to with
parts of various other dwellings: an icehouse, an engine-less
school bus, part of a permanently beached tugboat. She could often
be heard singing old Polish folk songs when the windows were open
during the brief Minnesotan summers, ribald and raunchy things,
although she never whistled in the house for this caused one’s
money to fly out the window.
She had furnished her house
simply, for her first love was the outdoors. The walls had few
photographs spare a couple of pictures of the countryside in West
Pomerania. The sofa bed was well worn and the nightstand was fully
stocked cupboard of knitwear and other knickknacks that she had
lovingly hand crafted.
Gosha found knitting
pleasing for it took her mind off the long hard winters and the
true and existential boredom that they posed. The one thing she did
miss was Polish food; she often had to improvise and bemoaned the
fact that she missed her native dishes to the locals of
Brannaska.
“ Why oh why does the
grocery store not stock Kielbasa? I miss my Polish sausage,” She
would often be heard as she wandered the meat section much to the
bemusement of the butchers.
The butchers, of course,
stocked all manner of bratwurst and other German sausages. However,
she’d have soon starved than eaten the meat of the enemy
nation.
All of these quirks were
forgivable. A bit harder to deal with was her busybody temperament
and meddlesome nature. Her pastimes peering through Julianna’s bay
windows and listening in on the local phone lines, for Brannaska
was still such a small town that the whole place functioned on one
group line. Her gossip was innocent and mild-mannered, but it was
also irritating enough for some of the locals to pretend they
hadn’t seen her as she went about her day.
“ There goes Gosha. By
Golly, you had better avoid that woman if you want your reputation
intact,” and similar such words were often exchanged amongst the
locals while they ate breakfast at Bjorn’s and bought earthworms,
leeches, minnows, and other fish bait at Ed’s Bait Emporium and
Lure Menagerie.
Julianna liked the woman;
she seemed to live a purpose driven life. Gosha shoveled her own
walk and driveway, she chopped her own firewood, she was a master
of tools both modern and improvised, and Julianna often saw flashes
of torchlight coming from her garage workshop and wondered what she
was welding in there.
But she never had the
courage to ask.
Chapter Twelve: Bless
this Feast and Let us Eat Like Beasts.
Every little town has a
cultural institution that it could not live without.
There was a quiet small
café in the flatland community of Brannaska called Bjorn’s that was
just such an institution. It came alive each and every morning at
5:15am.
That is, it is alive that
early if all of the farm work is temporarily done, or if the wife
has no pressing jobs for the man of the house to do. Brannaska was
surrounded by farms of various sizes, some prosperous and others
not so much; these farmers needed to break away from the solitude
of the work and the winters, so they gathered around the long,
white, and coffee-stained counter of the café.
“ A person can do no better
than five cent cup of Joe and arguing about differences between
fertilizer brands, politics, government regulations for farmers,
and the ridiculous conservation plans that the President has just
proposed,” Bjorn would tell newcomers (not that they got many),
“whatever regulations that might be and whichever president might
be in office!”
He’d put a big,
hand-painted sign behind the cash register that read “No Gambeling”
and he was stout and steadfast in his refusal to change the
misspelling.
“ The whole sign is a joke
anyway,” he’d say. He’d put it up because some of the guys liked to
‘shake’ to see who has to pay. Ty Olsen, Bjorn’s most enthusiastic
and regular customer, always had a pair of dice in the front pocket
of his flannel shirt. Low roll paid. While he found it
parts of various other dwellings: an icehouse, an engine-less
school bus, part of a permanently beached tugboat. She could often
be heard singing old Polish folk songs when the windows were open
during the brief Minnesotan summers, ribald and raunchy things,
although she never whistled in the house for this caused one’s
money to fly out the window.
She had furnished her house
simply, for her first love was the outdoors. The walls had few
photographs spare a couple of pictures of the countryside in West
Pomerania. The sofa bed was well worn and the nightstand was fully
stocked cupboard of knitwear and other knickknacks that she had
lovingly hand crafted.
Gosha found knitting
pleasing for it took her mind off the long hard winters and the
true and existential boredom that they posed. The one thing she did
miss was Polish food; she often had to improvise and bemoaned the
fact that she missed her native dishes to the locals of
Brannaska.
“ Why oh why does the
grocery store not stock Kielbasa? I miss my Polish sausage,” She
would often be heard as she wandered the meat section much to the
bemusement of the butchers.
The butchers, of course,
stocked all manner of bratwurst and other German sausages. However,
she’d have soon starved than eaten the meat of the enemy
nation.
All of these quirks were
forgivable. A bit harder to deal with was her busybody temperament
and meddlesome nature. Her pastimes peering through Julianna’s bay
windows and listening in on the local phone lines, for Brannaska
was still such a small town that the whole place functioned on one
group line. Her gossip was innocent and mild-mannered, but it was
also irritating enough for some of the locals to pretend they
hadn’t seen her as she went about her day.
“ There goes Gosha. By
Golly, you had better avoid that woman if you want your reputation
intact,” and similar such words were often exchanged amongst the
locals while they ate breakfast at Bjorn’s and bought earthworms,
leeches, minnows, and other fish bait at Ed’s Bait Emporium and
Lure Menagerie.
Julianna liked the woman;
she seemed to live a purpose driven life. Gosha shoveled her own
walk and driveway, she chopped her own firewood, she was a master
of tools both modern and improvised, and Julianna often saw flashes
of torchlight coming from her garage workshop and wondered what she
was welding in there.
But she never had the
courage to ask.
Chapter Twelve: Bless
this Feast and Let us Eat Like Beasts.
Every little town has a
cultural institution that it could not live without.
There was a quiet small
café in the flatland community of Brannaska called Bjorn’s that was
just such an institution. It came alive each and every morning at
5:15am.
That is, it is alive that
early if all of the farm work is temporarily done, or if the wife
has no pressing jobs for the man of the house to do. Brannaska was
surrounded by farms of various sizes, some prosperous and others
not so much; these farmers needed to break away from the solitude
of the work and the winters, so they gathered around the long,
white, and coffee-stained counter of the café.
“ A person can do no better
than five cent cup of Joe and arguing about differences between
fertilizer brands, politics, government regulations for farmers,
and the ridiculous conservation plans that the President has just
proposed,” Bjorn would tell newcomers (not that they got many),
“whatever regulations that might be and whichever president might
be in office!”
He’d put a big,
hand-painted sign behind the cash register that read “No Gambeling”
and he was stout and steadfast in his refusal to change the
misspelling.
“ The whole sign is a joke
anyway,” he’d say. He’d put it up because some of the guys liked to
‘shake’ to see who has to pay. Ty Olsen, Bjorn’s most enthusiastic
and regular customer, always had a pair of dice in the front pocket
of his flannel shirt. Low roll paid. While he found it
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