juvenile raccoons
It has been so long since I have written, sadly so, as so much has taken place in the days that have passed and I have had little opportunity or means by which to write them down. On our third evening on the farm the girls and I were taken as a treat into the village to the Winterbottom Grange talent show. I was astonished to see the variety of talents this small village offered. We laughed and cheered along with the town’s citizenry as we watched Leonard McHaffy sculpt a life-size bust of Queen Elizabeth with her pet ermine out of a maple log with nothing put a sharp axe. Violet Languid gave a vocally superb rendition of Pretty Peggy of Derby, accompanied by one of our very own 1853 models of the Galubrious’ “Italian Queen” accordion (with the famous micro mosaic buttons). But beyond a doubt, the triumph of the night was The Widow Cookfair’s trained chickens and their presentation of Pacini’s Carlo di Borgogna. When, in the opera’s second act, Leonora and Estella, played by two elegant barred rocks, finished their duet, tears were welling up in my eyes, and the girls were sobbing on my shoulder. I was of the mind that poultry lacked the depth of character to accurately portray the complex emotions required for anything but Russian opera, but I was proven profoundly wrong.
We came in from the spring frost and into our dormered room to find all of our equipment smashed, our record books torn apart, and our ink bottles spilled. My precious Simmons silver stemmed pen twisted into a bow, and the nib snapped, fractured into pieces. And so, in the evening hours of these past few spring days I have been manufacturing a new pen, from the bleached thighbone of a discarded pheasant carcass and the pounded tines of orphaned cutlery. Ink was developed by the gathering of lamp black, and ground chimney creosote made viscous with the addition of half-boiled maple syrup, so readily available here. The result is a fine substitute that I keep in a bitters jar under my pillow, along with my pen and the paper I have made with the pounded husks of last years corn.
There is far more disruption here than meets the eye – and I feel there are stories and relationships long established burrowing like a mole under the smiling surface of this small family. The ravaging of our small room was blamed on juvenile raccoons, but the absurdity of this notion nearly lead me to turn my back on our endeavor. Indeed I would have done so if not for my dedication to the scientific arts. The girls too, were ready to leave, as they had spent a cold morning staring at the remaining shards of the instruments, and the ink-soaked watercolor pads.
Without our equipment, we are left to rely solely on Lenore’s intuitive “whim”, my makeshift notes, and Lucia’s ability to combine parts of the broken instruments with pieces of old farm equipment, luckily we are living in a modern age – one in which a hardware store is rarely more than a couple hours walk away and orders can be made and received by train in less than a fortnight. We were also fortunate to find all of our photographic equipment in the field left untouched and so our research continues.
It was in that fateful morning of destruction that I came downstairs to find Mrs. Crunkshaft washing the threshold. I though very little of it at the time, but I now notice that the thresholds of this rambling house are all daily washed, and a vibrant sheen combined with a distinctive scent clues me to the presence of lavender oil.
As for the old woman, she continues to sit in her darkened corner. The sudden outburst of the evening past seems to have left her tired. Her rocking chair squeaks more slowly of late, the moth-eaten ball of wool in her lap nods lazily, yarn trailing ever so steadily to her hands and the nondescript threaded mass that hangs lazily off her needles. At her current rate of production, I presume the three inches of knitting has likely taken her five years to accomplish. When her head is not slumped in sleep against her chest her eyes continue to follow us coolly as we pass through the room.
Composed by Dr. G on Monday, May. 19, 2008
Gentle Reader Responses
Maren says:
There is no end to obstacles.
Loryienne says:
It was the performance of one of our “Belgium Quail D’Anvers” banties in the final cabaletta in Pacini’s “Saffo” that brought Ivan to tears. And as he woke me after his hen house duty, he broke into an unusual eloquence, nearing Claudia Cassidy’s description of Rosa Raisa’s soprano voice. “Royal purple shot with gold and fire!” he repeated in reverent whispers as he dabbed at his tears with his red checkered handkerchief.
Tara says:
It would appear that one of my supposed Blue-Lace Wyandottes is actually turning into a Barred Rock. Maybe this bodes well for chickens-of-musical-ability?
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