Author: admin

When I was younger, I lived by a wide canal. In the mornings, the sun rose like a long gold ball on the water. The drawbridge was next to my house and when the bridge went up, the cars lined down the road waiting for the bridge to close. When the bridge went down, the boats lined up waiting for the bridge to open.

Every morning, I made two hundred biscuits. That’s all the pans that would fit in my stove. At six o’clock, I opened my kitchen window and started selling.

I had sausage biscuits, bacon biscuits with cheese, fried eggs with ham biscuits, potatoes with onions biscuits. You name it.

When the bridge was up, they left their cars and ran to my window. When the bridge was down, the tug boats sat behind the long sand barges and the men would hold up a sign, “Fourteen sausage.” By the time they rowed over on their inflatable rafts, I had their order ready. When the drawbridge hinged open, they revved up their engines. “Marry me, Sophie,” they hollered.

I shook my head at them. Can you make me a better biscuit?

When I sold out of biscuits, I closed my window and pulled down the shade. “Please, Sophie,” they pleaded. “I was just late today.”

“Come back tomorrow. I’m open everyday but Christmas.”

When I got a free minute, I ran a bacon biscuit to the bridge man. He watched out for me and I watched out for him.

There was a huge spreading tree by that canal bank. I often sat there in the evenings. When the sun went down, it shone on all the boats that were moored there over night. Some were sleek yachts, enormous sail boats, wooden planks nailed on top of oil cans. At dusk, the geese would fly in a honking V and swoop down under my tree for the broken biscuits. Then they’d waddle to the reeds and sleep on the water.

~~~

The first time Charlie held up a sign on his old red tug boat, it said, “Eighteen sausage.”

I shook my head at him. That late in the day I only had cheese.

“Whatever you got!” Came the next sign and by then the bridge was hinging open and I was flying to get his order. By the time Charlie rowed over for his biscuits, the cars on the road had to wait. Still, he kissed my hand through the open window before he rowed back.

That weekend Charlie installed a tiny crane outside my window. “You put the biscuits in here,” he showed me the little basket. “You crank this lever.” Which I did, and the whole thing craned out over the water.

Charlie’s eyes got excited, “I made this by myself.” And the next morning he steered his tug boat into the crank spot extra early. “Eighteen sausage,” he held up the sign. So, I put them into the little basket, turned the crank, and amid great cheers, they whisked overtop all the other boats and Charlie reached from his deck and grabbed them.”

“Marry me, Sophie,” he hollered.

Can you make me a better biscuit?

~~~

The first day after the hurricane flooded, the canal swelled to the top of its banks. On the second day, the water was up to the boat dock as Charlie maneuvered his tug to the edge of the ramp. He hefted out my enormous lard cans, my sacks of flour, my kitchen table and chairs. “You have to marry me now,” he grinned as the water lapped over my porch. I stood on the bow of his tug boat as the water crept into my house.

But by the next day, it was all back down again. Charlie set up the bilge pumps and sucked out my house. “I thought I had you,” he laughed.

I tossed my head at him, “Can you make me a better biscuit?”

Charlie folded his arms across his chest and studied me, “Yes, Sophie, I can.”

~~~

In late December, the great big pleasure boats went into the marina for winter storage. On cold, dark mornings, I saw my breath in the open window. Charlie strung colored lights around his tug boat. In the barest dawn, he held a flashlight onto his sign, “All your cinnamons.”

I cranked out forty-eight cinnamons with warm honey butter. Those men ate them whole, licking their fingers, before I cranked my money back.

On Christmas Day the canal was extra quiet. The street by my house was completely empty. I made the coffee as the sun rose shining from the water. Then someone tapped on my window.

“You know I’m closed today.”

“I’ve made you something,” Charlie said and when I opened the door, he gave me a brown paper bag. Inside it was the most lopsided, pathetic biscuit you might imagine.

“I made that by myself,” he beamed. “Pinch off a piece of it.”

It tasted like egg shells.

“Break it open.”

There was an engagement ring inside it. The inscription said, “I love you.”

“What do you think,” he grinned, but his eyes looked frightened.

I held that ring to the morning sun. All down the canal, there was a wide and happy glow. I slipped the ring on my finger and kissed him.

He’d made me a better biscuit.

***

A Better Biscuit is written by Suzanne Mays.

Suzanne Mays is a novelist and short story writer. Her stories are about women in search of land, family, and peace in themselves. Usually set in the mountains, they possess a quiet humor. Her novel, The Man Inside the Mountain is the story of Essie Bell, a woman who believes her son has survived the Civil War and is hiding in the mountain behind her farm.

The Maple Tree Inn started life as a rich man’s farmhouse. “Old Nick’s a rich man, indeed,” my father told me. “He won’t eat hot dogs.”

We lived over the ridge from Nick and there was a rolling pasture where I’d train my binoculars on Nick as he hobbled about on his cane. One day he limped up the field to me. “What’s your name little girl?”

“Jenny.”

“Would you like a peppermint, Jenny?”

I liked peppermint and soon learned Nick kept a pocketful in his old red coat. When he was able to get around, we’d share a peppermint and talk about horses. Every year before Christmas Nick went down to his horse farm in the south. “The sun is warmer on my bones there.” Then he’d give me this enormous bag of peppermints to last until spring. But the last year he hunched down close to me, “What do you want for Christmas, my Jenny?”

I closed my eyes and saw something glowing and bright. “Something wonderful,” I whispered.

Nick winked as he patted my head, “I’ll remember.”

Sadly, Old Nick died before the next spring. The farmhouse was converted to The Maple Tree Inn. That summer, I watched the proceedings. “It’s a rich man’s inn,” my father told me. “They won’t serve hot dogs.” By late fall, the wonderful old house looked grand, indeed.

The first Christmas they wrapped tiny white lights around the huge old maple tree and put candles in the windows. They held a wonderful party. I trained my binoculars as the ladies arrived in elegant dresses. The men wore handsome tuxedos. Laughter and music floated across the fields. Wood smoke curled from the grey stone chimney, and the Christmas tree stood clear to the ceiling!

In the cold, dark night, I vowed to grow up rich, elegant, and fine. I’d walk in The Maple Tree Inn and spend some time there.

***

As the years passed, my visits back home became rare. Still, at Christmas, I’d cut through the woods and look down. The inn had weathered with time. Gone were the elegant parties, yet the maple tree still blazed in the night. “The years have humbled them,” my father told me. “They might serve hot dogs.”

“Why don’t we see?”

Dad shook his head, “No need to start now.”

The day came, though, when my father went to live at the Ogden Nursing Home. Our little house was sold and in order to be near him at Christmas, I made a reservation at The Maple Tree Inn.

It was a cold, grey Christmas Eve when I turned off the main road and headed toward the inn. I’d had a long drive, a difficult visit with my father, and now the winter trees stood in an odd pink sky. Wind gusted across my windshield and it snowed – gently at first – then hard and blinding. In seconds, the windshield wipers whipped against a blizzard.

Yet, the maple tree stood bright in the swirling snow. My heart beat high with this wonderful hope as I opened the old door and stood there breathless. A warm fire burned in the fireplace. The Christmas tree glowed. There were apples baking, this warmth of welcome I’d always dreamed of.

“Come in from the cold,” a man said as he waved me inside. He wore old jeans and a reindeer sweater; his eyes were so familiar I felt I knew him. “I’m Dan,” he said and something inside me relaxed. Then he grinned like a school boy with great delight, “You have Old Nick’s room at the top of the stairs.”

“Old Nick who used to live here?”

“He’s still with us – but he’s friendly.”

I breathed in this wonderful thrill. And just as I started the stairs, there was this tiny jingle.

Old Nick’s room was under the eaves. The maple tree blazed outside as the gas fire purred. Little lamps glowed; there was a bowl of peppermints! I crawled under worn quilts and felt a peace I’d wanted for a very long time. Just as I drifted off to sleep, I heard, “What do you want for Christmas, my Jenny?”

And there was my same warm dream, my golden brightness. “Something wonderful,” I whispered.

***

The Christmas Eve Supper at The Maple Tree Inn was held at seven o’clock. I wore my emerald green dress that shimmered. Carols floated on the air as I stepped into the dining room with high hope, but it was completely empty except for a bedraggled little family: a tiny baby in his mother’s arms, a small boy and girl, and a drooped down father. Dan swung through the swinging kitchen door with a tray of hot soup and they all sat upright. Dan said, “Supper’s ready.”

My heart dropped.

“Everyone’s cancelled because of the blizzard, including the help.”

I ached at the pea green soup straight out of a can. So, when Dan went back to the kitchen, I followed him. Warm pies sat on the counter, but the rest of the kitchen stood empty. “Where’s the supper?” I asked.

“There’re four ladies. They cook everything at home and bring it. They couldn’t get here because of the snow, but neither could anyone else. This family got stranded.”

“This is it then?” I rummaged through the pantry, then the refrigerator. You guessed it – hot dogs – roasted over the open fire, a very big hit with the family.

“Apple pie for desert,” Dan swung through the swinging door.

All warm with vanilla ice cream and the kids spooned in big mouthfuls as they watched the windows. “Daddy, will Santa find us?”

Daddy looked broken.

Dan patted the little shoulder, “Santa knows right where you are. He hones in on the maple tree and never misses.”

The little faces smiled and soon we had them bundled into an upstairs bedroom. Then Dan and I went on a scavenger hunt and found an old sled, a rag doll, an outrageous assortment of presents and wrapped them in front of the fire.

Dan poured me a glass of wine and it danced in the firelight. The fire sent up a shower of peaceful sparks as we talked and the maple tree blazed in the soft pink light. Dan put his arm around me gently, “Merry Christmas.”

It took me a long time to get to the Maple Tree Inn, but once there – my dears – I’ve never left it. It’s a golden adventure, warm, wonderful and bright. Old Nick got it right.

***

The Maple Tree Inn is written by Suzanne Mays.

Suzanne Mays is a novelist and short story writer. Her stories are about women in search of land, family, and peace in themselves. Usually set in the mountains, they possess a quiet humor. Her novel, The Man Inside the Mountain is the story of Essie Bell, a woman who believes her son has survived the Civil War and is hiding in the mountain behind her farm.

I met Colonel Greydon on the last day of his life. We didn’t know it was his last day, but we knew he was dying. And he wanted to die at home, in peace, without prolonging it. He’d taken great care to have male nurses around the clock, because he was a private sort of man and didn’t want a woman tending his basic needs.

Gary told me all this on the phone but I lived close and could come right away. So, on the morning of the last day, I stood at the foot of the colonel’s bed as the night man hurried home to his kids. The colonel glared at me. “Where’s Gary?” he said.

“Gary was in an accident, sir. Last night going home, a fender bender and he thought he was ok, but this morning a pain shot through his back. So he’s gone to the emergency room to have it checked.”

“But you’re a wo . . .”

“Yes, sir, I know, and Gary told me you preferred a man and if I was sick, I’d want a woman tending to me, but it’s only for a while, sir. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to and Gary should be back any time.”

His eyes drilled into me, “What else has Gary told you?”

“That you’ve got your own mind, sir, even at your age, and you won’t take the full pain meds or zone out.” I babbled on until I stopped, ran out of words, and just stood there. It was familiar now, this fog of blankness.

“What do I call you?”

He said it forceful, using every bit of his strength until finally I roused, “It’s Alice, sir.”

“Well, Alice, are you in wonderland?” He looked around his sickroom which was a sunroom on the back of his house. It was all windows and they looked out on old trees. It was like we were in the middle of the forest with the sun shining down.

And I was named for Alice in Wonderland. My parents thought it was cute. So my husband used to say that – “Are you in wonderland?” – whenever we’d wake up on a camping trip and it was forty degrees outside with sleet coming into the tent. But I’d been with a lot of dying patients and to see the colonel in his own home, in this garden room with no tubes, no machines, because he’d refused all that, and have his right mind up to the very last.

“Yes, sir, I think you are. And Gary told me to fix you a boiled egg and maybe some cream of wheat and whatever you eat will be fine.” But I shouldn’t have said it, or spoke to him like a child, but I was unnerved, off kilter. His eyes shot fire and he waved for me to get out. He wouldn’t yell at a woman. At least I hoped it was that, otherwise, I was too stupid to waste his breath.

~~~

“Are you married?” the colonel asked as I tapped the razor in the metal pan and swished it around in the water. He’d relented to have me shave him out of total helplessness and a long standing career of being ready for anything, even his death.

I smeared shaving cream across his face and said, “I was.” And it was the first time I said “was” without thinking about it.

“So, did you tend him?” His eyes looked out of the white cream, and they were that blue like in an iceberg, it was almost ridiculous, except that I stood there. My brain froze. “Was he sick and you took care of him and that’s why you work with hospice now, or did you divorce?”

I shook my head. It was neither, but maybe, yes, why I worked with hospice now. I hadn’t connected it before. “He died in an accident, sir. We were camping in the mountains and met some fellows going repelling and climbing the rocks, and he fell. He slipped, it was this freak thing he’d done a hundred times but this time he fell. And I was sitting at the campsite reading a book and this rescue team raced by because the other’s had called and they airlifted him out.”

“I’m sorry,” he said and he looked, not kind or gentle, but aching and sad, and the soap crinkled on his face and I held the razor in midair. “Was it instant?”

“I don’t know, sir. My husband was on life support, on a ventilator. They never got brain waves or anything to indicate he was still alive and after a week they wanted to pull the plug. They gave me this paper to sign and I didn’t know what to do, so I sat there. Sat beside him for an hour and the ventilator was taped down his throat and his chest went up and down and I thought he’d tell me. Say something into my mind, but he didn’t. I felt numb, felt nothing, and I signed the paper and he died. He didn’t come back.”

And I didn’t say about how if he was hurt bad forever, my husband would want me to pull the plug, because what did I know? I didn’t know for sure and the colonel closed his eyes and I finished shaving his face and wiped it clean with the cloth. Then the colonel opened his eyes and studied me, hard, but maybe less hard, this tiny glimmer, and I thought he’s made these huge decisions in his life. Life and death decisions and now he’s going to tell me this earth shattering secret and absolve me. Put me at rest, but he nodded, a slight tip, almost a bow and said, “Alice, you’re a wonder inside yourself.”

Then Gary walked in. They did some sort of nerve block and the colonel waved his bony hand before I left. “It wasn’t awful,” he said and I bent and kissed his cheek and said I’d come by and pester him, which I would have, because I wanted to ask him what he meant. But that night his heart stopped, but I sort of know, or hope I know, especially since I’m this wonder inside myself.

***

Last Day is written by Suzanne Mays

Suzanne Mays is a novelist and short story writer. Her stories are about women in search of land, family, and peace in themselves. Usually set in the mountains, they possess a quiet humor. Her novel, The Man Inside the Mountain is the story of Essie Bell, a woman who believes her son has survived the Civil War and is hiding in the mountain behind her farm.

For a time in my life, everywhere I looked, I saw hot air balloons. If I thumbed through a magazine, there was a hot air balloon in the sky. If I watched an old movie, there was a weathered balloon with a basket underneath and this lady and man would land and have a picnic. They’d toast with champagne. Everywhere I looked, there was a sign for me to do this.

One day I was driving and there was a real sign. Hot Air Balloon Rides – 496-2347. So, I called, Keith, at Free Flying AdVentures and signed up me and my husband. I didn’t tell Dan where we were going – only that he’d like it.

Did you ever want to take off and soar? Have all these people look up and wave, “There she goes.”

I’d lean out and smile, then drift to this place where everything glistened.

For our trip, I got a room at a bed and breakfast. The brochure had a picture of a great big country breakfast. There was sausage and ham, biscuits and gravy. Dan tried to guess where we were going. With real fear in his eyes he said, “We’re not going to this improve your marriage seminar where they work you over?” I knew I had him good when he said that.

The day before, we drove to this beautiful valley. The sky was blue with a few puffy clouds. That night we went to Mexico Joe’s. They had hot salsa and chips and I ate two burritos and drank three Margaritas. Dan kept trying to pry it out of me where we were going, but I wouldn’t tell him.

The next morning there was that great big country breakfast. I didn’t feel good, but it was included. We’d paid our money. So I ate a couple of biscuits with sausage, then scrambled eggs with some cheese. They had all these pastries for dessert. Then we headed far out in the country, but had all day to get there.

We were on the evening flight. Hot air balloons fly dawn or dusk to get the calmer wind. That’s what I wanted, this peaceful drift through the sky. This golden toast as we settled down at sunset. “Cheers,” we’d clink our glasses.

Along the way, we found a roadside stand that sold green apples and hot boiled peanuts. We sat at the picnic table and threw our shells on the ground. Dan said, “Canoeing on a river?”

I shook my head.

“Riding on a train?”

“Nope.” The mound of shells got higher and higher.

Then we drove down country roads with John Denver singing on the radio. We rounded this enormous rock and all of a sudden, without warning . . . I got diarrhea. I had no inkling or time, just shouted at Dan to pull over and ran behind the rock.

I was back there a long time. The wind blew gently across the grasses. A hawk glided above. It was extremely vivid. Then there was this long, deflated time when I reviewed my situation.

I was actually going to leave the ground on this balloon trip. I’d never liked being up high. Horrified to stand on the edge and look over. Why did I think I’d soar off into the sky and not get nervous?

Nerves, excitement! But I could do this. Lift off, fly – Rocky Mountain High – all that stuff. So I went down, and we kept on going.

We passed a tiny store that was so far out, it seemed like it was there for my purpose. You wouldn’t think such a far out place would sell Imodium A-D, but it did. I took that for a sign, and took twice the recommended dose. We drove on in that glorious day until right there on the fence it said – Free Flying AdVentures – with a picture of a hot air balloon. Dan hopped in his seat, he was so excited.

We turned down the lane and found Keith, who studied me under his ball cap. “Ready to go?” he said as the balloon lay sprawled all over the ground. My stomach squeezed, so, I went back to the car and took another swig of the medicine.

There comes a time in your life when you go – or you don’t go. I was going.

That balloon blew up gigantic, this great golden globe in the sky. It made this flapping sound and this roaring sound. The basket hopped off the ground, raring to go, so I took a deep breath and climbed in.

We cast off the lines that were tying us down and – floated – this incredible orb in the sky.

The clouds were pink and golden. The wind blew sweet in my face. In every direction there were mountains and fields with cattle grazing. There were houses with barns and gardens, all in a beautiful haze.

Keith pointed to the old grey van on the road. “That’s Pete and Mike in the chase car.” He explained the chase car followed along behind us, “Because you can’t always chart your destination.”

I leaned way over and waved and wasn’t nervous or scared. There was the feeling of being right on course, being borne to a beautiful place. I felt this way for forty minutes, and then it happened.

My stomach tightened. “Land the balloon!” I hollered to Keith who remained calm and produced a barf bag. “Land!” I shouted again and Dan whispered something to Keith and he truly looked frightened.

We hit down, bumped down, hopped a few times. And I was over the side running for a tree in the distance with Pete and Mike chasing behind.

And I’ve gone on other Free Flying AdVentures. They’ve mostly been fun, except for the crash downs to earth.

***

My Hot Air Balloon Ride is written by Suzanne Mays

Suzanne Mays is a novelist and short story writer. Her stories are about women in search of land, family, and peace in themselves. Usually set in the mountains, they possess a quiet humor. Her novel, The Man Inside the Mountain is the story of Essie Bell, a woman who believes her son has survived the Civil War and is hiding in the mountain behind her farm.