Of Needles and Haystacks by Ann Fryer (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) 📕

The farm is covered with snow, at least a good foot deep. All hopes for an early spring are dashed by plummeting temperatures and a certain family of mice found nesting in the bottom of the oats bin. The snow certainly has its own beauty. Indeed, I have never been in the center of such vast, blinding whiteness.

Aunt’s spirits were dour from the start this morning. At my entreaty to cook the porridge and subsequent discovery of the nasty little creatures, she failed to maintain countenance. Her face flashed as red as her hair and tears followed. “I hate the filthy vermin,” she said. Toliver sat shivering in wet britches by the woodstove. My cousins simply stared at their mother, except for Ruby who laughed as she reached unafraid into the bin and scooped up the creatures. The baby mice squirmed in her hands, their tiny tails squiggling about. The boys stumbled toward her, pushing and jostling, and then roughly snatched them from her hand. She didn’t mind the theft. At least at first.

I had been busy—despite the rodents. I stirred the cooking oats as if no tiny dirty feet had tainted the grain. A good boiling would clean away the traces. I knew without asking that none of this would be wasted...nor the remainder in the bin.

Aunt took herself to the pump and splashed away her tears. Do mice plague this house at times? Apparently. I have not noticed evidence in any other room, but if in the kitchen, I’d best be on the lookout. Perhaps the cat needed an inside invitation. Of course, these decisions aren’t exactly up to me. Yet.

I turned to Aunt. “Please allow me to help you in the kitchen. I do not mind the mice.” She cringed. I added grated cinnamon to the pot. “Cooking is something I can actually do around here.” I tried to make my face pleading but not pathetic.

Aunt sniffed as she wiped drops of water from her hair. “I despise nothing more than a nest of mice.” She dried her hands on her stained pinstripe apron. “One winter they ruined my wedding gown. Chewed through the trunk and gorged on my fine linen.”

“How dreadful.” The thought of wedding white made me inwardly flinch. I shall be wearing black for a good while, but I am very fond of what awaits within my wardrobe. Many months from now, if all goes as planned.

Aunt smiled. “I hate to see my good niece put to work so sudden.”

“I fear if I don’t do something I’ll fall to pieces.” Blatant honesty fell off my tongue. I did not want to appear a weak or unstable female.

She squinted out the window. “Outdoor work will be impossible, so we shall make today a holiday.” She spied a glance into the oatmeal pot. “Helen and Kirsten will make fudge. Tonight, we’ll have popcorn and roasted apples.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, the bridge of her nose pinched with concern. “I suspect that will cheer you up.”

“I daresay that would cheer anyone.” Grief leaves me with the desire for nothing but cheer, but dread for it at the same time.

Ruby screamed as she peered through a crack in the door that had been left slightly open. She turned and ran, tears coming fast. Boys laughed. Tom, Henry, what’s his name—the one in his teen years? He bungled past her bringing in snow all over the hardwood floor. “Job done, Mother. Those mice haven’t a breath of life left in ‘em.”

Aunt planted her hands on her hips. “Did you have to kill them in front of Ruby?” She expressed absolutely no concern for the tiny victims.

Ruby sat by the oatmeal bin and rocked herself, sniffling. I would have gone to her, but the oatmeal began to thicken. A scorched breakfast would no doubt result in banishment from the kitchen. That I could not abide.

Tom poked his thumb back at her with a scowl. “Would someone talk some sense into her?”

“Tom.” Aunt lifted a brow.

“Yes Ma’am?” His face had already dropped.

“You may do something nice for your sister today. Go to your room and think about what that might be.”

Oatmeal sputtered and burnt my hand. I muffled my “ouch!”

“The rest of you need to get about your duties.” Aunt turned to me. “We must seem like a pack of heathens to you.”

“Not at all.” Just so very different. I wanted to tell her how glad I was to be here, but the words wouldn’t come.

“I am not myself this morning—do forgive me.” Aunt lifted willow ware bowls from the shelf and spread them softly around the large, cloth-covered table. Ruby watched her, tears still streaming.

Is it criminal to cry when one needs to? Certainly not. Father was a tenderhearted man. Mother said he wept at my birth. He also wept when he heard about the Great Chicago Fire. And when the Indians were forced from town at gunpoint. His tears, well, now that I think on it, showed more than just grief. They showed opinions. His love. And the horror of a single, untended spark. While Mother laughed with those who laughed, Father certainly cried with those who cried. And sometimes the two blended into serious countenance with humor resting behind knowing eyes. A hidden wisdom I could never figure. How did they manage to be at peace with the other side of their emotions? It’s a wonder that any of us can be calm with so many great evils in this world. And the one great curse that stands sentry over every moment.

Finally, Aunt lifted Ruby into her arms and soothed her. She allowed Ruby to join in, to place spoons around the table. Uncle and Ernest knocked their boots at the door. The stock was fed and now it was their turn.

Conversation flowed at breakfast, unlike the quiet suppers. Chores traded, sledding routes planned, and the anticipation of fudge brought giggles even from Aunt who seemed to be recovering from the appearance of both snow