Of Needles and Haystacks Ann Fryer (ebook reader with built in dictionary .TXT) 📖

Chapter 10

MARCH 5, 1880

The snow melted with rain and sank into the earth leaving behind mud thick, oozing mud.  Even so, I was determined to have my walk to the little township named after Paris, France. I’m afraid it lacks the grandeur of the real Paris. Though I have never actually been to Europe—yet—I’ve thumbed through many travel books. I’ve been jealous of an old school friend who married last year and enjoyed a honeymoon overseas. Her letters boasted all too much: this cathedral, that castle, this museum, that dress shop... I stopped reading them when they came. Then stopped writing back when Mother and Father grew ill. I wish I hadn’t. I daresay no one will think to write to such a poor correspondent.

This town has neither castle nor chateau—regardless of what a man’s house might be to him. All red brick and clapboard with the usual signs for usual labor. Draper, barber, lawyer, doctor. The train depot where I arrived—all grimy with coal dust. Amidst these norms, I sought one thing. Proper tea. Surely that was not too much to ask.

Kirsten and Helen had looped their arms with mine. I felt quite a foolish schoolgirl until I realized this action was more than comradery. The roads and byways were so thick with mud that if we didn’t link arms together, we wouldn’t make it town decently attired. Mud had already found its way down my boot and beneath my heel. Real tea would be worth it. I ardently miss the tram car.

I am forced to reckon with more mucky nature than I ever anticipated. “Surely I will find tea.” I spoke my hope aloud yet again. Helen just blinked at me with a shrug.

She led me to the largest building in town—Harley’s General. Not as polished as the shop I am accustomed to. And not sufficient to meet my needs. I left Helen and Kirsten by the fabric bolts, dreaming of dresses they’d like to sew. I knew my mission.

“I would like a tin of tea, please.” Did he sense my desperation?

The clerk swiped a small tin from a low shelf and placed it on the counter as a jeweler might present a precious gem. A small hand-scripted label read “sassafras.”

“I need real tea, if you have it.” I panicked. “Black tea?” What if Paris, Kentucky never had a true cup of tea before? Like some pioneer shanty town?

“All out, ma’am.” He tapped the top of the tin. “This sassafras here’ll do.”

“No, I’m afraid it won’t. Do you expect a delivery any time soon? Or perhaps you have some Darjeeling hidden away somewhere...”

“Most folks here make their own brews.” He tapped the tin yet again. “Like this sassafras here. Or herbs outta the garden.”

I must have grown pale. “You okay, miss?”

“Fine. I’m just fine.”

“I can getta note to my supplier.” He shrugged. “Might see some in a few weeks. I’m sure Lexington’s got store-tea.”

“How far is Lexington?”

“Twenty miles, give or take.”

Might as well be a hundred. We had already walked two and a half to get to the store. I picked up the sassafras tin, nudged the lid off and inhaled. Smelled sweet and strong—like medicine Mother used to make. Perhaps with a bit of sugar it wouldn’t be so bad.

“I suppose this will have to do for now.” I placed it into my black velvet reticule and pulled out two dollars. “A pound of sugar, please.”

His eyes opened wide as he lifted a sack to the counter. “Will that be all, or is there anything else here you might be needin’.”

“I suppose you don’t have a lemon or lime?”

“You suppose too much. I happen to have one of each, and only one mind you.” His eyes twinkled. “I’ll be right back.”

Sassafras and citrus tea. I should not be surprised by the outcome of my shopping venture. This puny town surrounded by over-sized farms...

Once home, I sipped the sassafras slowly. Put in extra sugar when Aunt wasn’t looking. Not too bad. Just unusual, like all facets of my life right now. I need real tea. Just this one bit of normalcy. For now, I can try to savor what I do have.

I held my teacup beneath my chin and the fragrant steam warmed my face. Mother said that this was like my prayers—that God savors my words as they rise towards heaven. All of them, she said. The sincere ones, the hurt ones. The desperate ones...

Despite the strange sassafras tea and all that transpired this afternoon, I began to feel a calmness fall on me like a blanket warmed with hot bricks. I nestled in. I wished every moment could be like this. I looked to the future with a little more confidence, knowing that in winter I would get too cold. In summer, I would get so hot I might wish to sleep in cool bathwater. Troubles would come. I didn’t want more. But they would come as sure as the seasons change. I never understood this until now, so preoccupied I’ve been with growing up and thinking only on myself. For now, I am calm and warm, safe and well. Today, the day good normal things happened. Well, mostly...

I’ve received an invitation to Cedar Gate. Mrs. MacDonald would like to have a gander at me, no doubt to confirm her son’s opinions.  Whatever they might be. Of course, my opinions might be confirmed after meeting her for myself.

What kind of woman is she that does not also invite Aunt or Helen at least? I am to arrive on the porch steps Tuesday at two o’clock. I’ve no doubt such a grand woman must have real tea—none of this sad sassafras.

Helen is behaving stiffly with me. I wonder if Philip and Chess will be made to sit-in while their mother drills me on my parentage and other nonsense rich women like to track. She shall have every detail she desires. I’ve nothing to hide and am certainly not embarrassed