box.
“I don’t believe it,” she said aloud, as she slid the box out and lifted it onto the bed.
She pulled off the lid and grinned, her fingers automatically walking through the stack of old rock and roll record albums Ry had spent years collecting. Chuck Berry. Little Richard. Elvis. The Temptations. The Four Tops. Little Stevie Wonder. Diana Ross and the Supremes. Indy’s personal favorite, the Shirelles. The Stones. Cream. Traffic. Ry had damn near every album that had been released in the sixties and seventies. Somewhere, there would be his old record player. Maybe before she left, she would find it and play a few of the albums. The thought made her smile.
“Ry, can I borrow some of your records?”
“Don’t you have a lot of these on cassette?” he would ask, knowing full well that she did.
“Yes, but it’s not the same,” she would plead, and he would give in with a smile, knowing she was right, that it wasn’t the same.
“Just don’t scratch them, okay?” he’d remind her as he handed over whichever she had her heart set on listening to that night.
“I won’t, Ry,” she whispered to the night breeze. “I promise.”
Aunt August’s New England Clam Chowder
½ pound bacon, cut into small pieces
2 medium onions, chopped
2 stalks celery, finely chopped
2 8-oz bottles of clam juice
1½ A cups water
2-3 pounds of potatoes, peeled and chopped
3 6½-oz cans chopped clams
1/4 teaspoon thyme
2 cups heavy cream (light cream or half and half may be substituted)
salt to taste
freshly ground pepper to taste
2 tablespoons softened butter
1/2 cup parsley, chopped
Over medium heat, sauté bacon in large Dutch oven until light brown. Drain off fat, leaving just enough to saute the onions and celery. Add onion and celery to bacon, saute until onions are soft (about 5 minutes). Add clam juice, water and potatoes. Bring to a boil. Simmer over low heat until the potatoes are tender (20-25 minutes). Add clams, stir in thyme and continue to simmer. Heat the cream separately, almost to the boiling point, then pour it slowly into the clam mixture. Add the salt and pepper and stir in butter. Sprinkle with parsley before serving.
Serves six.
Chapter 7
“Miss Devlin?” The pert, dark-haired young woman stuck her head into the hallway from the noisy classroom. “I’m Marilyn Millet, Corri’s teacher. If you have just a minute to chat, I’ll get the children started, then we can talk for a few…”
India watched through the open door as Miss Millet organized the class of some twenty six-year-olds into early morning independent activities and returned in a flash.
“I was hoping to meet you.” The young woman smiled as she returned, stationing herself in the doorway to keep one eye on the class while seemingly giving India her undivided attention. “Corri talks about you all the time. I have, of course, met your aunt—she’s a lovely woman, we all adore her, including the children—but I think it’s clear that Corri is beginning to see you as her ‘parent’ figure.”
“Corri has had a very difficult two years, Miss Millet.”
“So I understand. First her mother, now her stepfather.” The teacher shook her head slowly. “It’s more loss than many adults could reasonably cope with. And Corri is so young.”
“Is she doing well in class?”
“Scholastically? She’s a wonderful student. She’s bright, curious, spontaneous.” She smiled and added, “Sometimesmaybe a bit too spontaneous. I have to remind her to watch her chattering, but all in all, she’s an asset to the class. Personally, I love her dearly. She’s a darling child. And she is coping well, under the circumstances.”
“But…” India sensed there was something more the teacher wanted to say.
“But I think she is developing little habits that I think are indicative of anxiety.”
“Such as?” India frowned.
“Biting her nails, going off on her own sometimes for no apparent reason—Excuse me, Miss
“I don’t believe it,” she said aloud, as she slid the box out and lifted it onto the bed.
She pulled off the lid and grinned, her fingers automatically walking through the stack of old rock and roll record albums Ry had spent years collecting. Chuck Berry. Little Richard. Elvis. The Temptations. The Four Tops. Little Stevie Wonder. Diana Ross and the Supremes. Indy’s personal favorite, the Shirelles. The Stones. Cream. Traffic. Ry had damn near every album that had been released in the sixties and seventies. Somewhere, there would be his old record player. Maybe before she left, she would find it and play a few of the albums. The thought made her smile.
“Ry, can I borrow some of your records?”
“Don’t you have a lot of these on cassette?” he would ask, knowing full well that she did.
“Yes, but it’s not the same,” she would plead, and he would give in with a smile, knowing she was right, that it wasn’t the same.
“Just don’t scratch them, okay?” he’d remind her as he handed over whichever she had her heart set on listening to that night.
“I won’t, Ry,” she whispered to the night breeze. “I promise.”
Aunt August’s New England Clam Chowder
½ pound bacon, cut into small pieces
2 medium onions, chopped
2 stalks celery, finely chopped
2 8-oz bottles of clam juice
1½ A cups water
2-3 pounds of potatoes, peeled and chopped
3 6½-oz cans chopped clams
1/4 teaspoon thyme
2 cups heavy cream (light cream or half and half may be substituted)
salt to taste
freshly ground pepper to taste
2 tablespoons softened butter
1/2 cup parsley, chopped
Over medium heat, sauté bacon in large Dutch oven until light brown. Drain off fat, leaving just enough to saute the onions and celery. Add onion and celery to bacon, saute until onions are soft (about 5 minutes). Add clam juice, water and potatoes. Bring to a boil. Simmer over low heat until the potatoes are tender (20-25 minutes). Add clams, stir in thyme and continue to simmer. Heat the cream separately, almost to the boiling point, then pour it slowly into the clam mixture. Add the salt and pepper and stir in butter. Sprinkle with parsley before serving.
Serves six.
Chapter 7
“Miss Devlin?” The pert, dark-haired young woman stuck her head into the hallway from the noisy classroom. “I’m Marilyn Millet, Corri’s teacher. If you have just a minute to chat, I’ll get the children started, then we can talk for a few…”
India watched through the open door as Miss Millet organized the class of some twenty six-year-olds into early morning independent activities and returned in a flash.
“I was hoping to meet you.” The young woman smiled as she returned, stationing herself in the doorway to keep one eye on the class while seemingly giving India her undivided attention. “Corri talks about you all the time. I have, of course, met your aunt—she’s a lovely woman, we all adore her, including the children—but I think it’s clear that Corri is beginning to see you as her ‘parent’ figure.”
“Corri has had a very difficult two years, Miss Millet.”
“So I understand. First her mother, now her stepfather.” The teacher shook her head slowly. “It’s more loss than many adults could reasonably cope with. And Corri is so young.”
“Is she doing well in class?”
“Scholastically? She’s a wonderful student. She’s bright, curious, spontaneous.” She smiled and added, “Sometimesmaybe a bit too spontaneous. I have to remind her to watch her chattering, but all in all, she’s an asset to the class. Personally, I love her dearly. She’s a darling child. And she is coping well, under the circumstances.”
“But…” India sensed there was something more the teacher wanted to say.
“But I think she is developing little habits that I think are indicative of anxiety.”
“Such as?” India frowned.
“Biting her nails, going off on her own sometimes for no apparent reason—Excuse me, Miss
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