Dying to Decorate

by Cyndy Salzmann

  “Oh! That sounds like mine,” I gasped, snapping open my cell phone. “It must be the kids.”

  “No problem,” replied my energetic partner. “I’ll wait. I can do some lunges to tighten up my glutes.”

  Having no idea what a glute was, I smiled and put the phone to my ear.

  “Hannah, is that you, sweetheart?” I asked the silent phone. “No, don’t cry, sweetie. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

  I paused for effect.

  “Poster board? You need yellow poster board for a project at school TODAY. Well, honey, I’m right in the middle of my workout, but I guess I’ll have to cut it short. I’ll be right home.” I snapped the phone shut, shaking my head. “That was Hannah. A school-supply emergency. I’m going to have to run to the store to pick up some poster board. Kids! It’s always something, isn’t it?”

  “No problem, dude, I’ve got you covered,” she replied, still jogging in place.

  Did she just call me “dude”?

  “My daughter Mandy has a whole pack of poster board. We can stop by the house after our walk.”

  “But yellow . . . she certainly doesn’t have yellow, does she?” I stammered.

  “Of course. That’s the best color for signs.”

  As I looked at the formerly innocuous neighborhood street before me—now looming like the side of a mountain—I realized I had to think quickly.

  “Markers!” I shouted. “Hannah also needs SCENTED markers. The kind with glitter in them.”

  “Sorry, can’t help you there.” She turned and jogged up the hill. “Six tomorrow morning?”

  “I’ll call you,” I shouted after her. “I may have a conflict.”

  As I ripped the Velcro to free my ankles, I muttered, “A conflict with these infernal weights . . .”

  Just the thought of the week of physical agony I endured following my walk with Amber gives me the resolve to resist Marina this morning.

  “No way. No how. You might as well give up now, Marina, because I am not leaving this bed.”

  “Your loss, kiddo.” She bounds from the room.

  Maybe. But maybe not. I happily turn over in Aunt Bette’s old four-poster bed.

  A couple of hours later, after setting out a simple breakfast of coffee, juice, and bagels, I am drafted to help Kelly hang the grass cloth Mary Alice has picked out for the library walls.

  “This is such a great space.” Mary Alice’s eyes scan the small book-filled room appreciatively. “I think the light-colored grass cloth will help keep the cozy feeling but still open it up. What do you think?”

  “To be perfectly frank, M.A.,” I say, “all I’m thinking about is how in the world we’re going to hang this stuff.”

  “Actually, it’s the same as wallpaper, but the grass cloth isn’t prepasted. You’ll need to apply the glue by hand.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “How in the world do we do that?”

  “Obviously, we brush it on.” Kelly picks up the large brush on top of the bucket of wallpaper paste. “Looks easy enough.”

  “You’re right, Kelly,” Mary Alice agrees, appearing anxious to move on to a more interesting project. “That’s all there is to it. Just make sure you coat the paper well.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “I know how to snap a chalk line,” I offer, not wanting to seem totally DIY (do-it-yourself) challenged. After all, I had the DIY network programmed in our cable-channel lineup.

  I learned this trick from my quirky college roommate who was a bit of a fussbudget. She was very particular about having her own space, so once a week she would snap a chalk line to divide our room in half. I’ve always longed to snap one of those buggers myself.

  “Then I think we’ve got it covered,” says Kelly. “No pun intended.”

  “Lucy and I will be in the kitchen installing the tiles I painted for a backsplash,” Mary Alice explains. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “By the way, M.A.,” I say before she is out of earshot, “I love those tiles. You know I’m going to hit you up to do some for me when we finish up with this project.”

  A blush creeps up Mary Alice’s neck. “It’s just a simple pattern. You could do it easily.”

  “Doesn’t she read my column?” I mutter as she walks down the hall.

  When I turn around, I see that Kelly has already begun to apply paste to the grass cloth. “Kel, shouldn’t we measure how long of a piece we need first?”

  “If you want to,” she says with a hint of annoyance. “I thought we could just estimate once we get the paste on.”

  The last thing I am going to do is argue with Kelly about the best way to hang wallpaper—a subject I know nothing about. So I decide to get started on my chalk line. After attaching the top of the chalk to the crown molding, I drop the string and secure it with my index finger where it has dropped. All that’s left is the fun part. A snap of the string, and I have a perfect chalk line on the wall.

  Kelly applauds. “Way to go, girl. We’ll have this up before lunch.”

  Once we have what Kelly thinks is a sufficient length of grass cloth coated with the gooey wallpaper paste, I ask, “So, what’s the next step?”

  “Why are you asking me?” My friend picks up one end of the sticky wallpaper and gestures for me to do the same. “You’re the wallpaper expert.”

  “What are you talking about?” I say while trying to keep the floppy paper from folding over and sticking together. “I’ve never hung wallpaper.”

  “You’ve never hung wallpaper!” she exclaims. “What was all this ‘I can do the chalk line’ stuff? I assumed you knew what you were talking about.”

  “I did . . . do . . . know what I’m talking about,” I retort. “The chalk line is perfect.”

  She wrinkles her nose in exasperation. “What good is knowing how to do a chalk line if you don’t know how to hang wallpaper? People don’t go around putting chalk on their walls for no reason.”

  “For your information, there are lots of projects that require a chalk line.”

  “Such as?” Clearly Kelly’s unwilling to concede the point.

  “Lots of things.”

  “I’m waiting.” Still holding her sticky end of the grass cloth, Kelly begins to tap her toe.

  By now, the sheet has begun to wrinkle in the center and stick together.

  “Kelly, this is no time to argue. We have to get this stuff on the wall.”

  “Fine,” she says, starting up the ladder. “It can’t be that hard.”

  “Wait! I’m taller. Shouldn’t I do the top?”

  “For goodness’ sake, the ladder is six feet tall. I can do it. Just follow my lead.”

  For some reason, this is not reassuring. As Kelly tries to line the top edge of the grass cloth under the crown molding that caps the walls of the room, she smears my chalk line.

  “Stop!” I shout. “You’re erasing the chalk line!”

  “So what? What do we need a chalk line for anyway?”

  “I’m not sure, but I know it’s important.”

  Four hours—and a wallpapering manual—later, we have successfully applied two strips of grass cloth to the library walls.

  “I’m ready for a break,” says Kelly. “We can finish this up after lunch. By the way, what are you cooking, Liz?”

  I shove my sticky hands into my pockets to keep from doing something I’ll regret.

  After ridding my hands of wallpaper paste, I decide to see how Jess and Marina are coming along with the landscaping before preparing lunch. Jess has planned a garden of perennials to bloom throughout the growing season. She has already put in beds of sunny coreopsis, dusty pink coneflowers, winsome daisies, and a pair of fragrant dwarf lilac bushes to border both the front and back steps.

  “Doesn’t look like much now,” says Jessie, looking up at me on the front porch, “but fall is the perfect time to put in perennials. It gives the roots time to develop.”

  “So, when will these bloom?” I ask.

  “The lilacs wi
ll bloom in early spring, but the rest should produce flowers most of the summer.”

  “I can’t wait to see it next year.”

  “Actually, we probably won’t see much. Perennials take time to establish. I remember my grandmother telling me the first year the plants sleep. The next year they creep. And the following year they leap. The leaping is what makes a gardener’s work worthwhile.”

  “Sleep. Creep. Leap. Easy enough to remember—even for me. Where’s Marina?”

  “She’s been putting in bulbs along the front walk and driveway. I’ll say one thing . . . once she gets going, that girl has energy.” Jess grins.

  “If only it would kick in at a reasonable hour.” I sigh. “I might have to bunk with the more athletically challenged tonight and let Rina have the room to herself.”

  “Did I hear my name?” Marina strides around the corner of the house carrying a trowel and a basket of bulbs.

  “Jess was just telling me what a great job you’re doing with the planting. Lucy will be so surprised in the spring.”

  “I think I’m actually beginning to enjoy digging in the dirt. It’s relaxing. If it wasn’t so hard on my manicure, I’d be tempted to try it at home. Oh well, such is life.”

  A loud, grating noise draws our attention to the street. Jeff is attempting to back a trailer loaded with a construction Dumpster up the narrow gravel drive. The trailer hitch, which has dipped on the steep drive, is scraping against the ground. The load is shifting perilously.

  “Hey!” shouts Marina, charging toward the truck. “Be careful there, Bubba! I just spent the last four hours planting bulbs, and you better not touch a single root on their hairy little heads.”

  “Well, my friend, if you call me Bubba one more time, I will be forced to file a complaint citing a hostile work environment.”

  Marina rolls her eyes.

  “Seriously, how about helping me guide this thing up the drive? You do know how to direct traffic, don’t you, girlie?”

  “Talk about hostile working environments!” she teases.

  “So what do you think, Jess?” I ask as we watch Marina help Jeff maneuver the Dumpster into place. “Is that love in the air?”

  Jess smiles.

  Both satisfied the Dumpster is positioned correctly, Jeff and Marina join Jessie and me on the porch for a glass of mint iced tea.

  Marina takes a long swig. “Good tea, Liz. I love mint.”

  “I do too. I found a patch of it out back. I was surprised it was still there. I didn’t see any other herbs.”

  “Mint is one of those plants that multiplies like fireflies on a summer night,” says Jess from her seat on the porch swing. “Once you plant it, it’s yours for life.”

  “What in the world . . . ?” I point to the caravan of cars heading up toward Locust Hill.

  “Liz, I thought we had this conversation,” begins Marina.

  “Stop while you are ahead, my dear,” I fire back. “I’ve had my fill of razzing from Kelly this morning. I will say what I please.”

  “Well done, Lizzie.” Marina laughs. “That backbone is beginning to poke through that preppie turtleneck after all.”

  I give her a wry smile.

  The caravan of cars turned out to be a contingent from Aunt Bette’s Ladies’ Guild at Tredway Community Church.

  “Thought you might need a little sustenance,” says Janelle, the first to step from her vehicle with a covered dish. Apparently she’s the leader of the pack. “Seein’ how you’ve been workin’ so hard up here.”

  I feel a huge smile creep across my face. I silently thank God for small favors—and country cooks.

  Before we knew it, the efficient church ladies had set up our midday feast in the sunny kitchen and were on their way out the door. They wouldn’t even consider our invitation to join us, implying with much head wagging and finger shaking that they didn’t want to keep us from our work. Too bad, I thought. I—at least—could use a break!

  After the Tredway ladies had waved good-bye, climbed back into their cars, and headed back down the driveway, looking like a trio of bumper cars, we didn’t waste any time. Within minutes all six of us were digging into the hearty home-cooked meal, anchored by a delicious casserole one of the church ladies had referred to as hotdish. When I’d mentioned to Janelle that I had never heard of hotdish, she explained that the cook was from Minnesota.

  “I never could understand why Minnesotans have to go and confuse things,” she had said. “Why can’t they call a casserole a casserole? Anybody in her right mind knows the dish is gonna be hot.”

  At least Janelle couldn’t complain about the name of the salad. It was exactly as it looked: Layered Salad. Now there’s a no-nonsense recipe title, and it tasted as good as it looked. I couldn’t help myself. I had seconds.

  Since we are all a little worn out from our morning projects, we decide to eat our dessert—Janelle’s Banana Split Cake—on the sunny front porch. I’m curled up in the old-fashioned porch swing with my shoes off, the sun warming my back, and the decadent dessert filling my bowl. My friends are sprawled on nearby cushions and chairs as we enjoy the companionable silence that comes from years of shared experience. If this were heaven, I would be happy.

  “The sun feels so good.” Lucy stretches lazily in a chaise lounge. “I could sit here all afternoon.”

  “How about if we kick back and hear a little more from Anna?” Marina suggests. “We can get back to work in a couple of hours.”

  “Are you up to more reading, Jess?” asks Kelly.

  “I think you can twist my arm.” She rises to get the journal from inside the house.

  JOHNNYCAKES

  1 cup cornmeal

  2 tablespoons flour

  1 tablespoon sugar

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  1 1/2 tablespoons shortening

  1 cup milk

  1 egg, separated

  Instructions

  1. Sprinkle cornmeal and flour into a cake pan and lightly toast (about 5 minutes) in 400-degree oven.

  2. Mix toasted cornmeal, flour, sugar, and salt in a bowl.

  3. Add shortening and hot milk.

  4. Beat egg white until stiff. Fold yolk into beaten white. Finally, fold in corn mixture to the egg batter.

  5. Drop batter from spoon into an oiled pan, leaving space in-between cakes.

  6. Bake at 400 degrees until golden brown.

  April 24, 1862

  There will be no sleep for me tonight. I am in a state of great agitation due to my own cowardice and selfishness! The only remedy I can fathom is to confess my depravity to God and to you, my secret confidant. This afternoon, while I helped Papa prepare our old buckboard for another errand this evening, I implored him to reconsider his role in the Railroad . . .

  Juggling a covered basket and several large quilts, Anna made her way to the barn. The sun was just beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the prairie. She knocked sharply three times on the weathered barn door—a prearranged signal to her father. She heard the scrape of the latch as he unlocked the door, then slid it open just wide enough for her to slip in.

  “Papa, I brought the johnnycakes Mother baked for your errand this evening,” she said, blinking to adjust her eyes to the dimness in the cavernous barn.

  “Thank you, child.” Joseph relieved her of the bundle of quilts. “Your sewing circle has been busy. God will reward you for those sore fingers someday!”

  Anna set the basket of food on the bed of the wagon, carefully wedging it between two jugs of water. She turned back to look at her father, who was spreading a thick layer of fresh straw on the bottom of the wagon.

  “Anna, help me cover the straw with your lovely quilts, will you?” he said. “We want our guests to be as comfortable as possible on what promises to be a bumpy ride tonight. Only the Lord knows how much they’ve been through to get this far.”

  As Anna worked with her father to put the finishing touches on the preparations, her brow furrowed with indecision. Sh
e was still uncertain about broaching what would surely be a difficult subject. Finally, she glanced up from her task to find her father looking at her quizzically.

  “Anna, you seem troubled. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “I am troubled, Papa,” she admitted, “but I’m afraid bringing up my concerns may upset you.”

  “Child, you know I care deeply for you. I’ll do whatever is in my power to put your fears to rest.”

  “That’s just it, Papa. Your activities are the source of my fear. How can you continue your work on the Underground Railroad when you know it is so dangerous?”

  Joseph took a deep breath and turned from his daughter. “Anna, I thought you understood why we have opened our home to the fugitives that come our way.”

  “But, Papa, I read a notice posted in Mr. Meyer’s shop when I was in town yesterday. It calls for the return of the fugitives—the ones who are resting in our kitchen this very moment—to their owner in Missouri. It even offers a hundred-dollar reward to the man who does so.”

  Joseph turned to face his daughter. “Anna, haven’t I taught you that no man can own another?”

  “Of course, Papa. But not everyone sees things as you do. Sheriff Blatt is being pressured by some of our own neighbors to enforce the Fugitive Slave Act and—”

  His eyes narrowed. “That is a hateful law, child. Completely unjust.”

  “But, Papa, it is the law. Susan told me at services last week that the Hall County sheriff put a farmer in jail for allowing a family of fugitives to sleep in his barn. He also has to pay a thousand-dollar fine or lose his property.”

  “Do you know this man’s name, Anna? Perhaps we can help—”

  “Oh, Papa! Don’t you see?” Anna cried. “I don’t want you to help anymore! I’m frightened for your safety! What if Sheriff Blatt takes you to prison? How will Mother and I survive in this place without your protection?”

  “Anna, dear child—,” Joseph began.

  Anna cut him off. “I know these poor souls need our help. But, Papa, it’s against the law to help them. Doesn’t the Bible teach that we are to obey the laws of our land?”