Chapter 2:

Apple Muffin Cottage

“…and weep with them that weep.”

Romans 12:15 (KJV)

November 2001

Thomas Henry, the old one-eyed black cat, had died of natural causes. Gracie Barton LeMaster peeked through the living room window of Apple Muffin Cottage to see the little band of mourners standing in the front yard, waiting in the bitter cold for the arrival of his makeshift hearse. She wiped away a tear with one hand and held back the faded blue and white gingham curtains with the other.

“Bless their hearts,” she said as she pitied her two children and their cousins for having to bury Thomas Henry in this cold and because there’d been too many funerals in the last few years. She wondered how they’d all survived such loss.

In spite of her sadness, though, the familiarity of the now-flimsy curtains brought a slight smile to her lips as she remembered how every spring, for almost twenty years, Grammy had starched and ironed them stiff.

“I hate droopy curtains,” her lively grandmother would say resolutely while standing by her ironing board, wielding her Sunbeam steam iron in and out between each pleat with great care and precision. Once re-hung, the homemade curtains looked as good as new and better than store-bought, Grammy would always announce.

The sweet hominess of her grandparent’s living room had often comforted her, especially on her hardest days when she’d waited for her mother to return, but she never did. Its calm serenity, glowing coals in the fireplace, Grammy’s sewing basket beside her rocker, her Bible on a small table nearby, and the scent of freshly baked apple muffins wafting from the kitchen—all gave her a confident assurance down through the years of a constant refuge.

The day she learned Ben had been killed in Honduras, she ran home to Grammy and Pop. When Pop died, she came home for Grammy, and when Grammy took to her sickbed, she took a leave of absence from work to be with her until she passed—but now, she was home to stay and to heal.

Apple Muffin Cottage, with its welcoming red front door, white lap siding, and black shutters, along with thirty acres and the fruit orchards, now belonged to Gracie. Grammy left them to her, along with instructions to take good care of the fruit. Not in her own power, but with the help of God, she would do her level best to take care of what Grammy had entrusted to her.

The rest of Spirit Creek Farm had been parceled out to LaVinia and J.T. a few years ago, and Michael’s portion had been sold to put him through seminary and to give him a start in life.

Running parallel to the orchards was Spirit Creek, which crisscrossed through the whole farm and continued on right through the heart of Farmwell Valley.

“Looks like it could snow,” Gracie whispered to herself as she considered the dark, heavy clouds through the chilled glass, now getting foggy from her breath. She dropped the curtains, wiped the dust off her hands onto her apron, and made a mental note to buy some new ones. It was time.

Then she grabbed the poker, stoked the fire until ashes and small glowing embers fell through the grate onto the inside of the hearth, and added another log to the burning heap. The old floor furnace was good at heating the center of the house, but the outer rooms and upstairs got very cold.

“At least they’ll have a good fire and a nice warm supper when they come in,” she again whispered to herself as she shuffled back to the kitchen in her house slippers.

The stark white kitchen in Apple Muffin Cottage was well-packed but efficient. Coming in from the dining room, you could see an electric stove just inside the kitchen door to the left beside the refrigerator. On the right of the entrance was an antique red and white Hoosier cabinet, which was brought in by horse and wagon during the teens by Thomas’ dad—a Christmas present for his wife, Nancy Jane. Across from both, at the very back of the room, was an antique Majestic cast iron wood-burning stove made in the 1890s that Grammy would never give up because it was perfect for canning. It was black and hulk-like, still in use, but primarily for heating the backside of the old farmhouse. J.T. kept kindling in an old apple crate stamped Spirit Creek Farm and Orchards in the corner and stove wood on the back porch.

A small round table sat in the middle of the room. Sitting at it provided a view (through red and white curtains that framed the old window above the sink) of meadows and barn. In all of Apple Muffin Cottage, this had been Grammy’s favorite place, and now, it was Gracie’s.

The antique furnishings reflected the bygone days at Apple Muffin Cottage, but Gracie’s laptop computer spoke of a new era of information and future possibilities. She’d made a place for it on the table where there was easy access to both phone and electric outlets. Grammy’s “bakery” extension, where she’d taken orders for her baked goods, hadn’t been used for years. Now, it had a new purpose as a dial-up line for logging in and connecting to the world wide web.

Gracie found Grammy’s potato masher in a drawer. She poured melted butter and scalded milk, along with salt and pepper, onto drained potatoes and mashed them in the big white bowl just like Grammy had done thousands of times before, and as she worked, her mind wandered back to thoughts of Thomas Henry. What a shame about that ole cat!

He never really bothered anybody. However, it wasn’t unusual for a kind neighbor or two to find him every now and then on their property hunting ground squirrels, fishing in a cool stream, or just sitting on a rock enjoying a shady glen dappled with sunlight. Most never considered him an interloper, though, but a welcome friend.

He was a terrific mouser with a bit of a wanderlust, but he never failed to come home. Even when a fight with another cat or an angry raccoon damaged his left eye so severely that a vet in Brotherton had to remove it, he still made his way back to Spirit Creek Farm, although half blind. So, it was only fitting he have a nice funeral and be buried under the big oak tree on the hill above the cellar house overlooking his home, the old, weathered gray barn where he chased mice and rats.

Earlier in the day, Gracie’s younger brother J.T., with a heavy heart, went to the garage to make a small casket for Thomas Henry. On his way back, he noticed that the smoke spouting from the old rock chimney of Apple Muffin Cottage rose only so high before it swirled downward close to the ground. This was a sure sign, according to old-timers, that snow was on the way. If it was a true indication, he guessed Farmwell Valley would soon have its first snowfall of the season.