I’m gonna open my big mouth and ask. Do y’all want me to maybe dress up some chickens and send ’em over to the Smiths ’long with the eggs?”
He nodded.
Hope started oatmeal, then set to filling the next set of freshly boiled jars. She felt unaccountably flustered. It’s my fault he’s up so early; he doesn’t have to get to chores yet. “Ain’t put up any corn yet. That sweet corn is nigh unto ready. Coupla the Yankee farmers up north like succotash. Are you wanting me to put some up, or do you like your corn and butterbeans kept apart?”
“Apart.” He hitched his shoulder as if to dismiss something. “Annie and Emmy-Lou—they don’t like butterbeans. Miriam planted the butterbeans. Don’t bother with them. I’ll take them to town.”
Hope tilted her head to the side. “What ’bout you? You like ’em?”
“Yes, but it’s a waste of time to prepare something for just one person.”
“Don’t know as I agree. Just goin’ along with that for a moment—does Phineas like butterbeans?”
“Don’t know. He always eats whatever’s on the table.”
Hope shot him a saucy smile. “I’ll be shore not to leave any laundry or mending on there.”
Jakob opened the glass door on the front of the clock and wound it. The tightly sprung, metallic zzzt-zzzt-zzzt filled the kitchen. Carefully closing the door again, he made sure the clock still hung straight. While nudging it ever so slightly to one side, he commented, “Speaking of laundry—other women do it all on Monday. Ironing on Tuesday.”
“True enough. Been known to do that myself sometimes.”
“Then why—” His voice skidded to a halt. His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Because of Annie.”
“Don’t you go blamin’ her,” Hope whispered. “ ’Twas my idea.”
He glanced at the stairway, then leaned forward and spoke in a deep whisper, “It’s more work for you to spread it out. You have to fill the kettle and boil it each time you do laundry.”
“Only on the day when we do britches and such. The rest of the time, it’s been easy enough to use the kettle to boil up jars and heat seal them. Then I shave in a tad of lye soap and wash up a few things. Annie rinses them out and hangs ’em on the line. Your sis—she loves the feel of a breeze wafting through the damp clothes. The heat gets to her, and that’s an easy way for me to cool her down a mite.”
What’s gotten into me? she thought as a small laugh bubbled out of her when she saw his brows rise. “That didn’t come out quite right. Sounds like I’m comparin’ her to a horse, but I’m not.” Hope turned back to the stove.
Mr. Stauffer didn’t say another word. Even if that one stair step didn’t creak, she would have known he left. Odd, how the room felt different when he was in it. Smaller. She plunged a jar into the hot water. Fanciful thinking. The steam must be gettin’ to my brain, twistin’ it like the pieces of a bentwood rocker.
She had enough Crowder peas for only four more jars. With those done and oatmeal going, Hope scooped her boots from the floor and took them outside. As a rooster warmed up and the sun started to sneak a peep at the day, the screen door opened. She didn’t cast a look over her shoulder but yanked the laces tight on her right boot. “Gonna be a scorcher today.”
“While I’m in town, we’ll decide on when to harvest. My fields are usually the first. Smiths’ next, then Richardsons’. At church on Sunday, we talked about starting on Friday.”
“I heard that.” She grinned at him. “Heard y’all got two reapers. That’s right smart. Hot as it gets here, you wanna cut the wheat before it scorches.”
He cleared his throat. “Hot as it’s gotten, I’d rather start the harvest tomorrow. I don’t know that we’ll get everything done here in two days. Some places say the ox is in the ditch and harvest on Sundays, but we don’t do that in Gooding.”
“Ain’t for me to tell a man what to do on his land
He nodded.
Hope started oatmeal, then set to filling the next set of freshly boiled jars. She felt unaccountably flustered. It’s my fault he’s up so early; he doesn’t have to get to chores yet. “Ain’t put up any corn yet. That sweet corn is nigh unto ready. Coupla the Yankee farmers up north like succotash. Are you wanting me to put some up, or do you like your corn and butterbeans kept apart?”
“Apart.” He hitched his shoulder as if to dismiss something. “Annie and Emmy-Lou—they don’t like butterbeans. Miriam planted the butterbeans. Don’t bother with them. I’ll take them to town.”
Hope tilted her head to the side. “What ’bout you? You like ’em?”
“Yes, but it’s a waste of time to prepare something for just one person.”
“Don’t know as I agree. Just goin’ along with that for a moment—does Phineas like butterbeans?”
“Don’t know. He always eats whatever’s on the table.”
Hope shot him a saucy smile. “I’ll be shore not to leave any laundry or mending on there.”
Jakob opened the glass door on the front of the clock and wound it. The tightly sprung, metallic zzzt-zzzt-zzzt filled the kitchen. Carefully closing the door again, he made sure the clock still hung straight. While nudging it ever so slightly to one side, he commented, “Speaking of laundry—other women do it all on Monday. Ironing on Tuesday.”
“True enough. Been known to do that myself sometimes.”
“Then why—” His voice skidded to a halt. His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Because of Annie.”
“Don’t you go blamin’ her,” Hope whispered. “ ’Twas my idea.”
He glanced at the stairway, then leaned forward and spoke in a deep whisper, “It’s more work for you to spread it out. You have to fill the kettle and boil it each time you do laundry.”
“Only on the day when we do britches and such. The rest of the time, it’s been easy enough to use the kettle to boil up jars and heat seal them. Then I shave in a tad of lye soap and wash up a few things. Annie rinses them out and hangs ’em on the line. Your sis—she loves the feel of a breeze wafting through the damp clothes. The heat gets to her, and that’s an easy way for me to cool her down a mite.”
What’s gotten into me? she thought as a small laugh bubbled out of her when she saw his brows rise. “That didn’t come out quite right. Sounds like I’m comparin’ her to a horse, but I’m not.” Hope turned back to the stove.
Mr. Stauffer didn’t say another word. Even if that one stair step didn’t creak, she would have known he left. Odd, how the room felt different when he was in it. Smaller. She plunged a jar into the hot water. Fanciful thinking. The steam must be gettin’ to my brain, twistin’ it like the pieces of a bentwood rocker.
She had enough Crowder peas for only four more jars. With those done and oatmeal going, Hope scooped her boots from the floor and took them outside. As a rooster warmed up and the sun started to sneak a peep at the day, the screen door opened. She didn’t cast a look over her shoulder but yanked the laces tight on her right boot. “Gonna be a scorcher today.”
“While I’m in town, we’ll decide on when to harvest. My fields are usually the first. Smiths’ next, then Richardsons’. At church on Sunday, we talked about starting on Friday.”
“I heard that.” She grinned at him. “Heard y’all got two reapers. That’s right smart. Hot as it gets here, you wanna cut the wheat before it scorches.”
He cleared his throat. “Hot as it’s gotten, I’d rather start the harvest tomorrow. I don’t know that we’ll get everything done here in two days. Some places say the ox is in the ditch and harvest on Sundays, but we don’t do that in Gooding.”
“Ain’t for me to tell a man what to do on his land
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