Curtis, part seventeen

Leta better understood how her new husband's house achieved such a state of disarray and filth. After an unquestionably busy Sunday, in which both worked nearly non-stop, he collapsed into bed right after a late supper with the directive to her to leave the unwashed supper dishes in the kitchen and get some sleep herself.

“Tomorra’s gonna to be a busy day,” he said.

But Leta couldn’t leave the mess. There was even leftover stew that she wanted to serve for lunch the next day. And more than any other type of housecleaning, she detested leaving her kitchen dirty. Besides, it would not take her that long to finish, at least with the dishes and pots that they had used for supper. Cleaning the rest of the kitchen would need to be pushed back another day.

As it had the previous day, Leta’s Monday began at 4:30 a.m., and by six, she had milked the cows, separated the milk, filled the newly cleaned milk canister and started breakfast. While she was cooking, her husband came into the kitchen, after counting the chickens, with two scrawny-looking teenaged boys.

“I hope you made enough for four,” he announced. “These boys is purty hungry, ain’tcha boys?”

“Yes sir,” one of the boys answered in a slow drawl.

Leta grimaced, but stayed silent.

“Give me a sec,” she requested. “I’ll just fry up some more eggs. There’s only a couple-three biscuits left from last night, but you’re welcome to them. And I have some berries in the sink. How does that sound?”

“I sure like me some biscuits,” the other boy grumbled.

“’Course you does, boy,’ her husband agreed. “We all does. Mrs. Curtis will whip some right up, won’t you, Mrs. Curtis?”

“Tell you what, then,” Leta suggested in an even tone that concealed her annoyance. “Get yourselves washed up, and I’ll get them going. Then you can have them fresh from the oven.”

“Alrighty then,” the first boy concurred.

Leta was an efficient cook, so she made a batch of biscuits in less than thirty minutes, and fed the three men. As she suspected, the scrawny boys devoured everything and were still unsatisfied. She had intended to sit with them, but spent her time at the stove, frying more eggs and making more biscuits.

“This breakfast is so tasty,” her husband said between bites, “that I tell you what, Mrs. Curtis. I’m a gonna have these boys slaughter the chickens for ya today.”

“Thank you,” Leta said. “I could also use some assistance hanging a clothesline. It’s Monday…and wash day.”

“A course,” Curtis agreed. “But there’s a girl coming pretty soon. She can help ya.”

“A girl? Really?” Leta questioned.

“She’ll have two little ones with her, but she’ll be helping you out. And they’ll all be here for lunch.”

To be continued.

Curtis, part sixteen

Leta's face flushed with anger. It was nearly seven in the evening. She had already started the coffee, and actually held one of the bowls in her hand to ladle the vegetable stew into. Her husband Curtis was seated and had even sipped the water she poured for him. They were in conversation about selling some of their farm products, and then he abruptly asked her to make biscuits and walked out the door. Making biscuits would take another thirty minutes.

His behavior startled and infuriated her, so she started to follow him. After spending her entire afternoon cleaning the cellar and sorting the edible from the rotten produce stored there, she was tired and hungry. She was ready to eat right then. But Curtis didn’t go very far. He gave a cursory glance toward the makeshift worktable she created in the backyard and then sat on an old stump.

She growled in frustration, took a deep breath and returned to the kitchen. She quickly pulled the coffee pot off the burner. It had not started to perk yet. Fortunately, among the crusty and mold-filled dishes and cooking pans scattered around the kitchen and living room, she had already located and cleaned all of the items she would need to make biscuits for her new husband.

As she made the dough, she reluctantly agreed that he was right. They had purchased only one loaf of bread at the market on the previous day, and would be better served to enjoy it for toast or sandwiches. Besides, waiting for the biscuits to bake, she could wash a few more of the dishes. Although she was making some headway—Curtis had an inordinate number of plates, bowls, silverware, cups and glasses for one person—she had already filled one of the cabinets with clean ones.

Thirty minutes later, they ate warm biscuits smothered in butter with their stew.

“And there’s still pie for dessert,” she said cheerfully. “If I have time tomorrow, I’ll get some more berries and make another one. Or I could make strawberry shortcake.”

“Won’t have time, I suspect,” Curtis responded curtly and then continued eating in silence.

When he finished, he burped loudly and rose from the table. The sun was setting, and the house was growing dark.

“Time for bed,” he announced, stretched and patted the bulge of his tummy.

Leta smiled; she took his gesture as a sign that he enjoyed his meal, even though she had not the time or inclination to tackle the killing and cleaning of the chicken he suggested.

“Would you please light the lamp for me, so I can get these dishes done up?” she asked as she cleared the table.

She was standing at the sink, which she filled with the water she had been boiling, and when she didn’t hear a response or note her husband moving, she turned back to where he had been standing. He was gone, and so was the lantern that had been sitting on the table.

“Curtis?” she called lightly, and walked through the house and up the stairs to their bedroom, where he was stripping off his work clothes.

“I’m taking the lamp to do up the dishes,” she said. “There’s not enough light left for me to see what I’m doing down there.”

“Leave them and come to bed,” he urged. “Tomorra’s gonna to be a busy day.”

To be continued.

Curtis, part fifteen

Leta spent her entire Sunday throwing rotten produce away and dumping out jar after jar of home canned fruit and vegetables that obviously had been sitting for years. Her husband had disappeared after lunch—to deliver two days worth of gathered eggs to the distributor, he said. This gave her the quiet to work. The kitchen table was too large for her to drag out to the back yard, so she settled with a board over two of the side tables from the living room. One was rickety, making the makeshift table rather unstable, but she made do. While cleaning the disaster of a kitchen had been her original plan for the day, learning about the cellar with its decaying produce changed her plan very quickly.

After all, they needed to eat, and Curtis was very unwilling to drive to the market every day. The old icebox had no ice to keep anything. And in her estimation, they couldn’t live solely on eggs and dairy products.

In addition to sorting the vegetables and washing the emptied jars, Leta also churned butter, milked the cows, made supper and cleaned one cabinet, where she stored the few dishes she had managed to clean. Before he disappeared, Curtis brought a large chicken to the back yard. Of his 200 or so laying hens, he selected that one for her to prepare for his supper.

But she didn’t have time, she told him at six-thirty when he returned to the house, finding the chicken in the cage in the back and smelling a mostly vegetable stew simmering on the stove. She had been too busy cleaning the cellar.

“Then we better have it tomorrow,” he said pointedly.

The truth was that Leta had no idea how to kill and clean a chicken. While she had spent parts of her summers on her Uncle John’s farm, learned how to milk the cows and frequently helped feed the livestock, she had never participated in any of the killing. Her uncle, aunt, cousins and even sisters thought she was far too sensitive to do so. She wasn’t sure how to share this information with her husband. After all, she had been showing her farm prowess over the past two days, and she knew that he definitely considered all steps of preparing food woman’s work.

“I scrubbed the three milk canisters from the cellar,” she said, as she poured him a fresh glass of water. “We should be able to sell at least one canister of milk per day. Your cows love to produce. I can get three buckets each, counting both morning and evening. I figure we could do one of milk and a half-one of buttermilk and then there’s the butter. We can get two or three pats a day, and will only use one ourselves, at most. That is, if you have someone who’ll buy it.”

“We’ll probably use it all,” he mumbled.

She turned to him questioningly; his face lacked expression. Then he cleared his throat and said, “How about some fresh biscuits to go with that stew?”

“Right now?” She asked. “But the stew is nearly done.”

“I said, it would go good with biscuits, I think,” he answered then rose from the table. “Let me know when they’re ready.”

Then he walked out the door.

To be continued.