Breaking Free

My fingers trailed delicately along the hills and valleys of the tiny bottles packed tightly on the goldenrod-tinted shelves as I skipped into my grandmother’s kitchen. “Ooops! Sorry, Mama Willow!” I skidded to a stop.

My grandmother was bent over at the waist, moving her wide-spread fingers horizontally, testing the temperature inside the wood-burning stove.

I could see the fire burning brightly in the left-hand recess. I inhaled sharply when a flame reached to the right to lick her fingers. “Perfect,” she declared.

I watched as she placed a pie on the middle rack, a pie that I knew with certainty would be berry-juice-bubbling, summer-tasting, golden goodness to be shared around the table after a delicious dinner tonight, along with many much-loved, much-retold family stories.

“Aren’t you hurt?” I asked in amazement. She stood upright and closed the oven door. She showed me her fingers, turning her hand this way and that. I peered closely: not one single burn marked her hand. Not one. Her wrinkled face crinkled up in smiles. I hugged her, glad she was okay.

“Oh, Mama Willow! I almost forgot! May I go look for stuff in the barn? I want to make something.”

“It’s awfully hot right now, Addison. Even hotter in the barn. Don’t stay too long, all right?” Her hand rested on my shoulder lightly but conveyed so much love.

I shook my head rapidly. “I won’t!” I turned and skipped the other way past the dining table, through the anteroom where the pump organ resided (how I loved the vox humana sound!) and out through the screen door. I stopped at the well to get a dipper full of cool water from the depths, the rounded edge of the dipper a familiar feel against my lips. I loved our summer vacations here.

The grey-weathered barn shimmered in the afternoon heat. The hay loft was full of sweet sharp shafts. Chaff drifted through the stripes of that floor to fall in a lazy haze. Tied tobacco bunches hung like bats from the rafters above me, their aroma blending with the smoky scent of cured hams and the tang of metal farm tools. I flicked the switch. Faint light from the lone bare bulb mounted on the center rafter tried to illuminate the dim interior.

I held my bangs back, thinking out loud, “What do I want to make?” I walked counterclockwise, perusing the assortment. Wire, rope, twine … straw, corn husks, some wood … Hmm. Nothing seems to call to me. I’ll keep looking.

Looking.

Bah. Looking some more.

“Addison!”

“Right here!” I had worked my way completely around to the front and was on my knees in buttery-colored dust, digging around in one of the many wooden crates.

Both my mom and my grandmother stood at the huge double door entrance in a frame of hot sunlight.

Mom smiled at me. “I’m glad you’re having fun! Just be careful, okay? And dinner is in a couple of hours, so leave enough time to wash up.”

I nodded with a grin and watched my mom turn, walk back across the driveway of peach-colored stones, duck under the huge spreading mimosa tree, and wave to us before heading into my grandmother’s house.

“I love this place,” I said fiercely.

“I know you do, Addison,” Mama Willow replied. “You’re the only one of my grandkids who loves the old ways.”

I set the wooden lid back on the crate, patted it into place, then scooted over to the next one.

“What are you looking for, hon?”

“I don’t know, but I will know when I find it.”

She came near and patted my shoulder. “I’m so glad you have the Sight.”

I smiled at her, but as she walked away, I shook my head. I didn’t have the Sight, for sure - but I wasn’t going to burst her bubble.

I scratched the top of my head thoughtfully. It’s here somewhere, whatever it is. I will find it!

Some smaller crates rested against the wall near the door to the small back room. I frowned. They looked promising, and I was suddenly pretty sure I would find in them whatever materials I wanted.

The door stood open to the darkness inside, as it always did. For some reason, my grandmother refused to shut it. I bit both lips between my teeth at the same time - then shrugged. It’s only darkness.

But that stark blackness beyond that rectangular portal unnerved me, so I hesitated, considering giving up.

I shook my head in determination, stood, swiped the dust from my knees and brushed my hands off on my shorts. I walked carefully down the middle corridor between Papa Quinn’s old truck and Mama Willow’s newer car. I ducked beneath scythes and rakes hanging from the rafters and skirted tools leaning against the vehicles. One of the tools had fallen over, so I righted it and leaned it back in place. I paused with my hand still on it. I didn’t knock it over … huh.

I knelt near the open doorway in the faint edges of illumination that didn’t even begin to touch the blackness. I pulled off the top of a random crate and squealed happily. Patterned cotton feed sacks lay neatly folded inside plastic, brown paper, and newspaper.

I now knew exactly what I wanted to make: a rag doll dressed in pioneer clothes with long curly brown hair. Surely there was a pair of socks in the house that I could use for the doll body!

I dragged a tarp over, spread it out to protect the feed sack cloth from the dust, then plopped down and for at least an hour, contentedly laid out sample after sample comparing colors and patterns. I did my best to ignore the odd feeling between my shoulder blades, and I did not look into the darkness.

This white cloth, with the small pattern of purple flowers, I finally decided. And this bit of pale lemon yellow, for an apron. I scrunched the fabric I had chosen for the bonnet between my fingers, checking to see if the cinnamon-colored cross stitch pattern would line up … and something was there, in the darkness.

I sensed a subtle longing. I reluctantly peered into the dark; Papa Quinn and Mama Willow had never installed a light back here. They always used a lantern when they needed to look for something.

Could I see anything? Did I see anything? I am still not sure, even to this day. Maybe? It’s hard to explain. Someone was there; of that, I am positive. Someone wanted this, what I held in my hands. No … what I would hold in my hands.

I carefully replaced what feed sacks I did not want to use into their parcels, packed the parcels back in the crate and slid the wooden top back into place. The timeworn rounded top was so smooth. I ran my fingers over the soft edges, thinking.

Finally, I grabbed the pieces I had selected and scrambled to my feet. I blurted out, “I’llbebacksoon!” and escaped as fast as I could, knocking my head on a hanging rake.

I ate but didn’t taste the meal or the pie that night. I’m sure they were mouthwatering, as always.

When Uncle Donnie asked if I was all right midway through one of his stories, I explained that I was thinking about my project. (Mostly. Somewhat.)

It took me about a week, using my grandmother’s treadle machine, sewing the rag doll from socks, then cutting and sewing the bloomers, dress, apron and bonnet from my chosen pieces of feed sack, and then happily making little shoes from a piece of felt I found in a drawer. What took the longest was waiting until someone went into town, so I could buy some curly brown synthetic hair to sew on.

I carried the doll in my arms to the woods, the blackberry patches, the back forty to see the cows. I wandered for hours showing her the walnut trees, the Bantam chickens pecking at grain and the kittens playing with the orange Japanese lantern flowers underneath the mimosa tree.

One afternoon while everyone was occupied, I carefully verified their locations, then snuck in the side door to the barn. I didn’t even bother turning on the light, just walked right into the dark room a few feet.

“I know you’ve been waiting, and I’m sorry it took so long. I wanted everyone to get used to me carrying the doll everywhere, so that it would seem reasonable to think that I had lost it somewhere.”

~~~ A sense of hope and a flash of joy ~~~

“This is for you. I hope you like it.”

~~~ A sense of happiness and accepting my gift ~~~

I smiled into the darkness.

I knelt and felt around blindly until I finally discovered some empty, scratchy burlap sacks lying on the floor. I hid the doll between them. “I hope you will be okay. I’ll go now.” I slipped out feeling rather silly, but really, what was the harm? If the doll were still there later, I would get it back.

I enjoyed dinner very much that night, played Canasta with my parents and my sister, and then … when my mom tucked me in, she asked, “Addison, where is your doll?”

“I was so excited about the baby kittens … I’ll look for her tomorrow.” My mom smiled encouragingly and kissed me goodnight. I looked up at the ceiling, thinking, I didn’t exactly lie….

The next morning, I went looking for, as I explained, “new materials to make something else.”

I felt carefully among the burlap sacks in the darkness of that back room, checking behind them, sliding my hands in every fold, patting my hands on the floor for several feet all around.

No doll.

I looked around, puzzled by the definite emptiness of sensation in the room.

“Addison?” I scrambled out, sheepishly. My grandmother looked at me for a moment, then into the room for a much longer moment.

“Let’s close the door now,” she said softly. “This room isn’t needed any more.”

I smiled at her and whispered, “I guess I do have the Sight.”

Copyright (c) 2021 by Jamie Brown. All rights reserved.