by Amanda Dykes
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Loony is more like it. Listen to this:
The other day, your Ma was out getting kindling and my Pa was out pulling in the boat for the winter. He stood up and watched her and waited (and waited and WAITED) until she finally looked at him. After a while Pa waved. And your Ma stared. She put the kindling down an dusted her hands on her apron and waved back.
He stared longer and then raised his hands and made some sort of motions in the air I didn’t understand. I thought he’d lost his marbles. But then she made some batty motions back! And then shrugged. It’s like they had their own language! Then Pa pointed at our rope, walked over to it, put something in the tin can, and pulled the rope till it reached your side. I don’t know what the paper said.
Your Ma plucked it out like it might bite her. She held it for a second, turned it over a few times in her hands, and then opened it. Her head jerked up and she looked across at Pa like he’d just told her bandits were coming. She looked that wonky! She looked- well, you’d say she looked stricken, or awe-struck, or some other fancy word for shocked.
She looked and looked and Pa just nodded twice, and she turned and went in. And Pa did the same, looking as downcast as a cast that’s fallen down.
.
They’re strange. Don’t you think?
Can you find out what it said, Jenny? I don’t know what it said.
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It said:
You were right.
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“You were right”?
That’s it?
Well phooey.
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That was it.
Mama says your Pa’s music used to make her heart dance.
But don’t tell him that.
I hereby swear you to silence, Timothy the Clandestine!
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I told him. But don’t worry, he liked it. His face got all red, but in a good way.
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Timothy!
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Sorry.
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Mother asked me today about our pulley. She wants to know how it’s holding up. “Why?” I asked her. “Well—” she stammered, Timothy my good fellow. Stammered. Mother does not stammer.
“It’s been up so long, is all. You’ve been using it so much… and it used to carry such weight, it might not be much longer before it snaps.”
I asked her if she meant all the times people used to cross it, when the little cage used to be there.
“Not exactly, no…”
“What, then?” asked I, as sweet as can possibly be. Cheerful and inquiring, not nosy or pushy. One must take care when digging for clues, you know. And I do care, Timothy, so stop scrunching your nose at me, as I know you must be doing!
Well. She pursed her lips, looked me in the eye and said, “Come with me.”
She took me into the attic, pulled down a box—a box that had very recently been opened and dusted off, I might add.
Book after book she pulled out. A birdhouse. A metronome. A length of the red velvet ribbon. A spyglass. She set them before me, and let me look. And do you know what she told me?
She said when your Pa was your age, and she was my age, she put that tin bucket up. The bridge was open and no one had need of the pulley anymore, so she used it to make friends with the boy across the river.
Timothy. Prepare yourself. It was… (are you ready? Sit down!)… Your Pa!
But she didn’t know how to write or read, so she sent little gifts and crafts, twigs and interesting rocks, and he did the same, until he began sending books, and teaching her! He came across the bridge every evening and taught my Ma to read. And she taught me.
Oh, I want to faint with the splendor of it, Timothy. Just think: it’s all because of your Pa that I know how to read. And write! Aren’t you ever so gloriously glad, Timothy of the clan of the brave?
Anyway, Mother says to ask you how you like bonfires.
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Bonfires? They’re the best!
Jenny. Do you mean to tell me you didn’t know they used the pulley way back when? I had that figured a thousand years ago.
That’s alright though. Don’t feel bad. Now we know for sure.
What’s this about a bonfire? It sounds fun to me!
Here’s a sundial for you. I carved it from some pine for your castle so you’ll know what time it is and can holler out what o’clock it is, and “all’s well”. Does your Ma know how the sundial works? I have a theory and I want to check.
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Thank you for the sundial! I’ve placed it in Timothy’s Turret. Someday I’ll show you.
Mother says to tell your Pa, if he’d like, would you two join us for a mid-December bonfire on the banks of our river? Of course we can’t cross, and neither can you, but we can celebrate together from afar.
Two nights hence.
(That means Thursday.)
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Pa lit right up like a lantern when I told him. But he didn’t say anything right away. Only later he said he had an idea, and then he clapped me good on the shoulder and we got straight to work on a fire ring right across from yours.
I don’t know if the fire ring was the idea, or if he’s got something else up his sleeve.
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I could simply die this moment, Timothy, for I shall never witness anything as lovely and divine as what transpired tonight!!! You were right (I say in my most confiding of tones.). He did have an idea. And if you could have seen up close the look on Mother’s face!
We came out to lay our fire, and what do you think? We both jumped right out of our boots when we saw a giant mound of white over on your bank. Something covered in a sheet, and you two nowhere in sight. Well. I tin-canned the cookies we’d made right on over, hoping you’d show up (which you did, and promptly devoured them. All but one, was it? I certainly hope your Pa enjoyed his one Gingerbread man!). And the bonfires began and the sun sank low and the sky was summery-pink in the middle of winter and then . THEN!
Your Pa looked at Ma, and lifted the sheet.
She gasped, Timothy. And then said nothing.
She is never speechless.
But she was tonight. Because when your Pa wandered his fingers over the keys of that piano that he’d rolled out onto the riverbank (how did you two do that without our seeing?? You masters of disguise and trickery, you!)
…She didn’t move a whit as the sun slipped away and our firelight danced on her face. Mother is always lovely, but she never looked more breathless and beautiful, just…waiting.
Waiting on a promise. (Stop rolling your eyes. It’s a lovely phrase. Just let it be lovely and enjoy it, if you please, Timothy.)
The melody sailed across the trickling river and set our feet to dancing. We couldn’t hear your voices, just the music. Do you think music has some agreement with the water? Mother would say it has to do with the properties of each, so scientifical she is. But I think it’s just that the music was made for the water, and the water for the music, dancing partners for all time.
Pretty soon Mother and I we were spinning each other around, twirling just like the notes, and laughter never tasted so full of hope. But you saw all of that, didn’t you, Oh Keeper-of-Time? What a fine job you did, clapping us ‘round and round from across the river.
But every time a song ended, Mama froze with the night, cheeks rosy even in the dim flickering light, shoulders rising and falling—and waited. Another would begin. She’d purse her lips, and stand silent as if the fate of the world hung on whatever came next. As if deciphering some message. Your Pa would start in with another merry tune, and then just for the tiniest moment, brokenness crossed her face. But she’d reel in a smile from somewhere far away, and off we’d go once more.
Later, as we lit our Amaretti-wrapper paper fireflies and watched the embers fly away in
to the dark, your Pa started the last song.
One note. Another note. Another.
I watched Ma’s mouth move around silent words: one-two-three… one-two-three…and then her face broke into utter joy, eyes swimming.
Then, Timothy, you dearest of dears, you put that message from him in the tin can as he finished his song, wheeled it over, and I plucked it out . I could tell right away it wasn’t from you, and it wasn’t for me. With that strong writing of your Pa’s, Mother’s name was inscribed. When you both bowed so gallantly (I told you you were gallant!) and disappeared into your cabin, she held my gloved hand and led me in to our own warm hearth inside.
There, she said, “Jen-pen, would you put the tea on for us?” I ducked out of the room, and when I came back in afterward, there she was, bent over the letter and dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief.
“What’s wrong, Mother?” I asked her.
She shook her head, took my by the shoulders so gently. “Not a thing, my girl. Just…sometimes there is much to be thankful for.”
Well, that was certainly nice, but maddeningly vague.
It was then that she left the room.
Oh, Timothy. Forevermore and all the days to follow, I promise I’ll never do this again. But… I read it. The whole letter. She was away in the other room writing a letter back-- I could hear the scratch of her pen upon the paper-- and meanwhile, your Pa’s letter was just lying there in her empty rocking chair, begging to be read. I know I shouldn’t have, but-- it was as magical as a dream! He began like this:
You were right, Marian.
All those years ago.
…and then the tale he went on to tell! Timothy the Brave, I know now where you get your valor. It was your father who crossed the river on the pulley, in some rattletrap cage. Right over swollen spring rapids, with the bridge washed out, he braved the trek above the churning waters to ask my mother to marry him! She’d gone silent for weeks after an argument, their tin can empty and cruel. He couldn’t take it.
In the middle of the night, he wheeled himself over and begged her to listen. Begged her to let him be enough. Promised to prove to her that he could fill her whole heart, that he didn’t need her Jesus in order to make a marriage. And mother told him-- “Marriage should be a waltz.”
He said she tried to use his language-- the language of music-- to tell him, but instead of listening, he just vanished to the city to prove he could be enough for her. “I loved you,” he said in the letter, “but not in the fullness of the way you knew was possible.”
Timothy I could hear the ache in his words-- just a few words, but in them he said so much. How during every lonely city night, every orchestra rehearsal, every music lesson he gave-- the echoes of her cries haunted him, the memory of her tears drove him on. Well, he didn’t use those words precisely, but oh! I could see it in my mind’s eye. Those cavernous music halls filling with his emptiness!
He went on to describe the day he met “the Great Conductor.” The God that Mother longed for him to know. He said--
I needed to be filled.
Like you were.
With Him.
But by then, it was too late for us.
You said it back then: marriage must be a waltz.
Three steps, always: God, you, me. One, two, three. I know that now.
And I know we may never have that now.
But I wanted to say…
I’m sorry. And you were right.
You said it back then: Marriage must be a waltz. God, You, Me. One, Two, Three. I know that now. And I know we may never have that now, but I wanted to say… I’m sorry.
And you were right .
So there you go, Timothy. Once upon a time, in a land right beneath our feet, your Pa and my Mother were sweethearts.
Can’t you just picture them? In the glow of their youth?
This morning over our hotcakes, Mother looked out at the river, at the air so cold you could almost hear it rapping at our windows, and said to me, “do you suppose the river will freeze this year?”
Timothy, I’m whispering now, so listen closely:
We must pray for that river to freeze.
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Deep enough to walk on?
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Deep enough to walk on.
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Pa says, ask your Ma—if the river freezes, will she save a dance for him?
Why he couldn’t ask her in one of his own letters, I don’t know. We’re going to have to find another way for our own messages if Pa and your Ma keep hogging our tin can.
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Good Sir,
Please be so kind as to convey this message from my mother to your Pa:
Yes.
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The river grew more solid
With every passing day
And on that snow-clad Christmas Morn,
It froze to make a way.
As they stepped out on the glassy floor,
Their children skating round,
He took her hand,
She gave her heart,
Their lives at last were bound
He, too, was right, those years ago
In the promise that he made.
He’d said a song would change her mind…
A Tin Can Serenade.
-The Merriest of Ends-
Dear Reader,
This story began in July of 2013, when I asked on Facebook if anyone had special Christmas memories they’d like to share for possible use in this story. What could be more delightful, I thought, than spinning a tale with readers and their own cherished memories in mind?
So, woven into these little notes passed back and forth in the tin can are snippets to honor and hint at the memories you shared. The story went out that Christmas in my email newsletter as a gift to readers, and it’s these shared memories that started it all:
Katie
Every Christmas Eve, my family and I would buy graham crackers, frosting, and every candy that looked enticing and lay them all out on the kitchen table. We began the annual Gingerbread House Contest. This contest grew to include spouses and close friends once we started getting married. Now that I live far away, and cannot do this every year with my own family, I now do this in our new home with my little family and with families who are also away from their families at Christmas. One of my favorite Christmas traditions ever!
(Aside: It was also Katie who inadvertently inspired the waltz thread of this story, when she invited me to guest post on her wonderful blog, on the topic of marriage. You can read that blog post, The Waltz, by clicking through here.)
Katie- the gingerbread cookies in this story were just for you and your beloved family.
Erin
My favorite Christmas memory was a year that we went to my grandparent's house. They gave me a brand new pair of pink ice skates on Christmas Eve and we woke up in the morning to find out that the pond on the golf course where they lived had frozen solid. So, we bundled up and headed out and spent the morning ice skating on the golf pond while sipping hot cocoa.
Erin, the ice skating on the river and cocoa-sipping in the story were all thanks to you!
Lisa
My most memorable Christmas was when I was a child, probably about 4th grade. My parents always put our gifts out after we were all in bed. This particular Christmas I received a tape recorder. When I turned it on it already had something on it. My Dad had recorded a message for each one of us. He told me he loved me. I have a picture of this time with him also. I would love to have that recording back, but as kids you just don't think about that. The special memories of Christmas: my kids took turns putting up the Christmas star on the tree, we enjoyed just watching the lights twinkle on the tree and most especially, my husband reading the Christmas story from Luke 2 on Christmas Eve before all went to bed.
Lisa, what a special element your memory was. The thread in this story of Timothy’s fath
er, reading the Bible in a strong and steady voice—that was all thanks to you, your dad’s message to you, and your husband’s Christmas Bible-reading.
Jill (Mom!)
One of my favorite memories was a Christmas when, instead of getting up and tearing into presents, our family decided to bless our friends by making tons and tons of pecan sticky buns, getting up early to bake them, then hopping into our blue Vee-Dub bus, still in our jammies, and delivering them throughout our little valley. Our batch tasted much better afterwards!
Oh, Mom, I remember it well and I cherish it! Timothy and Genevieve’s cinnamon rolls are a subtle tribute to our beloved tradition of baking and delivering sticky buns.
To anyone else who’s found this story in their hands, thank you so much for reading it. It was such fun to read over the memories held dear by others.