Self-assigned Exercise

Given three phrases/words and two hours, write a complete short story.

Autumn rain

Dried apples

Truck

Mis-matched and Detached

With the first light of day Konnie throws her feet out of her sleeping bag and over the edge of the bed, slowly re-orienting herself to morning in Grandma’s cabin.  Her feet ache from the long hike up and down the wet stony trails, where she’d searched for any sign of chanterelles or other edible mushrooms and late hanging blackberries or huckleberries all through an autumn rain on Tuesday afternoon. Not that she needed the food, but there was no question the first thing she needed to do after fifteen years away was to walk her own paths again.

The mountainette behind the cabin had seemed to embrace her in its dripping flora with hemlock branches gracefully bowing among other evergreens, and the flaming vine maple creating arches leading to moss-rich old growth cathedrals.  As a child, this land welcomed her in that same embrace at all seasons of the three years she spent here. At that time, Konnie had never imagined she would be without the nourishment that oozed into her body, mind and soul from this ultra-lush rainforest.

The old morning rhythm stretches in front of her like a wise old cat and she warms her toes with massage, then mimics the stretch herself. She pulls on heavy socks then the clogs, stomping over to haul the long raincoat over her flannel nightgown, eyes opening bit by bit as she makes her way to the outhouse. On return she stops near the deck to haul an armload of years-dry firewood before kneeling in front of the cold iron stove.  Stir and layer the ash, wad and rip some paper, add a quasi-tent of kindling and a couple small logs, lay paper atop all. Check the draft and light the fire from the bottom, stay with the flame until it proves, close the door.  Carry drinking water, fill the kettle, place it on top of the stove, prep the coffee press.  Sit.  Gaze.

The walls still hold an odd collection of Grandma’s mis-matched oil paintings:  a large portrait of her black lab; a study of bordello windows with isolated girls glancing at the viewer; the Madonna in a cloak of scarlet, her miracle infant suckling a large bared breast; a framed collection of miniature pencil sketches--- some vegetables, a vase, a dandelion gone to seed.  She wonders if she’ll ever have the nerve to free these from the walls and enjoy the relief from the visual discord.

Seeking a more harmonious perspective, she turns her chair toward the deck windows and welcomes the dim light filtered by the tall firs and hemlocks growing from below the cabin.  The stellar jay hops from railing to roof, pecking at seeds in the warped cedar shakes.  The kettle boils, and when the coffee has brewed, she sits in Grandma’s overstuffed armchair, welcoming further awakening.

She feels perfectly at home in this big soft chair with its wide arms, though she’d never occupied it as a youngster. It was Grandma’s perch, no question, and she was too big for Grandma’s lap by then.  They’d done well together after Mom had dumped her here and disappeared, but that period of time was immediately bracketed in parentheses once Grandma sent her away to a boarding school, then various summer camps. She figured Grandma was paying for all these schools, so maybe she cared about her, but letters were rare and boring.  Distance begets distance, and Konnie had gradually learned to stop trying for the connection, realizing along the way that she had, without knowing why, become a complete entity as an individual, a whole family in her own right.

She refills her cup and muses long but lightly about the mystery of why the place became off-limits.  After becoming completely safe in such a warm and settled refuge, she’d been evicted without knowing it, then never invited to visit, let alone stay. Now it’s her place.

She opens the drawer in the reading table next to her newly claimed throne. An old fountain pen, no nib, a few pencils and pens.  Matches. Old letters. Two slices of dried apples. A small calendar from the hardware store. An address book.  Still in her nightgown, she gives herself a secret smile as she clogs out to her truck and brings an armload of empty boxes, along with the roll of Hefty lawn and garden bags.   The small drawer is emptied and brushed clean. From the lamp above, two dead bulbs removed and into the trash.  Picking up the chair cushion reveals another pen, a dime, a store receipt, popcorn kernels.  Swept clean.

At the dining table, the stained placemats, dusty silk flowers, unopened mail and a stained teacup are discarded. Sketchbooks, full and empty move as one pile into a box. The table is wiped clean. Cushions are removed from both chairs. She holds a box next to the windowsill here and runs her hand along it, while tree cones, stones and feathers magically descend and are transferred to the dark hole of her bag. She lowers the retractable lamp and discards that darkened bulb, dusting the brass and prompting the fixture to swoop back to its highest position.

The kitchen side of the room has more clutter but she’s adept by now and approaches just one cubby at a time. Curtains and rods are quickly removed from the window and both cupboards. A few plates, bowls, cups, glassware go into the boxes. All the food packages, gone. The small refrigerator practically empties itself, a few dairy products and vegetables nearly alive again. Linens, spice jars, noodles, pots, pans, spatulas and vinegar add to the wealth of the Hefty bag. At the sink, she tosses all the skimpy remains of every leftover bar of soap, every gray dishcloth, even the cleansers and drain plugs.  She pulls the entire trashcan out from under and christens the second Hefty bag.  Tupperware, empty bottles, flashlights, and a soup can filled with bacon grease follow.  She leaves the dead insects lying on the windowsill above the sink.

Moving to the wall where her sleeping bag covers layers of bedding wrapped around the mattress, she raises her bag in the air with one hand while peeling layers with the other, holding her breath, but eventually just holding her sleeping bag to her face to fend off the years of lint and dandruff spinning through the air.

Hauling the trash bags to the truck, she notices feeder trays rotting and sprouting with old birdseed, and adds these to the mix.  She leans against an old friend, its bark wider and thicker than she remembers, and takes in the freshest air she’s ever known.  Inspired, she plops down onto the mossy duff, rolls onto her back and stretches her limbs to their four directions, absorbing the clearing as a blue September skylight reveals an openness that goes straight to her heart.

When the blue sky fully reigns through the canopy of fir trees, she sighs deeply, rises gently and saunters to the deck, where she digs in again, hauling the Weber grill, the broken chairs and mildewed cushions.  Opening the deck slider, she’s glad she hadn’t stoked the fire. She warms to her work, dragging her armchair into the open air, wrestling the mattress across the room to share the air with the chair, and wielding her broom as she seeks clarity where the ceilings and floors meet the walls.  The remaining furniture joins the tight array on the deck. Now one could live her entire day there, from bed to reading chair, and a place to dine.

With her water jug still full, she retrieves a pillowcase and mops the windows and sink, then sloshes some onto the floor where her broomwork transforms the remaining dust to a thinly grained layer of silt.

She notices she hasn’t eaten, but this fact seems to nourish the process so she sips more water.  

Surveying the cabin, she notices appeal in the simplicity of the corners.  Will re-placing the freshly aired furniture complete the job?  She lugs each piece from the deck, but the dining table now lands near the deck slider, the bed at the open end of the kitchen wall, and the armchair --- well, there’s only one place for the armchair, only one place where body, mind and soul can scrutinize or simply accept each morning’s gift. It goes to the corner where the head of the bed had been.

On the dining table, she leaves a clean bowl, a spoon and her kettle. She packs the boxes, her sleeping bag and coffee press over to the truck, starts the engine and lets it idle.  From the wall in the cabin a dog’s brown eyes watch, hoping he can go along; the hookers nod approvingly at her detachment, and the Madonna nourishes her child while a nearby dandelion scatters its seed.

###