump-up,” Edward said.  “That is what we call a party with food and drinks and music.”  He wriggled his hips and slid his feet to music only he could hear.  “Johnno’s jump-up is the best.  People from all over the island, tourists too, come over to party like one big family.”  Edward took my fingertips in his hand, pulled me into his arms, and then swung me out, humming all the time.  “You need to come to the jump-up, Mrs. Rose, you and me can dance all night.”

I laughed and tried to follow his moves but it was impossible when only one of us could hear the music.  “Edward, I would be honored to come and dance with you at the jump-up next Sunday.”

He swung me out and bowed gracefully as if the music in his head had built to a crescendo.  Then he kissed my fingers and said, “That will be lovely.”

All three of us laughed.

Today's toss was a box of books--sewing books, poetry books, dive guides--and a few patterns.

I am cautiously optimistic that transcribing that old story is helping kickstart my story making brain.  I realized that what I wrote for today's prompt was a rewrite of a piece of a scene. Yay!

Tomorrow morning the exterminator comes to check his traps for the first time.  I'm cautiously optimistic about that too.

--Barbara