blue-flowered apron, abalone shell earrings the size of saucers hung from her stretched lobes. She held her arms out and Lizette released herself into the warmth of Abaya’s embrace.
ELEVEN
IN THE MORNING , Lizette and Abaya went to the garden. Abaya bent over a raised bed, the dirt boxed in by rough logs, and plucked weeds, tender in this early season. She worked her knobby fingers along the rows of green radish leaves, pulled up a big one, knocked off the dirt, offered it to Lizette. “Easter egg,” she said and moved on with her weeding.
Lizette took the pink and white root, wiped it on her jacket, put it in her mouth and crunched, feeling the sweet, hot taste explode on her tongue.
“When will these be ready for market?”
“By Easter, if it warms up and don’t rain so much,” Abaya said, looking at the dark clouds rolling overhead. “Easter comes late this year, that’s better. Vegetables have more time to get big.” She pulled another radish, studied it. “They’re like painted eggs.” She laughed. “Good for kids. The colors mix them up. They think candy, but no.”
“Poland says you’re almost ready for the potlatch,” Lizette said, watching her weed.
“Not yet. The store house’s filled up, but there’s still a lot to do.”
“How many people are coming?”
“Hard to say.” Abaya stood and stretched her back. “At first only a few people said they’d come. That was a couple of years ago, when Poland first put the word out. Now, I don’t know. The tribal office in Bellingham tells me hundreds. Maybe some people will come by canoe from Queen Charlotte Islands in B.C. And, I hear some cousins in Alaska might show up.”
“Wow.” Lizette looked around at the garden and small cottage. “Where’re you going to put them? They can’t all stay here.”
“No, not here. Our pasture goes down to the water in the back. If you follow around the shore you come to the state park. There’s camping there. I already talked to the park people. They’re going to set aside space. Poland’s getting those outhouses they move around.”
“Porta Johnnies?”
Abaya shrugged. “He had to get a permit from the county. Made a road around the meadow for the truck to deliver ’em. See, over there.” She waved her arm in the direction of the open, grassy field. “He made a big fire ring there and he’s building a sweat lodge, too.”
At the end of the garden, Lizette saw the berry trellises and walked to them, lifted the leaves with the back of her hand, careful of the thorns, looked to see if any raspberries were ripe, but knew it was too early. The vines were blooming and, even in the chill, a few bees darted in and out collecting pollen.
“Let’s go see the storehouse,” Abaya said, an edge of excitement in her voice. She walked out of the garden, closed the gate behind them. The white barn beyond the house had once been used to milk cows. Sliding the door back, they entered the darkness. When Lizette’s eyes adjusted, she saw hundreds of cardboard boxes stacked in all the milking stalls, more along the back wall and in the hayloft.
“Amazing!” Lizette spun around in the old dairy barn, taking in all the corners. “What’s in all these boxes?”
“Blankets, baskets, medicine bags, straw dolls for children, flutes, drums, spirit charms.”
“Poland said you have lavender.”
“Yeah.” Abaya drew her lips into a pucker and smiled modestly around the edges. “You bet. Lots. For the ladies. The boxes have little flowers on top and purple ribbons. Inside is soap and cream. Pretty. My cousin’s daughter is getting married while everyone is here. They’re going to spend the wedding night over at the Moran Hotel. I’m giving the bridesmaids the lavender boxes, and some other special ladies. The minister’s coming from Bellingham.”
“What’s in the tool room?”
“Tools,” she said, rolling her eyes. “What else you’d expect? Gold? My old husband still needs to
ELEVEN
IN THE MORNING , Lizette and Abaya went to the garden. Abaya bent over a raised bed, the dirt boxed in by rough logs, and plucked weeds, tender in this early season. She worked her knobby fingers along the rows of green radish leaves, pulled up a big one, knocked off the dirt, offered it to Lizette. “Easter egg,” she said and moved on with her weeding.
Lizette took the pink and white root, wiped it on her jacket, put it in her mouth and crunched, feeling the sweet, hot taste explode on her tongue.
“When will these be ready for market?”
“By Easter, if it warms up and don’t rain so much,” Abaya said, looking at the dark clouds rolling overhead. “Easter comes late this year, that’s better. Vegetables have more time to get big.” She pulled another radish, studied it. “They’re like painted eggs.” She laughed. “Good for kids. The colors mix them up. They think candy, but no.”
“Poland says you’re almost ready for the potlatch,” Lizette said, watching her weed.
“Not yet. The store house’s filled up, but there’s still a lot to do.”
“How many people are coming?”
“Hard to say.” Abaya stood and stretched her back. “At first only a few people said they’d come. That was a couple of years ago, when Poland first put the word out. Now, I don’t know. The tribal office in Bellingham tells me hundreds. Maybe some people will come by canoe from Queen Charlotte Islands in B.C. And, I hear some cousins in Alaska might show up.”
“Wow.” Lizette looked around at the garden and small cottage. “Where’re you going to put them? They can’t all stay here.”
“No, not here. Our pasture goes down to the water in the back. If you follow around the shore you come to the state park. There’s camping there. I already talked to the park people. They’re going to set aside space. Poland’s getting those outhouses they move around.”
“Porta Johnnies?”
Abaya shrugged. “He had to get a permit from the county. Made a road around the meadow for the truck to deliver ’em. See, over there.” She waved her arm in the direction of the open, grassy field. “He made a big fire ring there and he’s building a sweat lodge, too.”
At the end of the garden, Lizette saw the berry trellises and walked to them, lifted the leaves with the back of her hand, careful of the thorns, looked to see if any raspberries were ripe, but knew it was too early. The vines were blooming and, even in the chill, a few bees darted in and out collecting pollen.
“Let’s go see the storehouse,” Abaya said, an edge of excitement in her voice. She walked out of the garden, closed the gate behind them. The white barn beyond the house had once been used to milk cows. Sliding the door back, they entered the darkness. When Lizette’s eyes adjusted, she saw hundreds of cardboard boxes stacked in all the milking stalls, more along the back wall and in the hayloft.
“Amazing!” Lizette spun around in the old dairy barn, taking in all the corners. “What’s in all these boxes?”
“Blankets, baskets, medicine bags, straw dolls for children, flutes, drums, spirit charms.”
“Poland said you have lavender.”
“Yeah.” Abaya drew her lips into a pucker and smiled modestly around the edges. “You bet. Lots. For the ladies. The boxes have little flowers on top and purple ribbons. Inside is soap and cream. Pretty. My cousin’s daughter is getting married while everyone is here. They’re going to spend the wedding night over at the Moran Hotel. I’m giving the bridesmaids the lavender boxes, and some other special ladies. The minister’s coming from Bellingham.”
“What’s in the tool room?”
“Tools,” she said, rolling her eyes. “What else you’d expect? Gold? My old husband still needs to
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