Evenings in the Parlor: Part I

 

    The cold came earlier than usual that October, or at least that’s the way it felt.  The first snow, though short-lived, came on the sixth of the month, and it never warmed up afterwards nor dried out.  The results were that getting in the spud harvest was particularly miserable.  The one thing that lightened the misery of long days mucking in the fields was the extended stay of the many cousins from Utah who had come to help the Idaho cousins with the fall work.  It was a houseful.

     After long days of following behind the digger, filling wire baskets with the potatoes, emptying them into gunny sacks, and loading them on the wagon, everyone looked forward to one of Ma’s magnificent harvest suppers.  Everyone’s spirits lifted as they walked back to the house.  The laughter began, and so did the teasing. The creek that separated the outhouse from the back porch of the house was lined with thick willows that nearly concealed the footbridge.  Before coming into the house, the girls would line up to use the outhouse and then head across the little bridge to clean up for supper.  The boys mysteriously found their need to use the outhouse vanished by the time they made it through the willows to the house.  All would clean up in one large tub of warm water that Ma had prepared just outside the back door.  By the time everyone had left their mud-caked boots on the back porch, the tub of water looked as muddy as the boots.

           On the way into the house, the boys had noticed the ax firmly embedded in the bloody chopping block -- always an excellent sign of chicken dumplings.  They were not disappointed.  During the meal, Ma thrived on the frequent exclamations of satisfaction as she served out seconds and thirds.  Though she had boiled potatoes as a side dish, she couldn’t encourage the spud crew to do any more than take a token lump or two.  By the time the meal was over and the dishes were clean, she seemed to have had her fill of the youthful, boisterous company and encouraged everyone to find someone else to share the headache that accompanied so many teenagers.

          It was growing cold enough that no one felt much like going all the way to the grange hall to see if there were any activities.  It seemed much better to stay put.   Besides the kitchen, the only other place that was comfortably warm was the parlor, so nearly all made that their destination for the remainder of the evening.  They could hear Ma singing one of her many Danish folk songs as she moved rapidly around the kitchen preparing a round of cinnamon rolls.

          The parlor was a bit small for so many people.  Much of the room was occupied by high-backed chairs that formed a semi-circle around an exotic Persian carpet.  An old wood stove stood off to the side, and a coal oil lamp sat on a table at the focus of the semi-circle.  There was an electric bulb that hung at the end of a bare wire from the center of the ceiling, but Ma disapproved of such things.  The walls were hung with photographs and tintypes of relatives in ornamental frames.

          Those early Haroldsens were a talented bunch.  Nearly everyone played a musical instrument, and all of the visiting cousins remembered to bring their music cases.  They formed a circle of musicians, all jockeying for a coveted position close, but not too close to the stove.  Unfortunately, the fun of the family band only could last so long.  After playing some of the more rousing tunes that they all knew, invariably the older girls would exchange their playing for shrieking at the boys, who out of boredom began to make what seemed to them amusing improvisations.

          As the musical portion of the evening deteriorated, a few of the cousins periodically vanished, perhaps hopeful of those cinnamon rolls.  Others broke out a variety of games.  Some of the boys tempted a few of the girls to join them as they pulled out a deck of cards.  The oldest girl, Eleanor, tsked at them for such degenerate indulgences.  This of course only made the game all the more appealing. 

           The dim light made it difficult to see for those furthest from the lamp.  As Oliver reached to turn up the flame of the oil lamp, his hand froze in midair.  The others looked at his hand and then followed his frozen gaze fastened on the picture of Grandma Inger hanging on the wall.  For at least fifteen interminable seconds, that picture was the only thing that moved in the parlor.  It began with a sudden jolt, and then after a moment of inactivity erupted into a frenzied, rattling dance.  Then the motor control of the teenagers sitting on the floor closest to the picture returned; they crab-walked violently away, bowling into those on the other side of the circle.  Girls embraced one another.  Some of the boys began to do the same, then stopped abruptly when it occurred to them what they were doing.