The Mitford Bedside Companion Read online

  Uncle Billy Watson was thankful to hear the horn blow at the back steps.

  It was Coot Hendrick in his old red truck, come to carry him to Town Hall for the judging.

  “A man cain’t go trottin’ down th’ street with a cane in one hand and a pie in th’ other,” said Coot.

  Uncle Billy left his wife ranting and raving over the mess on the sink, the table, the countertop, and the stove. “I’ll clean it up soon as I git back!” he shouted above the din.

  “I don’t know why I done it,” he said, as the truck eased onto Main Street. “Hit’s th’ hardest dadjing thing I ever tried t’ do.”

  “Let me see it,” said Coot, who had some expertise when it came to eating, if not baking, pies.

  Uncle Billy pulled back the tea towel to reveal the pie, encased in Saran Wrap.

  “That’s a beauty, all right!” said Coot, who fervently hoped he’d get a piece for doing the driving.

  Lew Boyd arrived early at Town Hall, and found the place already packed. People milled around like ants on a hill observing the cake, pie, loaf bread, and biscuit entries displayed on several long tables.

  “How many in th’ cake division?” Lew asked the Golden Band official as he filled out the entry form. As accustomed as he was to dealing with the public, he felt suddenly shy and realized he was blushing.

  “Forty-seven in cake, thirty-three in pie, fourteen in loaf bread, and twenty-six in biscuits!” recited the official, looking pleased with herself.

  He claimed a chair toward the back and sat nervously through the slide show about making flour. As the award ceremonies began, he hammered down on biting his cuticles.

  The sound system wasn’t exactly borrowed from Radio City Music Hall, and during the awards part, Lew knew he misunderstood several things the judges said.

  Like, when they announced the winner in the biscuit division, he could have sworn they said Use yellow batter marshmallow. He soon realized they said Louella Baxter Marshall.

  Once again, he wondered why in the dickens he’d done all this, anyway. Sure, he could use the money, who couldn’t, yet it seemed like the part he liked best was the baking, itself, and thinking about the good feeling he had when he won that pickle contest back in 4-H, and afterward, how Earlene Dickson had puckered up her lips and shut her eyes before she kissed him on the mouth and run off, laughing.

  When the judges announced the winning cake, Lew was positive he heard wrong.

  “What’d they say?” he asked Percy Mosely, who sat next to him.

  “They said Dooley Barlowe.”

  “What about Dooley Barlowe?” asked Lew.

  “Dooley won th’ cake contest with a three-layer orange marmalade.”

  Lew felt like somebody had punched him in the stomach. He couldn’t believe Granmaw Minnie’s chocolate cake hadn’t won; it had never occurred to him, even for a moment, that it wouldn’t win. Everybody in his family, everybody in his hometown of Siler’s Creek, and even the lieutenant governor who once judged it at the fair, knew her cake to be an unfailing winner.

  Afraid he’d bust out crying, he got up and headed at a trot to the men’s room.

  Hope Winchester didn’t want anyone to see how jittery she was, nor did she want anyone to think it really mattered whether she won or lost.

  To further this intent, she brought a book with her and sat in the very back row of the town hall, reading Emily Eden.

  “The library at St. Mary’s was of a high, old-fashioned form, and within it was a small flight of steps which led to a light gallery built round…”

  The announcement crackled over the microphone. “And now, the winning entry in the loaf bread division…”

  “…three sides of the room, giving thus an easy access to the…”

  “…let’s see, here’s the card right here…”

  “…higher shelves of books. The room itself was full of odd, deep recesses….”

  “…the very savory and delicious Beard’s Raisin Bread, baked by Hope Winchester!”

  Hope dropped the book on the floor and bent to pick it up, her face flaming.

  “Where are you, Miss Winchester? Ah, there she is! Come right up, and we hope you have a big pocket to put all this money in!”

  Hope’s heart was pounding furiously as she mounted the steps to the podium. She felt an uncharacteristically large smile freeze on her face, and was concerned that it might never go away.

  “Congratulations, Miss Winchester! Now, tell us, what are you going to do with your five hundred dollars?”

  She hadn’t expected to be asked anything at all, and was utterly stunned by the question. Without meaning to, she blurted into the microphone what she had desperately wanted to keep to herself.

  “I’m going to buy my mother a wedding and engagement ring,” she said. “She never had either one, really, because my father…because their money…”

  She noticed that her voice was getting louder. “I mean, she had a band, but it got lost in the washing, and she never got another one because our money had to go for other things…and then my father was killed, and it took all she had to send me to college and buy my books and…”

  She stopped and looked at the check handed to her and was suddenly, to her great humiliation and confusion, blinded by tears.

  After filling out the form and entering his pie with thirty-two others at Town Hall, Uncle Billy realized he felt as tuckered as if he’d plowed a cornfield.

  He had never seen the place so crowded, even for a town meeting. In fact, he didn’t see an empty seat anywhere.

  “Uncle Billy!” Winnie Ivey, who owned the Sweet Stuff Bakery, jumped up to give him her chair on the front row.

  “As a professional, I can’t enter th’ dern contest!” she said. “So I sure don’t need to sit down front! Good luck, and I hope you win.”

  He was mighty glad to take a load off his feet, and visit with everyone around him. And it was a treat to see Louella win the biscuit division; the whole crowd stood and cheered at the announcement. When asked what secret she had for making such fine biscuits, Louella said, “Short-’nin’ is th’ trick, honey, make ’em plenty short and don’t hold back.”

  As far as the prize money was concerned, Uncle Billy figured there were lots of people who needed it more than he did. Even the oil in his tank, thanks to the good heart of the mayor, was taken care of.

  Of course, winning wasn’t the point, anyway, the point was to see if he could search back across the faded years and unlock the mysterious secret of his mother’s pies. And in his heart, he knew he’d done it.

  When he tasted the pie filling before sunrise this morning, he recognized that a wondrous thing had happened—something outside his own ken and ability, maybe a miracle.

  Even the crust, which had cracked down the middle the first time, had come around to his way of thinking and slipped into the pan as perfect as you please. He had cut away the dough overhanging the pan and ate every bite of the trimmings, considering it breakfast.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” said the Golden Band Flour spokesman, “we’re going to do something we haven’t done in any other of the fine towns we’ve visited…

  “Our judges were so impressed by an entry called Granmaw Minnie’s Chocolate Cake that we’re prepared to award a very special consolation prize.

  “Will Mister Lew Boyd please come forward?”

  “Where is Lew?” Gene Bolick asked Percy Mosely.

  “I don’t know, I seen ’im go in yonder a little bit ago.” Percy pointed toward the men’s room.

  “I’ll check,” said Gene.

  Gene found Lew just coming out of the stall, his eyes as red as if he’d stayed up all night playing gin rummy.

  “Congratulations!” said Gene, dragging him out the door and into the hall.

  “On what?” asked Lew.

  “The consolation prize!”

  The microphone honked and squeaked. “Mr. Lew Boyd—is he here?”

  The editor o
f the Mitford Muse pushed through the crowd with his Nikon and grabbed Lew’s arm. “That’s you, buddyroe. Get on up there so I can crank off a shot for Monday’s front page.”

  As the crowd poured out of Town Hall, Gene Bolick hurried home and gave his wife a bear hug. He was proud of her and no two ways about it.

  “Well, Doll, you’ve done it again! There were nine marmalades runnin’ against you, but th’ one you baked was…”

  Esther ignored the joyous fibrillation of her heart. “I didn’t bake it, Dooley baked it.”

  “It looked to me like you did most of the work.”

  “I didn’t,” said Esther. “I set it all out and told him what to do and he did it. He earned his prize, and Hessie Mayhew called and said he gave me credit. Did you hear his speech?”

  “He stood right up there and said, I baked my cake from the best cake recipe in the whole nation, compliments of Miz Esther Bolick!”

  “Did he say nation? Hessie thought he said state.”

  “Nation is exactly what he said.”

  “Well,” said Esther. A smile crept onto her face. “I declare!”

  Louella Baxter Marshall asked the nurse to dial the number, and when it was busy, the nurse showed her how to push re-dial. Louella pushed re-dial two times before Miss Violet’s grandson answered. He was so happy he was coming to see his granmaw that he shouted a happy shout right into the phone. “But I wouldn’t wait ’til Thanksgivin’,” Louella said, keeping her voice low.

  Louella didn’t know when she had moved so fast in a wheelchair.

  She turned right into Miss Violet’s room, where the crocheted ballerina slippers hung on the door. “Miss Vi’let?”

  Miss Violet’s paper-thin eyelids fluttered.

  “Who you think is comin’ t’ see you nex’ week?”

  “I don’t know. You, I guess.”

  “No, Miss Vi’let, this goin’ t’ be somebody special.” Louella’s large, strong hand stroked the small, frail hand.

  “You’re special,” said Miss Violet, meaning it.

  “Yes, ma’am, but this be somebody han’some an’ young.”

  “I don’t know anybody handsome and young.” Her chaplain at Hope House was handsome and young, but he was on vacation.

  “Yes, ma’am, you do,” said Louella. “You try an’ think, now.”

  Miss Violet thought hard. “Bobby Darin!” she exclaimed, lacking any earthly idea why he’d want to come all the way to Mitford from Hollywood.

  “Mother?” Hope Winchester stood by the oxygen tent, the ring box in her pocket, holding the raisin bread aloft.

  Her mother looked up and, for the first time in what seemed a long time, smiled at her daughter.

  Hope became aware that she was saying something over and over in her mind, as the words of a song or a jingle sometimes repeat themselves and won’t go away. She was saying, Thank you, God.

  Uncle Billy asked Coot Hendrick to ride him down to the Preacher’s office at the other end of Main Street.

  “I’d be beholden to you for a piece of that pie,” said Coot, when it appeared he wouldn’t be offered any.

  “I’ll be bakin’ another’n next day or two, I’ll see to it you git a piece,” said the old man.

  At the church office, he put his cane over his arm and carried his pie to the door and walked in without knocking. Nobody ever knocked at the Preacher’s office.

  “Well, sir,” he said to Father Tim, “I didn’t win that fool contest up th’ street.” He put the pie, which was missing the judges’ slice, on the rector’s desk, then peeled back the tea towel to reveal his handiwork.

  “Smells good!” said Father Tim, as the aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg floated out into the small room.

  “I want t’ give you and Miss Cynthia half of it. You’uns have been awful good to me an’ Rose.” Uncle Billy grinned broadly, displaying his gold tooth.

  “Let’s see,” said Father Tim, scratching his head. “What will I carry half of it in?”

  Uncle Billy pondered this. In the meantime, he thought it looked mighty tasty sitting there on the desk with the tea towel rolled back.

  “Tell you what,” said the old man, “let’s you and me jis’ set down right here and eat th’ whole thing.”

  When Lew Boyd arrived at Golden Band Flour Company in Bishopville, just over the state line from Mitford, three people came out to the lobby to greet him, one being the vice president of the whole shebang. A secretary aimed a point-and-shoot camera in his direction and took a picture to go in the company newsletter.

  The consolation prize, which he had come to collect, was a plant tour, a night in Bishopville’s finest and only hotel, a steak dinner with the marketing department, and a five-pound bag of Golden Band self-rising.

  As soon as the plant tour was over, he asked what he’d wanted to ask since he hit the front door.

  “Is there a phone I could use? It’s a local call.”

  He sat in an office with his bag of flour, and carefully combed his hair. Then he looked up the number of the library where he heard she was working since her husband died.

  He dialed the number with a ballpoint pen, his hand shaking.

  “Earlene?” he said when she came to the phone. His throat was dry as a crumb.

  “This is Lew Boyd. Remember me?”

  Calling Home: Prayer

  Imagine this:

  Your children are grown and gone, and you miss them terribly. Much to your sorrow, they call home only once in a blue moon—or not at all.

  This is loosely akin to the relationship that many of us have with God. There are some who check in with Him regularly, and some who never bother to call Home.

  We know how we feel when our children don’t call, and I believe it matters deeply to God when we fail to connect with Him in prayer.

  As Father Tim says in A New Song, “God wishes us to be as near to us as our very breath.” There’s simply no way to have a relationship with Him unless we talk to Him—and also listen.

  St. James said, “Draw nigh to God and He will draw nigh to you.”

  King David said, “The Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon Him, to all that call upon Him in truth.”

  Oswald Chambers said this: “Prayer doesn’t fit us for the greater work, prayer is the greater work.”

  I hope you’ll call Home right now. And whether we tell Him everything or merely utter His name, God is longing to hear the prayer that’s in our hearts.

  HE LEFT the coffee-scented warmth of the Main Street Grill and stood for a moment under the green awning.

  The honest cold of an early mountain spring stung him sharply.

  He often noted the minor miracle of passing through a door into a completely different world, with different smells and attractions. It helped to be aware of the little things in life, he told himself, and he often exhorted his congregation to do the same.

  * * *

  “Nothing is worth more than this day.”

  —Goethe

  * * *

  As he headed toward the church office two blocks away, he was delighted to discover that he wasn’t walking, at all. He was ambling.

  It was a pleasure he seldom allowed himself. After all, it might appear that he had nothing else to do, when in truth he always had something to do.

  He decided to surrender himself to the stolen joy of it, as some might eat half a box of chocolates at one sitting, without remorse.

  He arrived at the office, uttering the prayer he had offered at its door every morning for twelve years: “Father, make me a blessing to someone today, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  At Home in Mitford, Ch. 1

  AT THE CHURCH, he found the door unlocked and, coming inside in his snow-encrusted boots, was greeted by the lush, alluring fragrance of flowers. Their fresh scent spoke at once to his heart and lightened his sober thoughts.

  He looped the red leash around a chair leg and took off his boots as Barnabas lay down contentedly. Apparently, the A
ltar Guild had been in to arrange the flowers and had forgotten to lock the side door. He must speak to them about it, of course.

  Not that he didn’t like an unlocked church. No, indeed; he preferred it. If there was anything disheartening, it was to seek out a church for prayer and refreshment and find its doors barred.

  But the Mortlake tapestry, woven in 1675 and now hanging behind the altar, was of such extraordinary rarity that the insurance company not only demanded a darkened room and locked doors, it stipulated the type of locks.

  It was unusual for him to visit Lord’s Chapel on Saturday, but today he was seeking special refreshment of his own. Who was there, after all, to counsel the counselor? He crossed himself. “Revive me, O Lord,” he prayed, “according to Thy word.”

  At Home in Mitford, Ch. 11

  * * *

  “What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.”

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  “Mercy has converted more souls than zeal, or eloquence, or learning, or all of them together.”

  —Søren Kierkegaard

  * * *

  AS HE PAUSED TO let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the nave, he heard a strange sound. Then, toward the front, on the gospel side, he saw a man kneeling in a pew. Suddenly, he leaned back and uttered such a desperate cry that the rector’s heart fairly thundered.

  Give me wisdom, he prayed for the second time that morning. Then he stood waiting. He didn’t know for what.

  “If you’re up there, prove it! Show me! If you’re God, you can prove it!” In the visitor’s voice was a combination of anger, despair, and odd hope.

  “I’ll never ask you this again,” the man said coldly, and then, with a fury that chilled his listener, he shouted again, “Are…you…up…there?”

  With what appeared to be utter exhaustion, he put his head in his hands as the question reverberated in the nave.