Field of Screams

"Put that snow ball down! I’m serious! Don’t you dare—"

Too late! The snowball makes impact with the side of my head and small particles of icy slush trickle down the unprotected gap between my hat and my coat collar. 

I shriek. I squirm. This only makes it worse as the snow continues to wriggle its way down my back. I scoop up my own slush ball and throw it like the girl that I am. It falls pitifully short of the goal and now he stands there laughing harder.

I scoop another and charge at him, with all my might. His laughing face turns to surprise as I run full blast with no sign of stopping and no sign of lobbing my slush ball. To be honest, I don’t know what my plan is, other than to convey my displeasure at his juvenile attempt at humor.

Full body contact happens before either one of us is prepared, and now we are a tangled heap in the snow. I realize just how much of my body is touching his. But my attempts to push off and stand fail as my boots slip and now I am flopped on top of him once again. I gasp.

He pushes me off but he is still laughing and I am panting. Getting up will take too much effort. I roll over onto my back and stare up at the sky. We are content to stay horizontal for just a second. Just long enough to feel the biting cold penetrate. He stands first, and now, all about being a gentleman, offers me a hand.

I shouldn't trust him. He is up to no good. But his face is sincere and he waits patiently for my mitten-clad hand to enter his open bare one. I accept his outstretched paw and the gentle tug he gives me tugs my heart as well.

And he lets go. I knew it! I can’t believe I fell for his trick! My shrieks equal that of a muffet on a tuffet with a spider dangling close by.

Then I am silent and I lay still, eyes closed no sound except for that of my breathing. He leans over me. “You okay?” 

Oh sure, now he wants to act sincere again. I refuse to acknowledge him or his stupid question. He leans closer; I sense his nearness. I can feel his body shifting as he drops to one knee, his face coming closer to mine. 

"Nina? Are you—OH!—"

Splat! I have delivered my surreptitiously gathered ammunition directly between the eyes! I give some extra smoosh action to his face. Oh- ho-ho! Who is laughing now? I am on my feet, whooping, doing my victory war dance around him as he struggles to stand. The gleam in his eye warns me and I turn to run.

Slipping across the surface, we lope. He is right on my tail and I am once again shrieking. I hear him yell and I turn to see him fall. I stop. Should I be concerned? He rises as far as his knees, and then in feigned defeat, hangs his head low in shame.

“Truce?” I say. I can be gracious.

“Truce.” He agrees.

Side by side, we walk towards the cabin. His arm goes around my shoulders and I lean into him, contentedly.

From the porch, we can hear the sounds of our audience: the disgusted groans of our children intermixed with the delighted laughter of our grandkids. Yes, the old folks are at it again. Will we ever learn to act our age?

Diamonds for Her Hair

The brides bouquet had pussy willows in it. Picked from a neighbor's tree, they blended nicely with the baby's breath purchased from the florist for next to nothing. The pink satin bow, laced around the floral arrangement, were leftovers from her sister's bridesmaid dress that added a gentle touch. The wedding was being done on a mostly non existent budget so Ruthie was proud of what they were pulling together. The year was 1936 and what they lacked in money they more than made up for it in love. The wedding, despite her parents concerned objections, was moving forward and the perfect date had been picked. February 14th, Valentines Day. Ruthie couldn't think of a more romantic choosing and was thrilled that Willem had been the one to suggest it.

Her dress, ordered from the Montgomery Wards Catalog  and now hanging on the outside of the closet door to avoid wrinkles, had arrived last week. The veil which occupied her lap at present was a tedious affair that Ruthie had bravely decided to make herself. She massaged her thumb and arched her back a bit. Pushing the needle through the thick velvet trim was proving to be a test of her patience, if not her sewing skills. But the finished product, which she could see so clearly in her mind's eye, was going to be perfect. As long she could finish it in time.

The wedding was tomorrow evening. Ruthie looked at her bridal bouquet, poised artistically in a quart sized mason jar on her vanity. Tomorrow she would carry it in her arms as she walked down the aisle to meet the man she would soon call 'husband'. She shivered with delight, but truthfully a small part of her was a little bit terrified. The thought of her wedding night made her heart speed up and her stomach flip. She had some idea of what their wedding night would entail but truly she was counting on Willem to lead the way. She trusted he'd be as gentle as he'd been all through their courting.

She set the veil aside, slipping off the bed she'd shared with her sister for almost 15 years. She stood in front of the vanity, peering into the mirror. The wedding dress visible in the reflection, she smiled. Then she focused on her hair and pulled the long waves up to contemplate how she would wear it tomorrow. Up or down, either would work well with the veil.

A glance at the clock on her nightstand warned her that it was nearing supper time. Willem would be joining them and Ruthie knew her help was needed in the kitchen. Joining her mother and sister, she slipped an apron on. The table was already set and she could hear Papa in the mudroom, his low rumbling cough alerting all of them to his presence. She watched surreptitiously when Papa entered, for the look that would pass between him and Mama. While public displays of affection between her parents were rare, the strong vibes of love and respect were undeniable. For not the first time, Ruthie wondered if the concerns her parents had raised about her marriage to Willem were something she too should be worried about. She shook the thought off quickly. She loved Willem. He loved her. Yes, they were young, yes they'd only been courting a few months. But she was sure, with a certainty she couldn't explain, that this marriage would last every bit as long as her parents.

Dinner was lively as final plans for the wedding were discussed. Willem spoke with confidence about the ways he would provide for Ruthie, assuring her parents she would not want. Ruthie knew her face was flush with excitement and each time her eyes met Willem's across the table the butterflies would flip inside her again. After dinner, Willem lingered.  She knew Willem well enough to recognize his desire to alone with her. Although  her parents might frown, she pulled a jacket from the closet and followed her beloved out the door for some moments of privacy before he departed.

The night was mild for February and the sky twinkled bright with stars. Willem reached high and swept his arm through the velvet sky. Bringing a cupped hand close to Ruthie's hair he turned his hand as if sprinkling something in it.

 "Diamonds for your hair my love."

This was why she'd fallen in love with him. His ability to make her feel like a princess, his romantic gestures, his way with words. But it was the gentle hand that steadied her, the confidence of his stance, the protective look in his eyes whenever he glanced at her, that would carry them through life as husband and wife.

Standing on tiptoe to receive his kiss, Ruthie once again felt the assurance that their love was the real deal.

Impulsive, Impetuous Snap

I don’t really know when I was given the nickname “Snap” but I can tell you several reasons why.

“You were no bigger than this.” Daddy would say, snapping his fingers together. Mother says it’s because I was such an easy baby that taking care of me was a snap. And Grandma says it’s my dark coppery colored hair that reminds her of her favorite cookie, gingersnaps. All of these explanations are fine with me. Over the years, my impulsive nature for making snap decisions has given the name new meaning. 

“Snap, why oh why?” was my families most used expression. As in… Why oh why did you cover the puppy with suntan lotion? (Innocent face, age 5) Why oh why were you climbing on top of the fence (emergency room, age 9) why oh why didn’t you check the fuel gage? (ran out of gas, age 16)

And then there were the whys they already knew the answers to. When I invited the homeless woman to come home with me for dinner (after the preacher spoke on the sheep and the goats) When I gave my new winter coat to the girl who sat next to me (shivering every day on the bus, wearing only a thin sweater) When I rescued the box of kittens from the grocery store parking lot (Mom, the boy said his dad was going to drown them if he didn’t find homes for them!) 

As I got older, I tried to temper my impulses but my poor college roommates still had to adjust to finding strangers joining us for dinner, or sleeping bodies curled up in blankets on the living room floor.

When my husband and I eloped, (why, oh why… never mind… exclaimed my family) he thought he knew enough about me to prepare himself for the unstructured existence joining our lives together was going to bring. And I was learning to pray before jumping in. (Lord, I’m going in, cover me!) 

Still, the shock of discovering baby skunks in the bathroom, (the mother was hit by a car) a piano in the hallway (don’t ask) and a wall knocked out between the girls rooms (they like being together, what mother doesn’t want to hear that?) did nothing to prepare him for the day I brought home Mickie. 

“What do you mean you want us to adopt her? Snap, she’s a grown woman!” 

“Yes, but she has no family, has never had a family and her last name isn’t really even hers.”

Mickie had shown up at the shelter, where I volunteer, several months previous. She had been beaten, robbed of what little she had and a vacant look in her eyes that broke my heart more than any baby skunk or kitten ever had. We did everything we could to help her and she began to thrive. She seemed comfortable with me and a friendship flourished. She was 19 but emotionally much, much younger. She had been raised in various foster homes where she was repeatedly abused by both the families and the system. I came to realize her deepest desire was to have a family that would love her and in return she could allow the love locked inside her to spill out. 

And I found out that the last name she had been given was a name assigned by social services to satisfy the paperwork. 

My idea was for us to adopt Mickie legally so she could have a name that would mean something to her. My husband was not convinced. A baby was something he could understand and even warm up to. A grown woman with a questionable past was not. 

It took some long discussions, (persuasive, tenacious, and well thought-out) but eventually he caved. I did the research on adopting an adult and when I had all my ducks in a row, shared my idea with Mickie. She sat very still for a long time and then slowly began to cry. And nodded her head with the affirmative when I asked her if this was ok. 

When Adoption Day finally arrived, Mickie shyly pressed a small package into my hand. Inside I found a silver chain with a tiny circular object hanging from it. She pulled a similar necklace from inside her blouse. I recognized the objects as each half of a fastener. The symbolism wasn’t lost on me. Seems my nickname had gained another meaning.

Without a word, we brought the two circular objects together and grinned as we heard the pleasant sounding snap.