Five Minutes on Sunday

The Importance of Spider Silk: A Herstory of Burnt Cabin Branch

Summertime. The sparrows sing soft songs just before dawn. The leaves quiver quietly with restraint. I stand in the dogtrot of our two room cabin and watch the wind spill its secrets to the trees, and the trees in turn pass every tale and rumor along, each to the other, one after another, shimmering into the pale horizon. I've had the language of trees since my eleventh birthday, just over a year ago. But I've told no one, not even my mother. Only one person knows - because he has the treespeech too. He heard about me from the forest.

Mama moves quietly in the kitchen making breakfast and packing a picnic lunch for our visit to the Burnt Cabin. We always go when the blackcaps* are ripe and come home purple-fingered and red-necked, hearts and baskets full. It started seven years ago: the year Father left for Oregon; the year Mama said no and moved us back here from Indiana where we had lived with him.

He writes us letters now and then, sending a little money and asking Mama to move out west. She can't read, though she's awfully clever - she says the words swim. I read them to her and she tells me to write back our gratitude and ask him to come home. I do, though her tone tells me otherwise. I don't know if he wrote letters before I could read. If he did I suspect she threw them in the fire. She can be just that hard when her mind is set.

The pink glow of morning drifts through the kitchen window and washes over her face. She looks like an angel. Sliding into a smoothworn chair I grab a biscuit and some honey and pour a glass of fresh milk. Normally I do the milking, but she's anxious to get started. She always is, though she seems more so today. I watch as she folds a square of linen around a plate of fried chicken and slides it into the picnic basket. More than we can eat, surely. She smooths the fabric twice, then pulls out the plate, rearranges its contents, re-wraps it, replaces it in the basket. Her fingers fret with the basket rim as her teeth worry her lower lip. I push away my breakfast, appetite lost. She knows.

"Mama, did I tell you I heard at the store that Ben Ross came back to the Stony Lonesome house?" It's a lie, but only by half, because I haven't been to the store. I'll do something extra-nice later to make up for it. She is packing some silverware now and a knife slips through her fingers, clattering onto the table. She stares at the knife a moment, glances at me, then fixes an accusing glare on her treasonous fingers. This will never do. Stupid gossipy neighbors. I wasn't planning to tell her until we were almost there.

"They say he's going to stay and get the place up and running. It's about fallen to rack and ruin since his father died," I add, buying myself some time to think.

With a quick shake of her head a small nervous giggle escapes her throat, so she clears it. "Yes, I know. Mrs. Ginn told me yesterday morning when she stopped by to see if I had any extra eggs."

Well isn't that just splendid. She's had a whole day now to think it over and tie herself into a knot. How did I not notice last night? She was a little quiet, but.... No matter now. What's done is done. I've given my word and I'll not be defeated by some foolish busybody. I just simply won't. Knots can be untied. Stick to the routine. Routines are comforting.

"I've already got a satchel made up with a blanket, two canteens of strawberry shrub* and some books. I packed Scott like always, and The Deerslayer," I'm a little excited about it, so I forget I shouldn't mention the last, "and the new book of poems by Emerson." Realizing my mistake as soon as it's out of my mouth I rush on, "So we have a broad selection for the day - adventure, romance, the world at our fingertips. I've been wanting to re-read Cooper for a good while now." It doesn't work.

"Emerson poems?" she asks. "That's only just been published. Where on earth did you get a copy of it Mary?"

"A friend loaned it to me." I'm tempted to add some misleading description, but it's only thirty minutes into the day and I've already got one deceit under my apron, not to mention my secret of the past two months - I've no mind to give them more company. Hustling out of my chair I fling myself into a hug that both startles and distracts her. "Today will be perfect," I mumble into her dress. Pulling back I collect the satchel and sling the berry baskets over my arm as I head for the door. "Are you done with the lunch? I can't wait to get started."