Anya kept quieter than usual over the next few days, hoping against hope Joe wouldn’t notice her pregnancy till she came up with a plan.  She wouldn’t be able to hide it much longer.  She’d been here since the last of February and it was nearly June.  She might be as much as four months now.  She’d never invited Joe into her bed and he’d spent his nights in the barn.

Joe called her out to talk to him.  “We got trouble.  Come walk with me over this ridge. ”

Her heart nearly stopped, thinking he’d noticed her condition.

They walked a long way toward the field without speaking.  “Remember I told you I was letting the cow go dry ‘cause she’s gonna to calve in June.  Look out there.”  He pointed to some white lacy-topped weeds that had sprung up in a hollow near the creek.  “See that.  Somehow, I missed them weeds and the cow got in ‘em.   Now she’s done lost her calf.  We needed that calf and the milk and now we ain’t got neither.  I don’t know what we gonna do for milk.  Them young’uns has got to have milk.  I hate to let ‘em down.”

“Them weeds made her throw her calf?  I never heard of such a thing.  I hate we lost the calf, but is the cow gonna be okay?”  For the first time, Anya had a flicker of hope.

“The cow is fine.  We just ain’t gonna have no milk for nearly a year.  After a few days, I’ll have to git her over to Fred Mason’s bull.  I ain’t got no money for another cow, but  I’m gonna see if I can help Fred git his crops in in trade for a goat or two.  He’s got all them young’uns and they keep a few milk goats to keep’em in milk when his cow dries up for a while.  I might have to work off the place for a few days, but I don’t see no way around it.  Do you reckon I could git you to keep the place goin’ while I’m gone?  I know it a in’t a woman’s place to do all this heavy work.  I hate so bad to ask you, but I don’t see no other way?”

Anya took his hand.  “I’d be proud to.  Workin’ ain’t no problem to me.  I need to earn my keep and help you out.  You been good to me.”

Joe, looked into her eyes.  “You’re a fine woman.  It’s easy being good to you.  I thank you.”

For the first time, Anya felt hope.

Apology  Got my stories out of sequence.  To catch up, please go back and read 17 a just posted.  Then move on to 17 b before you read this.  Anna flung the door open thinking Joe was coming in with milk and eggs.  A tall, thin woman in homespun holding a basket laughed at her surprise.  “I’m Emma, Rufus’s wife.  I was so proud to hear Joe had a new wife I didn’t wait for no invite.  When Rufus said he was coming over to see if Joe I clumb right up in the wagon.  I brung you some eggs, butter, and molasses for a welcome.  It’s gonna be good to have a woman close by to neighbor with. You got any coffee left?”

Though Anya would have hoped to avoid company, she warmed to Emma’s warmth and pulled out a chair from the table for her.  “Set yourself down.  I think the coffee’s still hot.”  She poured them both a cup and put a couple of biscuits on a plate to go with the butter and molasses.

Emma spread butter on a biscuit, ate it thoughtfully, and smiled.  “You make a mighty fine biscuit.  You gonna be a good wife to Joe.  They ain’t nothin’ like good cookin’ to keep a man happy.  I’m glad of it.  I always been partial to Joe.  He’s been alone too long.”

Sally toddled up to Anya’s knee, demanding her attention.  Anya gave her a sip of milk from a cup while she gathered her thoughts, not wanting to betray herself.  “Biscuits do please a man.  I’m proud you like mine.”

“Your baby looks just like you with that white hair and blue eyes.  Maybe Joe will lucky and the one comin’ will look like him.

Once again, thank you and Happy Thanksgiving o all the hardworking people who keep things going for the rest of us on holidays.  Be sure to thank those working in stores, gas stations,your hairdresser, utility workers.  Should you go to emergency room or visit someone in a hospital or nursing home, you’ll see folks who regularly sacrifice to care for others, regardless of the holidays.  Our military, firemen and policemen are on the job as usual.  Our mail carriers are struggling under greater than usual demands.  Thanks for keeping things going regardless of the holiday

It’s not what you think. They were good friends. The Axe-Murderer had played the piano at Little Pearson Methodist Church for years. She never missed a service, but let me start at the beginning, the part where Cousin Kat took us to visit her.

I’d heard of Cousin Kat, my mother’s first cousin all my life. Though even Mother had never met her namesake, we’d had letters once a week from her all my life. She was the eldest daughter of Grandma’s brother, Ed. Grandma had written Ed’s wife, Aunt Winnie, ever since Grandma left Virginia as a bride. Ed died and left Winnie a widow, with seven children under twelve. Grandma kept up with them, writing at least weekly. As soon as Cousin Kat got old enough, she started writing.

Though none of us met Cousin Kat till she came to see us in the 1980s, with so much correspondence having passed back and forth, we all felt like we knew each other.

She was an eccentric delight, always upbeat and chipper. On one of our first visits to Cousin Kat in Virginia, she took Mother and me to services at the Methodist Church Grandma had attended. It was lovely, simple and likely unchanged since Grandma was a girl. After the services and dinner on the grounds that followed, we met everyone in the tiny community, most of whom were our relatives. Cousin Kat made a special point to have us spend time with Miss Betsy, a shy little lady who didn’t have a lot to say. As we left, Cousin Kat offered Miss Betsy a ride home, like always.

Sweet, little Miss Betsy lived a couple of miles up the mountain in a lovely shady glade in a little white house looked like something off a postcard from heaven. We had coffee and teacakes, admired the old pictures of the precious little redheaded children over her mantle as she remarked, “That little ‘un was my baby Peggy. The boy was Tommy. We had a terrible tragedy when they were little, but I can’t remember much about it.” That definitely put a damper on the visit. Then she brightened as she pointed out a recent picture of a handsome young man with a wife and four children. “That’s my son Pete. He lives in D.C. with his family. They’ll be here next weekend.

We all admired Pete and his lovely family. As we headed home, naturally I wanted to know more about the terrible tragedy Miss Betsy alluded to. Cousin Kate, remarked, “Well, people around here are pretty hard on her about that, but I always believe in letting bygones, be bygones. Betsy was always a good girl, just kind of ‘high strung.’ She really got notiony after she had her babies. Dave had to put her in the State Hospital Mental for a few weeks after she had Tommy. She had some trouble for a good while after Peggy was born, too, stayed in the hospital awhile, then Dave brought her home, thinking she was okay. She was still feelin’ purty low, but able to take care of the kids and house.

Pete was in school by then. He come home and saw blood in the kitchen an’ Tommy under the table. He run an’ got Dave from the field. Dave come runnin’ in an’ Betsy hacked his arm with the axe as he came in the door. They got the sheriff out there to take her back to the State Mental Hospital, but before they took’er, they let’er get out the kids’ burial clothes. She’d made Peggy the sweetest little yellow and white-checked dress and made Tommy and Pete matching blue suits. It just about broke my heart!

She stayed in the hospital a long time. They gave her a bunch of shock treatments. After a few years she got out and came home to live with Pete and Dave. Dave died a few years back. Pete comes back to visit sometimes, but don’t spend the night or leave her with the kids. She don’t remember nothing now, just tiptoes around like a ghost. She never has anything to say, unless somebody talks to her first. Don’t nobody around here have much to do with Betsy. I thought it might help her to see somebody new. “

I have to admit that was an interesting experience, but hoped we hadn’t intruded on sweet, sad Miss Betsy, God Bless her and her family.

As the Pirate ship approached the fearsome ship, the captain told his aide, “Get me my red shirt!”  He fought fearlessly in his red shirt, winning the day.

After the battle, the aide asked, “Why did you want your red shirt?

“I knew I might be injured and didn’t want the men to lose heart!”

“Ah!  That makes sense.”

Just then the captain saw an entire fleet approaching.  “Get me my brown pants!”