Читать книгу Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night - Barbara J. Taylor - Страница 7

TO REVIVE WITHERED FLOWERS

Fill a bowl with water so hot that you can scarcely bear your hand in it; throw a little salt in the water and put the flowers in immediately. The effect is wonderful. —Mrs. Joe’s Housekeeping Guide, 1909

Widows and spinsters. We’re the backbone of the church. Visit the shut-ins, polish the collection plates, wash and iron the baptismal robes. Wrap them in blue paper to keep them from yellowing.

Every Saturday morning we clean the sanctuary. Takes a good deal of water. And elbow grease. Start in the front and work our way back. No reason. Just habit.

Mix a spoonful of kerosene into your bucket. Adds a shine to the woodwork. Glass too, if you dry it with newspapers.

Cleaning’s more difficult after a funeral. The family takes the flowers graveside, but you can still smell them. Stronger when it’s a child. Don’t know why, but we’ve all said it. We’ll say it again soon enough. That’s how life is.

Buried the Morgan girl this past summer. Tragic. Only nine years old. The candle of Grace’s eye, as we Welsh say. And Owen’s, most likely, since Daisy was the first of their two children.

Reverend Halloway preached himself proud. Not easy under such circumstances. Seen better than him fall to pieces while performing a service for a youngster.

Owen too. A rock, if we ever saw one. Patience of a saint. Holding his wife on the right and that other daughter of his on the left. Job himself could not have done better.

Of course, strength like that can’t last forever.

Now, Grace, she’s another story. Just have to look at her to know. She’ll take the easy way out. Go batty, like her mother. Not that we can blame her. Who’s to say we’d manage any better? Hope we would, though.

And then there’s Violet. Lost her only sister—accident or not. Can’t hold a body accountable at eight years old. Probably didn’t do it out of meanness.

Makes us wonder is all.