Domestic Goddess?

I've been trying to recreate "home" today - more out of boredom than out of any desire to be home. The dog is ill and has been making messes all over the (carpeted!) living room floor, so I took the day off from work and am watching the dog in a hawk-like way while attempting to spend the day constructively. I risked an hour away from the house this morning so I could go to church, which was nice. To be honest, I didn't pay much attention to the sermon itself - it delved into David and Bathsheba and how David must have felt post-murder of Uriah the Hittite, while all I could think during it was "well, Dave, if you had just kept your eyes to yourself..." - but the hymns were familiar, the prayers were comforting, and the people were friendly, if quiet. Presbyterians are the same the world over, I think.

I ran into the grocery store for a few minutes to pick up some supplies, then started baking bread. The dough is rising for the second time right now, and I cooked lunch and cleaned the living room while waiting on it. NPR played behind me while I worked and it was nice. The unfortunate (or fortunate, depending upon one's mood) side to housework and listening to things is that it's very easy to tune out whatever you're listening to in order to concentrate on your own thoughts and ideas. My thoughts turned to my last Chaucer class and our discussion concerning the faerie folk.

Faeries have always been part of my life. I remember days in the late summer, when toadstools and mushrooms appeared in telling patterns on our lawn and my siblings and I would dance around them, warning each other not to step inside because the faeries would snatch us away. Sierra was the source of this legend, being the most knowledgeable of all of us on subjects of myth and fancy. I would sneak a toe in when no one was watching, just to see. (I chalked up my not disappearing in a puff of smoke to the faeries being a wee bit busy with other matters.) We would shout for the faeries to come out of hiding and build faerie houses underneath the pine trees and lilac bushes. I found out later that Momma would make Daddy mow around the faerie circles, so we could have our fun until the next one grew - at the time, we thought it was some strange sort of magic that kept the faerie circle alive in spite of the riding lawnmower.

At this time of year, while playing around faerie circles, we would peer into the cornfield to make sure hunters or trespassers weren't coming out at us with guns - a legitimate worry, especially as hunting season was beginning. We would gather pine cones and twigs for when we still had our wood-burning stove. Berries and walnuts, which were prime for picking then, we would boil down for inks to be used at Heritage Days. (The walnut made a better ink than the berry, though the berry was prettier.) We would scurry around, up and down trees, playing make believe in the Den and the Lone Pine and Mulberry Meadow. The Witch's House was gorgeous at this time of year - the trees that formed it were just starting to change color and fall to the ground. Sierra and I formed our own miniature coven, where we would brew mint leaves and pine needles together in cold water and wave maple twigs over it, chanting spell couplets we had found in books - this was long before Harry Potter was ever even thought of. This is about the time we would begin begging Momma to let us carve pumpkins for Halloween, even though we knew that they would rot before Halloween if we did it now. We made scarecrows for the front yard and had already changed our minds at least fifteen times concerning Halloween costumes.

This retrospective was not just triggered by Chaucer, though I did spend a few moments reminiscing until Frank snapped me from my spell. An elderly lady of my acquaintance, Feencie McClain, passed away last week after having a heart attack. Momma called to tell me yesterday. I'm not sad - Feencie had a long, full life and she still had her wits about her. I'm told that a few days before she died (after the heart attack), she had been unable to attend a wedding after having bought a new outfit (with matching shoes and hat, Feencie was always a snappy dresser). She merely shrugged and said that she would just have to wear it for her funeral, as though it was a mere nuisance. Her daughter, Clissie, protested loudly at the time; but Momma and Aunt Nancy just laughed and laughed. And not because they didn't believe Feencie - they did. They laughed because Feencie was just so ready. It's difficult to fathom now, but there will come a time when I am ready, too.

For right now, though, I'll just think about Feencie with her teeny-tiny, well-dressed personage sitting primly her pew. Her beaming smile, her happy eyes, her stories about Watsontown when she was a girl and there were still horses and carriages trotting up and down Main Street. Of course, I will always remember her scolding Nanna Pat for telling me not to run in church - she informed Nanna Pat that children needed exercise, especially after sitting cooped up for an hour listening to someone talk at them, then proceeded to walk me outside and set me and the other kids to a game of kickball in the church parking lot.

I'll miss Feencie a lot. But, to be absolutely blunt, I'm glad she's gone.