probably do that all day long, take a few showers of towels to wash. It seems that he would just give up on growing some gigantic vegetable and be satisfied that he grows enough every summer that they eat fresh vegetables all winter.
She can keep herself busy with full retirement, but sometimes she wishes that Ben had never decided on going semiretired and would just keep on going down to the garage every day. He might as well the way that he calls those men on the phone ten times a day, wanting to know every car that’s come in and what was wrong with it and where was it going. He spends his whole day talking on the phone and walking around in the garden. It wouldn’t surprise her if she looked out there and saw him dressed like an Indian and doing a rain dance. “When is it going to rain?” he has asked every night for the past three weeks, waiting for her response like she might know.
No way could she get him to go on a vacation right now, not during this dry spell. They used to always go to the beach in the summer when the children were growing up. They’d rent a big ocean-front house with Madge and Raymond for a week and she and Madge would just sit on the beach, have a drink if they wanted, and watch the children splash around and play. She could always trust Robert to stand there at the edge of the ocean and keep a watch on Ginny Sue and Madge’s Catherine and Cindy. He’d stand there at the edge of that ocean with his hands on his hips like a miniature lifeguard and say things like, “Out too far, Ginny,” or “Close your mouth when you go under.” Hannah will never forgetthat, Robert’s high steady voice like a mimic of a grown man. It made her think of all those times Lena and Roy took David and her down to the Saxapaw River. Hannah was like Robert, standing on the shore and watching over her baby brother while he splashed and went out too far.
Things seemed so easy on those vacations to the beach. She and Madge would drive, just the two of them, up to the shopping center and try on shoes and hats and sunglasses like they might have been teenagers. She misses those times, times when she could dial home and her father would answer. He’d tell Hannah not to worry, to have fun, that her mother was out working in the garden, that they were baking a hen for dinner, might walk down the street to the store once it got cool.
Hannah would like to go right now and pull a yard chair under the shade of that dogwood tree that she named after Aunt Tessy and just sit until the cows come home. The tree shades a large part of the yard now and it seems like no time at all that she got out there and planted it, digging so carefully, every spade of dirt. It was planted on the day that Tessy died, but Hannah had waited months before telling anyone the story, the way that Tessy had awakened in the hospital that day, taken hold of Hannah’s arm and said, “I hope that dogwood will live.” Tessy said that and then fell back into a deep sleep that never ended. It sent chills through Hannah, then, and the whole ride home in that old station wagon where she had her dogwood waiting, the burlap tucked around its roots. No one, not even Ben, knew that she was going to buy a dogwood tree that day. She didn’t even know it herself. Even now it gives her gooseflesh, and yet a good feeling, the hope that Tessy knows even now about that tree, can see how big it is, knows what a fine seamstress Hannah has been all these years. Tessy is the one that got her started sewing all those years ago. Tessy and Hannah’s mama, Emily, would sit for hours sewing or quilting and those are some of the best memories of her childhood. She loved sitting in front of the window fan in that high-ceilinged room, where the conversation might lapse into quiet for a bit, but their hands never stopped, shiny silvery needles and brightly colored threads constantly moving.
But that’s all water under the bridge and too much to think about when she’s got
She can keep herself busy with full retirement, but sometimes she wishes that Ben had never decided on going semiretired and would just keep on going down to the garage every day. He might as well the way that he calls those men on the phone ten times a day, wanting to know every car that’s come in and what was wrong with it and where was it going. He spends his whole day talking on the phone and walking around in the garden. It wouldn’t surprise her if she looked out there and saw him dressed like an Indian and doing a rain dance. “When is it going to rain?” he has asked every night for the past three weeks, waiting for her response like she might know.
No way could she get him to go on a vacation right now, not during this dry spell. They used to always go to the beach in the summer when the children were growing up. They’d rent a big ocean-front house with Madge and Raymond for a week and she and Madge would just sit on the beach, have a drink if they wanted, and watch the children splash around and play. She could always trust Robert to stand there at the edge of the ocean and keep a watch on Ginny Sue and Madge’s Catherine and Cindy. He’d stand there at the edge of that ocean with his hands on his hips like a miniature lifeguard and say things like, “Out too far, Ginny,” or “Close your mouth when you go under.” Hannah will never forgetthat, Robert’s high steady voice like a mimic of a grown man. It made her think of all those times Lena and Roy took David and her down to the Saxapaw River. Hannah was like Robert, standing on the shore and watching over her baby brother while he splashed and went out too far.
Things seemed so easy on those vacations to the beach. She and Madge would drive, just the two of them, up to the shopping center and try on shoes and hats and sunglasses like they might have been teenagers. She misses those times, times when she could dial home and her father would answer. He’d tell Hannah not to worry, to have fun, that her mother was out working in the garden, that they were baking a hen for dinner, might walk down the street to the store once it got cool.
Hannah would like to go right now and pull a yard chair under the shade of that dogwood tree that she named after Aunt Tessy and just sit until the cows come home. The tree shades a large part of the yard now and it seems like no time at all that she got out there and planted it, digging so carefully, every spade of dirt. It was planted on the day that Tessy died, but Hannah had waited months before telling anyone the story, the way that Tessy had awakened in the hospital that day, taken hold of Hannah’s arm and said, “I hope that dogwood will live.” Tessy said that and then fell back into a deep sleep that never ended. It sent chills through Hannah, then, and the whole ride home in that old station wagon where she had her dogwood waiting, the burlap tucked around its roots. No one, not even Ben, knew that she was going to buy a dogwood tree that day. She didn’t even know it herself. Even now it gives her gooseflesh, and yet a good feeling, the hope that Tessy knows even now about that tree, can see how big it is, knows what a fine seamstress Hannah has been all these years. Tessy is the one that got her started sewing all those years ago. Tessy and Hannah’s mama, Emily, would sit for hours sewing or quilting and those are some of the best memories of her childhood. She loved sitting in front of the window fan in that high-ceilinged room, where the conversation might lapse into quiet for a bit, but their hands never stopped, shiny silvery needles and brightly colored threads constantly moving.
But that’s all water under the bridge and too much to think about when she’s got
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