Excerpt from Calico and Lace
The cries roused Herman, but his memories kept him awake. Peaches and Christmas, dreadful day that it was, and a girl dressed in calico and lace.
“Lily, what’s wrong?” Reflected from the snow outside, the mid-afternoon sun blazed through the window. Herman squinted against it and raised a gnarled hand to his brow to shield his eyes. He’d fallen asleep right in the middle of reading the Farmer’s Almanac. Right in the middle of trying to determine the best days for pruning peach trees next spring.
“Lily? You say somethin’?” He looked across the room to where his wife was taking a nap on her bed. “Where’s John? Nah!” He drew a shaky breath. Cobwebs of sleep still draped his mind.
Every fruit farmer knew that a good pruning was the key to a successful harvest. His son always helped. “John, time to prune.” Herman tried to get up, but his arms lacked the strength and his lower body refused to cooperate.
Disinfectants mingled with bitter medicines and human suffering assailed his nose and all at once the cobwebs dissipated, cotton candy dreams thrust under a stream of water. Herman thumped the armrest of his wheelchair with his hand. Unable to bear the truth, he’d turned to the almanac in an attempt to erase the horrors of his life. Impossible. He could no more hope to attend to pruning than he could stand on his own two feet. He was a crippled old man in a nursing home. John was far away. There were no trees anymore.
And it was Christmas Day.
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