Burning Hearts

Good guy

Lorelei squinted in the high noon sun, shading her eyes with her left hand as a visor as is seeking something specific, a marker, a body, or a particular point in time that she remembers feeling at home outside in the garden. It was a chore, of course, dirty work, manual labor, lugging the swollen hose around, futile tugs at palm-fulls of weeds, Lorelei’s nails were manicured with dirt brown details, gardening made us slaves to the land, but its pay was the most rewarding. Lorelei felt like the goddess of her garden, it was Eden found. And when did she find this? Was it her first blackberry off the vine? No, that was a wild find. It must have been her first sugar snap pea too big for its pod that she remembers popping in her mouth like a marble and to her pleasant surprise, a green thing can grow sweet. In her mind, little time had passed since that pea she pulled out of its thin-skinned envelope with her plump ivory fingers to now, with her sharp knuckles and crepe paper skin, the dark blotches from the sun she preferred to think as dirt stain, the peas tasted just the same.

Back when Lauren was just knee high and pigtailed, she loved playing in the plants, moving dirt around, making mud cakes, and stomping down narrow rows with her kangaroo tennis shoes, foot over foot, and picking dandy-lions to braid for Princess crowns. But as she grew Lauren thought the outdoors boring, icky and uninteresting and often mocked her tired mother as she came in the kitchen toting a bulging basket of harvested fruits and vegetables.

“Why do you spend so much time in the garden, you should get your hair done once in a while momma? Aren’t you lonely? If you had a man you wouldn’t need to grow so much of your own food-Are you making something? It smells so good.”Lorelei was often cooking, preserving, drying and freezing, Lauren would say her thumb would never turn green like her mothers. Lauren's lovely prim nails were the color of tart grapefruit flesh, her cheeks resembled the summer peach harvest, and her skin always glowing, Lorelei knew it was partly due to age and partly due having always eating her fruits and vegetables, she was stunning and clean both inside and out. Now looking down at her own tawny skin, brown spots from both dirt and age, the thin skin loosely laid over sharp knuckles which ached and suddenly cramped under the attention of her watchful eyes. She gripped her hands, one fist holding another curled inside the half-full metal bowl of freshly snapped peas. The peas were pretty and plump, she focused on them while massaging her arthritic hands thinking of the way two peas may sit in a pod so happy together forever. The grow together, for each other and with, and slowly she began to breathe deeply and her hands relaxed. Casting her gaze toward the garden, Lorelei smiled over the thought of her daughter in a pod of her own-and those thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a waft of scented air from the kitchen-was something cooking-she thought-hmmm, is it rain? Lorelei took the bowl inside with her. That smell-reminded her of desire.


Image credit: By Sargent, Charles Sprague, 1841-1927 [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

Bad guy

It is called ‘The Williamson Act’, I don’t suppose you have ever heard of it? Neither had Lorelei-until she tried to sell the farm. She was then notified about ‘The Williamson Act’ and stonily informed that the nuts must stay. Lorelei was furious. Not only did it mean that she could not sell, transfer, remove or replace any of the abominable walnut trees or do anything to the orchards, it meant she would be stuck there with them or sell someone else on their abominable-ness. They were ugly, messy, dark, squatty shrubs to Lorelei but apparently, according to some agriculture big-wigs, big aphids to Lorelei, her family's’ lively little orchard was significantly important in maintaining the state’s overall GDP in Agriculture production of the precious meat fruit. The official officials were seemingly appalled that Lorelei would even consider listing the home itself being a historical place and all. Humph, Lorelei stomped as she walked toward her small cottage at the end of the lane. With her elbows on her hips and wide neck in the shadows, she resembled a school bully out to get his free lunch. She kicked up dust on the dirt path, no birds, no lizards, nary a single bug dare step in her path. In her right hand, she was clutching a wad of ultra white papers, it was the official denial by the officials, telling Lorelei what she could and could not do with her dang property. It was hers, not theirs. Her family worked hard for it. And yes, she wanted to sell it. Cash it all in for herself. She deserved it. In this small neck of nowhere where Lorelei’s crooked farm cottage barely stood, ninety-nine percent of all the walnuts in the United States are grown. People were relying on her for all kinds of dishes. Every time some delicacy featured walnuts be it sweet or savory, Lorelei’s only daughter would make certain to point it out,

These came from us Momma, she would always claim, Thanks to you Momma, this is yummy!

Now, Lorelei had to amuse herself with this little ritual, her daughter was grown but gone and not likely to ever make her way back to ‘The Wasteland’. Lauren, her daughter, found her own private misery, her own hell hole to dwell in with that impish devil. “The dead trees give no shelter”, the trees were barren this time of year. Lorelei’s phone was ringing, she could hear it in the distance and as she rushed toward the front porch, tripped on the loose board swollen on the second step. She hurt. She was upset.

The mail contained an announcement, a matter of fact statement about her daughter, she tasted salt and thought of Aprils cruelty and felt a warm drip of water roll down her hot cheek. She picked up her chin, Lorelei did not cry, and as she rose her nose it became hung on a distinct burning scent? What is that, she thought. A bridge? An idea? Alight flickered almost reflectively in her eyes and it almost looked as if she were smiling despite her sadness a moment ago, although, she may have had some walnut skin in between her teeth.

Image credit By: Not given, Walnut Grove Los Angeles, c.1900 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

(Inspired by one of John Gardeners’ writing challenges in his dense tome, ‘The Art of Fiction’)