“And don’t forget—if the walk-in seems like its leaking, just shove a few towels under there and it’s good to go. It usually only does that on really hot days, and you know how it can get in July,” she said, buzzing by in a cloud of neroli and peppermint. Mom was a big fan of essential oils. Hmm, was that a hint of clary sage? She might just be a little nervous.
“I got it, Mom,” I said, handing her the passport she’d just set down and now couldn’t find again.
“Oh, thank you, dear, thank you.” When a horn sounded outside, she almost jumped out of her skin. “Oh! That’s my car, it’s time to go!” She hooted, then ran out the front door. I couldn’t help but laugh as I watched her excitement, helping her get her bags into the car. I doubted any of the other contestants would be traveling with a vintage army knapsack embroidered with the phrase Make Biscuits Not War on the side.
“And you’ve got the contact information for the producers, so if you need me, you call, right?”
“I’ve got it. Don’t worry about a thing.”
She stopped loading her bags and looked at me. “I don’t worry about you handling things, Roxie. That’s never something I have to think about,”
“So go have fun. I’ll be here when you get back,” I assured her, patting her on the arm.
She caught me in a close hug, holding me tight. “You have some fun this summer too. Enjoy, okay?”
“I will, Mom.”
“Use mitts if you’re baking; that old oven is testy.”
“I will.”
“Use citronella oil if you’re in the woods.”
“I will.”
“Use sunscreen if you go swimming in the lake.”
“I will.”
“Use a condom if you have sex with a farmer.”
“I will—Jesus, Mother!”
She snickered, then climbed into the backseat, blowing me a kiss and telling me that she loved me. She told the driver to take her away on an adventure, and then she was gone, leaving me shaking my head. Honestly.
Ears and cheeks burning, I headed back inside and took a good look around. I had the day off, and I knew exactly how I was going to spend it. I cleaned.
I’d always been the housekeeper, and always would be. I enjoyed cleaning, and clutter made me nuts. So I stacked and straightened, dusted and swept. I didn’t throw anything away, since it wasn’t my house, but I did file and box up much of the stuff and nonsense. Once the living room was done, I tackled the kitchen, making the wood floors gleam and the countertops sparkle.
Taking a load of boxes out to the shed, I decided the garden could use a good weeding and made that my afternoon project. The annual beds were a tangled mess of honeysuckle vines and old shrub roses, the blooms thick and the thorns thicker.
As I was dragging a mess of cut vines back toward the trash heap, something caught my eye. Something that had been part of the backyard for so long that it was just part of the scenery: the old Airstream trailer, parked behind a row of straggly pines.
It had belonged to my grandfather, who’d used to it to travel the country on the original hippie train, Woodstock not being far from Bailey Falls. After he passed away, it was put out to pasture. It was always far down on the list of things to do, with something else always taking priority for where to spend those few extra dollars each month, and it gradually became a giant starting-to-rust elephant in the backyard, so big it was unnoticeable.
But today I noticed it, and went in for a closer look. I’d always thought these old trailers were kind of beautiful, in a retro kitschy kind of way. Very Rosie the Riveter meets the open road. But this one was half covered by weeds and listing to one side on bald tires, doubtless a home for critters as well. Someday it could be fun to look inside the trailer, but not today.
I returned to my garden work, finished it up, and then headed inside. After my mother’s constant chatter for the last week or so, the small house felt big and empty.
Another day, another breakfast rush. I kept my eyes and ears open as I worked my first managing shift at the diner the next day. The employees had mostly been there for years and the place really was capable of running itself, but I knew why my mom wanted someone in charge. It was her baby, it had been her father’s baby, and she was hoping it would one day be mine, no matter how many times I’d told her pigs would fly first. But that was a thought for another day; I had a breakfast shift to run. So I played short order cook, cracking eggs and slapping toast down for Adam and Eve on a raft, wrecked.
A steady flow of orders, constant gossip from the people doing the ordering, three burned fingers, two quarreling waitresses, and one very small grease fire later, I had successfully made it through the breakfast. And found myself once more on the business end of a potato peeler.
Concentrating on the perfection that would become my steak fries, I almost didn’t hear the back door opening. But this time the farmer was smart enough to announce himself before spuds went flying.
“Are you armed?”
I peeked over my shoulder to see Leo, wearing a teasing grin. I answered it with my own and held my hands up in the air, potato in one and peeler in the other.
“I am; you may not want to come much closer,” I said very seriously. I nodded toward the basket on top of the boxes he was carrying. “I can’t believe you brought nuts to a potato fight.”
“I’ll admit it didn’t go well for me last time,” he said, walking over to my station and setting down the boxes he was carrying. “Or it went very well for me last time, depending on the point of view.”
“I got it, Mom,” I said, handing her the passport she’d just set down and now couldn’t find again.
“Oh, thank you, dear, thank you.” When a horn sounded outside, she almost jumped out of her skin. “Oh! That’s my car, it’s time to go!” She hooted, then ran out the front door. I couldn’t help but laugh as I watched her excitement, helping her get her bags into the car. I doubted any of the other contestants would be traveling with a vintage army knapsack embroidered with the phrase Make Biscuits Not War on the side.
“And you’ve got the contact information for the producers, so if you need me, you call, right?”
“I’ve got it. Don’t worry about a thing.”
She stopped loading her bags and looked at me. “I don’t worry about you handling things, Roxie. That’s never something I have to think about,”
“So go have fun. I’ll be here when you get back,” I assured her, patting her on the arm.
She caught me in a close hug, holding me tight. “You have some fun this summer too. Enjoy, okay?”
“I will, Mom.”
“Use mitts if you’re baking; that old oven is testy.”
“I will.”
“Use citronella oil if you’re in the woods.”
“I will.”
“Use sunscreen if you go swimming in the lake.”
“I will.”
“Use a condom if you have sex with a farmer.”
“I will—Jesus, Mother!”
She snickered, then climbed into the backseat, blowing me a kiss and telling me that she loved me. She told the driver to take her away on an adventure, and then she was gone, leaving me shaking my head. Honestly.
Ears and cheeks burning, I headed back inside and took a good look around. I had the day off, and I knew exactly how I was going to spend it. I cleaned.
I’d always been the housekeeper, and always would be. I enjoyed cleaning, and clutter made me nuts. So I stacked and straightened, dusted and swept. I didn’t throw anything away, since it wasn’t my house, but I did file and box up much of the stuff and nonsense. Once the living room was done, I tackled the kitchen, making the wood floors gleam and the countertops sparkle.
Taking a load of boxes out to the shed, I decided the garden could use a good weeding and made that my afternoon project. The annual beds were a tangled mess of honeysuckle vines and old shrub roses, the blooms thick and the thorns thicker.
As I was dragging a mess of cut vines back toward the trash heap, something caught my eye. Something that had been part of the backyard for so long that it was just part of the scenery: the old Airstream trailer, parked behind a row of straggly pines.
It had belonged to my grandfather, who’d used to it to travel the country on the original hippie train, Woodstock not being far from Bailey Falls. After he passed away, it was put out to pasture. It was always far down on the list of things to do, with something else always taking priority for where to spend those few extra dollars each month, and it gradually became a giant starting-to-rust elephant in the backyard, so big it was unnoticeable.
But today I noticed it, and went in for a closer look. I’d always thought these old trailers were kind of beautiful, in a retro kitschy kind of way. Very Rosie the Riveter meets the open road. But this one was half covered by weeds and listing to one side on bald tires, doubtless a home for critters as well. Someday it could be fun to look inside the trailer, but not today.
I returned to my garden work, finished it up, and then headed inside. After my mother’s constant chatter for the last week or so, the small house felt big and empty.
Another day, another breakfast rush. I kept my eyes and ears open as I worked my first managing shift at the diner the next day. The employees had mostly been there for years and the place really was capable of running itself, but I knew why my mom wanted someone in charge. It was her baby, it had been her father’s baby, and she was hoping it would one day be mine, no matter how many times I’d told her pigs would fly first. But that was a thought for another day; I had a breakfast shift to run. So I played short order cook, cracking eggs and slapping toast down for Adam and Eve on a raft, wrecked.
A steady flow of orders, constant gossip from the people doing the ordering, three burned fingers, two quarreling waitresses, and one very small grease fire later, I had successfully made it through the breakfast. And found myself once more on the business end of a potato peeler.
Concentrating on the perfection that would become my steak fries, I almost didn’t hear the back door opening. But this time the farmer was smart enough to announce himself before spuds went flying.
“Are you armed?”
I peeked over my shoulder to see Leo, wearing a teasing grin. I answered it with my own and held my hands up in the air, potato in one and peeler in the other.
“I am; you may not want to come much closer,” I said very seriously. I nodded toward the basket on top of the boxes he was carrying. “I can’t believe you brought nuts to a potato fight.”
“I’ll admit it didn’t go well for me last time,” he said, walking over to my station and setting down the boxes he was carrying. “Or it went very well for me last time, depending on the point of view.”
