“Is that them?” cried Lila, pointing to several fronds of fuzzy ferns near the main channel of the brook.
Hobart set down his pails and dropped his pack on a rotted tree stump. “Nope, that’s a red fern. The fiddlehead is the ostrich fern,” he said. He scootched down onto his haunches and pushed aside a cold, wet blanket of musty-smelling leaves, revealing a clump of darker, daintier ferns hiding beneath. “This is what we’re looking for!”
Lila dropped down beside him. “But they look EXACTLY the same! How can you tell them apart?”
Hobart plucked the fiddlehead, its stem breaking easily with a little snap. He held the fiddle-shaped frond in the palm of his hand so that Lila could examine it. “See the celery-like stem? That’s an identifying feature. And fiddlehead stems are deep green, not red,” he said. “But most obviously, young fiddleheads have this brown papery covering.”
With her thumb and forefinger, Lila lifted the crisp green curl from his hand and turned it over in her own, examining the delicate pieces that made the whole so foreign-looking. The brown paper protecting the frond felt as flimsy as a spider web and flaked off at her touch. “And people eat this?” she asked, dubiously.
Hobart chuckled at the look on her face. “Lots of people—in Maine, anyway,” he said. “It’s quite a delicacy.”
Lila was about to gamely pop the fiddlehead into her mouth to taste it, however, Hobart quickly stopped her. “It’s not safe to eat raw,” he said. “Although I’ve certainly eaten plenty raw myself over the years.”
“Why not?”
“Bacteria. Nasty stuff like giardia and e coli. I wouldn’t want you to get sick, darling.”
“If you’re trying to make them even more appealing, it’s not working!”
“You’ll like ‘em cooked,” he promised. “Served hot, with plenty of butter.”
“Maybe … with lots and LOTS of butter!”
He demonstrated how to pluck the necks of the fiddleheads and then showed Lila a good spot to begin picking. Hobart settled himself at a thick patch of fiddleheads 20 feet away, close enough to keep an eye on her but allowing Lila plenty of room to rove. After half an hour, Lila had picked enough fiddleheads to cover the bottom of her pail but she discovered that Hobart had gathered—nearly half a bucket!
“How did you do that so fast?” she inquired, staring up at him in reverent astonishment.
He grinned and shrugged. “Practice makes perfect. I’ve been fiddleheadin’ since I was old enough to walk.”
They continued working their way up the brook, alternating between walking, picking and talking. Upon Lila’s encouragement, Hobart described the post and beam barn he was building for the Shoreys in Troy, and Lila shared with him the particulars of Rebecca’s arrival and the necessary creation of Wendell’s Mouse Motel. By noontime, they were tired, hungry, dirty and wet – but had enjoyed themselves thoroughly gathering two pails full of fiddleheads!
“Let’s eat,” said Hobart, when they reached a dry, sunny spot next to a height of land near the brook.
“I’m starving!” Lila exclaimed, carefully setting down her pail. She turned her face to the warm April sun, opened her arms wide as if embracing the sky, and breathed in deeply the musty, woodsy air. A pine warbler recently returned from its winter home sent out a slow, musical trill.
Hobart dropped his backpack onto the spongy grass and doffed his baseball cap, liberating his matted curls with his hands. Then he stripped off his sweatshirt, exposing his muscular forearms. He knelt down next to the brook and washed the dirt from his face and hands. Lila followed suit.
Hobart unrolled a thin ground cloth and began pulling out multiple plastic tubs of Maude’s picnic for Lila to unpack. Despite the short amount of lead time to prepare, Maude had outdone herself, providing the couple with homemade French bread, soft goat cheese with rosemary and garlic, stuffed eggs (from The Egg Ladies, of course), a raw vegetable medley, pumpkin spice cake with cream cheese frosting, and fresh strawberries dipped in chocolate.
“This is an amazing feast!” exclaimed Lila, as she spread the food on the waterproof ground cover and unfolded the napkins and silverware.
Hobart looked sheepish. “I think my good friend Maude is trying to help my romantic endeavors,” he admitted.
“Well, not that you NEED it,” Lila said; “but this time … it’s working!”
After they had consumed as much as they possibly could eat, Hobart lay back onto the ground cloth and pulled Lila gently down into his arms. “Is this OK?” he asked, his blue eyes plumbing the depths of her hazel ones.
Lila nodded wordlessly, and nestled her head onto his sturdy chest. She closed her eyes and listened to the steady beating of his heart. She felt a thrilling surge of joy at the reassuring thump-thump-thump and as she pressed against the comfy cotton of his T-shirt it crossed her mind in a flash that she never would have met Mike Hobart had she accepted Joe Kelly’s “promotion” and stayed with Perkins & Gleeful in Boston! She shuddered at the thought of what she might have missed.
“Cold?” asked Hobart, in a concerned tone. He wrapped his arms closer around her.
“Mmmm, no. Something just walked across my grave, that’s all,” she said, lightly.
“I hope it walked off again,” he said. He planted a feathery trail of kisses from her hair down to her nose, stopping just short of her parted lips.
“All gone,” she said, closing her eyes and lifting her lips to his, willing him to finish what he started.
In response, Hobart shifted, and deftly maneuvered Lila to the ground beneath his propped up elbow. “So, now you like me,” he teased, interposing kisses with words upon her upturned face, everywhere but upon her aching lips. “Now, you even want me to kiss you, hmmm? Seems like it wasn’t too long ago when ‘Lila’ wouldn’t even give a poor guy a break – until after he fitted her friend with a new bra.”
“Oh, don’t mention that!” she cried. “I was horrible to you; I admit it!”
“But now . . . say that you like me!” he ordered.
In response, Lila cupped the back of his neck with her right hand and guided his head down to meet her hungry lips. He responded passionately, pressing her into the ground with his well-muscled frame. The ecstasy of their union was almost unbearable and Lila nearly swooned.
Suddenly, Hobart pulled away. Lila lay languidly gazing up into his desire-ridden eyes. “What’s wrong?” she said, reaching up to pull him back down to her throbbing breast.
“Nothing’s wrong, darling,” he replied, leaning over and dropping light kisses on her eyelids. “And that’s why I’m stopping, before something does go wrong!” He sat up.
“Oh, don’t leave me, Mike!” she cried, half rising from the soft ground.
“No, no, shhhh; I’m not going anywhere,” he said. He lay back down with her, willing his passion to subside.
Lila snuggled closer, with infinite satisfaction. Her euphoria settled down into a steady beatitude. She felt completely safe with him; respected and honored as a woman. Who WAS this man who made her feel this way? How little she knew about him! Except that he was kind, honest, good, generous, patient, thoughtful and hardworking!
“Tell me more about yourself, Mike Hobart,” she directed. “How’d you get to be so special?”
“Aw, I’m not that special,” he said, tickling her neck with a stalk of dead grass.
Lila giggled. “I don’t believe it! You’re the first guy I’ve met in the past five years who hasn’t wanted to talk about himself all the time. I don’t even know where you’re from or what you’re doing in Sovereign.” She ran her fingers lovingly through the thick curls of his dark blond hair.
“I’m here waiting on you, darling,” he whispered, brushing a kiss against the sensitive spot on her neck. “I’ve been waiting for a long, long time.”
Lila tingled with heightened pleasure. Some romantic part of her believed that his declaration was entirely true. But it wasn’t enough. “Details, Mike. I want details!”
He lightly stroked her hair. “I’m from The County—Aroostook County; northern Maine,” he replied. “A little town called Maple Grove.”
“Big place, is it? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s about the size of Sovereign. The people there are much the same, too; honest, caring folks. When you first drive into Maple Grove you feel like you’re driving back into the ‘50s. My family has a potato farm just outside of town. It’s been in the family for seven generations. Well, eight generations, if you count all my nieces and nephews. My older brother John pretty much runs everything now – he added broccoli to the operation about 15 years ago. But my Dad still puts his two cents in from time to time.”
“Eight generations!” Lila exclaimed. “I didn’t know that was even possible in Maine! I didn’t think this state had been settled that long.”
“We’ve been here quite a while,” Hobart admitted. “The first Hobart came over to Massachusetts from Norfolk, England in 1642. Our branch of the family moved to Aroostook County in the early 19th century. It’s a beautiful place. Lots of land; big fields, big skies. When the potatoes are in bloom it looks like a fairyland, miles and miles of beautiful white blossoms.”
“I’d love to see it someday!”
“And I’d love to show it to you, darling. But it’s pretty far away—even farther than Boston.”
“If you’re trying to scare me off, it won’t work!”
Hobart felt a glow of pleasure at her words. “Are you trying to get me to kiss you again?”
“Is it work…” but before she even finished her question, Lila had her answer.
She responded passionately to his probing tongue, eager to lose herself completely within him. She felt as though she had transcended her physical body, joining her spirit with his in a mystical union.
Ah, this was heaven! This was joy! This was paradise unguarded!
Hobart broke away again, breathing heavily. He rolled over onto his back and locked his hands behind his head to forestall temptation. He regarded Lila impishly. “My turn for 20 questions,” he said.
“Now?!” she lamented, unwilling to end the rapture.
“Now, darling.”
She sighed. “I guess that’s only fair,” she said, dropping to her stomach and resting her chin on her hands. “Fire away!”
“So, where does Lila Woodsum harken from?”
“Big city, mean people,” she said.
“Seriously?”
“Kidding! My Mom was from the big city of Boston but my Dad was from a small town in Western Massachusetts. He grew up on a farm. I used to love to visit my grandparents on the farm when I was little because they had all sorts of …” Lila playfully signaled that she wanted Hobart to complete the sentence.
“Cows?” guessed Hobart.
“You’re not very shaap, are you?” she teased. “Chickens!”
But Lila’s good humor was quickly replaced by a look of sadness. “My Dad died when I was five, pancreatic cancer,” she continued; “and my grandparents both died within the next two years, of broken hearts, I believe.”
“I’m so sorry, darling,” he said.
“My Mom got remarried when I was eight and we moved back to Boston. My life was never the same after that. I never forgot those early days on the farm, though. How happy we all were! I felt safe on the farm. That’s the main reason why, when Miss Hastings mentioned coming to Maine to raise chickens, well, that’s why I knew I needed to be here.”
“That and you knew I was waiting for you,” Hobart hinted.
“If I’d have known that, I’d have come a lot sooner!” Lila cried.
“Mmmhmm,” he said. “Nice touch. Boyfriends? Broken hearts left behind in Boston?”
“None,” said Lila. She hesitated. “Well, there was this one guy …”
“I knew it!” he interjected.
“… this one guy, Ryan MacDonald, who WANTED to be more than a boy-FRIEND. But I wasn’t interested BECAUSE …”
“… because you knew I was here waiting for you,” he concluded.
Lila giggled again. “You’re getting shaaper,” she said, tossing a twig at him.
And then Hobart found he could resist no longer. He sat up and scooped her into his arms. “Too bad for him, because you’re mine now,” he declared.
Chapter 18
“The Parade Will Go On!”
True love is not just an affair of the heart, it is the embodiment of the divine; a little spark of God enters like the first breath into the souls and bodies of lovers and unites with them in creating a new thing on earth, a new heaven on earth. Love is not lust. Love is not greed. Love is not self-satisfaction or selfishness or sin. Love is sacrifice, and respect, and wanting your beloved to be the best that he or she can possibly be.
In the 20th century, lust and self-love were often confused for the true love that is self-less devotion. Unfortunately, self-love leads to a life of misery, meanness and decay. The state of complete satisfaction and self-actualization for which we all long is realized through a life of sacrifice, duty, charity, mercy and disinterested, unconditional, true love.
Lila loved Mike Hobart in this manner of love, and she knew that she was beloved by him in return. She floated through the following week in a font of blessed serenity. Her cup was full, and was running over.
Never in her life had she felt so safe, so happy, so secure … so beloved. She had been as a fragile musical instrument sadly out of tune until with his touch, his voice, his goodness, his love she was brought into the perfect pitch of human existence.
These days of true love – first love, in particular – are short in our life, for life itself is fragile; one moment it’s here and the next it’s gone. But these days are of inestimable value since they are the fountain of youth upon which our ageing and aged selves will return to drink again and again. They are our secret hope, our memories, our hope for the future, for our children, our grandchildren, our great-grandchildren. Once we have been beloved, we know that true love exists – and that knowledge makes all the difference in the world.
Lila had never been loved so selflessly before. Her mother had loved her, in a blinded, motherly fashion. And her father had adored her, but he had died and left her. Tragically, her stepfather had lusted after her, and had used and abused her. As a child, she had been betrayed by life, abandoned by hope, detached from the divine. Her soul had been trapped, tampered with, torn and discarded. Her self was destroyed.
And yet here she was today spiraling high like a kite in the April breeze, swirling and dipping and laughing and feeling the warm sun on her spirit like the kite-flyer feels it on her face and hands. The Goddess in her goodness and mercy gives us a second chance at life, if only we have the courage to reach out and accept the gift that the divine is dying for us to accept!
It would not spoil our story too much here if I told you what happened to embody Lila with the courage to give and receive true love, after having been sexually abused as a child. However, it would be putting the cart before the horse and I don’t want to risk a derailment in our little tale. Instead, I will just lift up to your attention the fact that something awful had occurred before her decision to move to Maine (as Rebecca had suspected), and in this awfulness was the footprint of the divine – not a fingerprint but a footprint – for the Prime Mover gives us a path to follow out of every tragedy, if for no other reason than to find our way home. And Lila Woodsum was finding her way home.
“Your phone is off,” said Rebecca on Wednesday, when Lila came in from the hen pen. “Miss Hastings called on the landline trying to reach you. She wants you to call her back. By the way, she’s definitely coming to the party on Sunday!”
“Did she say what she wants?”
“No, she just called me ‘darling’ several times, said she’d see me on Sunday and hung up!”
“I bet she wants to know when my baby chicks are coming,” Lila guessed.
“When are the chicks coming, dear?
I’ve been so busy with my sewing and cleaning – and with Wendell and our Mouse Motel trips across the rivers – I forgot to ask.”
“Next Tuesday. Two hundred of ‘em. I’ll be busy after that!”
But Lila was wrong. Miss Hastings had telephoned to see if Lila would give her a ride to school on Friday afternoon.
“I’m giving a music lesson to the kindergarteners and first graders,” she said, “and Trudy Gorse was going to take me but she’s got a TERRIBLE head cold. Would you mind giving me a lift, dahrrrling?”
“I’d LOVE to take you!” said Lila. “I’ve heard about your ‘music lessons’ and I’ve envied every school kid in Sovereign for having YOU as a teacher!”
“Dahrrrling, I’m just an old loose screw, but we DO have lots of fun!” And Miss Hastings burst into peals of laughter.
“What time?”
“I told Mrs. Lakewood – she’s the vice principal – that we’d be there by 1 o’clock.”
“I’ll pick you up half an hour earlier, OK?”
“Wonderful! Bring a silly hat and a tambourine or a drum or something – and don’t forget to wear your heart on your sleeve!”
“Oh, my heart is already on my sleeve!” said Lila, joyfully.
“A little bird told me THAT and I’m SO HAPPY for you! He’s such a dahrrrling boy!”
Amen, thought Lila. ‘Darling boy’ was an absolutely perfect description of Mike Hobart!
Rebecca was able to locate a slightly-abused bongo drum in Amber’s bedroom, as well as a floppy hat purchased 30 years ago for an ‘80s wedding in which she’d been a bridesmaid. So, Lila was as provisioned as any five-year-old when Friday arrived, and quite possibly as excited.
She motored the short distance up the road in Miss Hastings’ old 1964 gray Pontiac LeMans, arriving exactly at 12:30 p.m. She discovered that Matilda had been transferred to a cat carrier for the trip, and loaded the cage into the back seat of the car. Miss Hastings, holding onto her music books and a tambourine, was dressed in her trademark professional black suit with lacy white blouse. She had attempted to confine her wriggling hair into something like a bun, however, the wiry strands escaped and seemed to dance in delight around her ears and temple. Her brown eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and her smile was heightened by glossy red lipstick.
Hens and Chickens Page 15