Vanity’s Fare

Texas History Tour: GOLIAD

It’s not that we were less excited about going to Goliad than we were about visiting Matagorda Bay, but getting out the door seemed significantly more difficult. Finally packed and in the car at ten o’clock, we didn’t make it to the stop sign on our street before “We’re hungry” came out of the mouths of the children riding in the backseat.

Crowded around the door at Starbucks I run into an old friend in town for the holidays, and instead of properly greeting her new third husband, my daughter and I instead bicker with each other about food.

“Right here and now is the time you make a choice to eat a butter loaded, fat infested muffin or the bowl of oatmeal that doesn’t seem as exciting but will not only be healthier, it will last you longer,” I say. Surely, this information will make the appropriate impact and steer my eight year old in the right direction.

“Fine. I’ll eat nothing,” says my daughter who could stand to miss a few meals. She stomps her foot and heads back to the car while her skinny brother eats a breakfast taco filled with sausage and cheese.

“Honey, leave her alone. It’s just a muffin. It’s the holidays,” says my husband who clearly is not participating in my cause to create an eating disorder in my elementary aged child. What’s he going to do when all the other girls are barfing in the bathroom and our child is sitting around being well adjusted? What fun is that?

“Great. Go get a piece of cake for breakfast,” I concede.

Driving out of town it took the children until 10:47 a.m. to again say, “I’m hungry.”

What a perfect time it is for me to unleash my canned speech about how empty calories don’t last. Since my monologue is so appreciated I end the lecture with, “Well, sit back there and ruminate about how it feels to be hungry. It will be good for you.”

The part that made the last trip less enjoyable was the bad food. This time we packed a lovely picnic and also ingredients for a nice dinner. To keep with the early Texas theme, we brought along some bison sirloins which caused the carbohydrate eater to exclaim, “What is that brown stuff in the bags? It looks disgusting.”

After a couple of hours of starving we pulled to the side of the road and spread out the picnic under an oak tree overlooking rolling land. All was great until the small child let out a piercing scream that made my blood run cold. Holding his crotch he shrieked, “It’s biting me!” The husband, holding a floppy sandwich in his right hand, stands idly and watches the scene like it’s a movie. Like wild fire, I strip the pants from the little boy to find a big ant on his penis. Knocking it off (this turns out to be a mistake as you will later learn) Baby G still howls, and The Husband says, “Why aren’t you wearing any underwear. If you were wearing underwear the ant wouldn’t have gotten you.”

Under the big oak tree The Husband and I bicker about his insensitive comment and lack of concern about our wounded child. The child continues to loudly wail about his bitten instrument, and the older child takes solace in the car where I later discover she has stripped down in a proactive search for biting ants.

Baby G refuses to put on his pants, and when we finally get them back on him the crying starts again. Wrestling off the jeans, he’s hollering about something again biting him, but I know that he’s imagining it. Well, until I see another ant, but more likely the same ant that got brushed off and not killed, crawling on the back of his thigh toward his rear. The child will forever live in the buff. There is no way he’ll ever wear clothes again because in his mind all clothes are filled with ants.

Back on the road we cruise through Cuero, the home of Miss Turkey Trot, and the hometown of The Husband’s former girlfriend, a real Miss Turkey Trot. I was thoroughly impressed to know this fact. Apparently, the extremely short-lived relationship ended because he was not conservative enough for her. I guess she was looking for somebody more along the lines of Billy Graham because The Husband REALLY couldn’t be more conservative — I do mean that in the strictest sense of the meaning, not the political, pop definition.

The first thing we see when we arrive in Goliad is the state park with the Spanish mission, Espiritu Santo. I’ll spare you the history lesson, but the big story is that the mission was originally built in what is now Matagorda County (yesterday’s story), but the Native Peoples weren’t too interested in leaving their cannibalistic ways and converting to Catholicism. As a result, the mission moved deeper into Texas.

Take a note here: DO go to this state park. The mission, staffed by Parks and Wildlife employees and volunteers, is well done, in that is not over interpreted. It’s fairly straightforward and raw. The staffers know all sorts of interesting information about the Spanish saviors who desperately tried to save the souls of the poor Native Peoples they patronized, and one of the volunteers sits in the midst of a weaving exhibit where he actually spins wool and cotton and colors it with natural dyes.

Also, the land is nice with the San Antonio River running through the small park. There are a few short trails that are interesting, but this park is not for the athlete unless there are plans to canoe the two to four mile river trip. All in all, the park is really charming, especially with the Christmas luminaries.

Here’s the big finale. We arrive at the presidio adjacent to the mission and tour the small exhibit. The children race around the quadrangle. Then, we check into our room. Yes. It’s the ultimate night at the museum. The clerk hands us our key and then locks all the doors as she leaves for the night while my little family wanders all alone on the inside of the presidio.

Our rock-walled lodge is the former barracks and has two bedrooms, a living/dining room, small kitchen and bathroom. Opening the backdoor we have free run of the stone enclosed grassy land, the chapel and our very own canon, which is nice because the children have decided they are Texas soldiers and The Husband and I are Karankawas. Actually, the story line is that I used to be a Texan but have married the Karankawa tribe leader. Marginalized again as the mere woman! If I wouldn’t have been so embroiled in my womanly duties of tenderizing the bison for our dinner, I might have better acted the role of the native woman and played up her role in shaping Texas. However, the Karankawa women nursed their children until they were twelve years old, and that didn’t sound like too much fun. Furthermore, they covered themselves in alligator grease and mud to keep the mosquitoes away. The colonists were so repulsed by the smell of the Karankawas that it made them sick to their stomachs. Instead, I paid homage to the Spanish colonists by drinking a Spanish wine.

Topping off a perfect Texas trip, we popped real popcorn, drank hot chocolate and laid on the grass protected by stone walls built almost three hundred years ago and looked at the stars. No big city lights to spoil our view.

(Here is a photo of Baby G climbing the presidio wall and looking like a young drug lord. He got the pink sunglasses at our family white elephant gift exchange. They were part of an Elvis impersonator kit. The rifle was purchased at the San Jacinto battlefield gift shop, and the plastic jacket is part of an Air Force costume. Notice his missing front tooth.)

Texas History Tour: MATAGORDA, SAN JACINTO

After a day of scouting for the treasures from La Salle’s ship and appreciating the south Texas land — that looks like Central Texas with a haircut, and its faded color looks like Central Texas dipped in milk — we were ready for rest. The Stanley-Fisher House is the only place to stay in the area. There are a fair number of chain motels, scary hunting motels and frightening looking bed and breakfasts.

The Stanley-Fisher hotel is run by a man who grew up in the area, spent his professional life in Dallas and returned with his Minnesota wife to restore this historic national treasure. The home, built by Samuel Fisher, one of Stephen F. Austin’s original three hundred settlers, has certainly hosted Stephen F. Austin and possibly Sam Houston.

The town of Matagorda looked to be a typical seaside town filled with sixty drunks, but surprisingly not only were there two ice houses and a convenience store, there was a nice restaurant. The owner and chef graduated from culinary school only a few years ago and served me a delicious sunshine fish atop bok choy with a Carribean sauce. The children got fried shrimp served on Frisbees. As a bonus, the wine was good. All in all Spoonbills restaurant, was a great find.

After a peaceful night at the Stanley-Fisher house we awoke to fritatas cooked in an iron skillet, grapefruit from the owners ranch filled with fruit and yogurt and homemade pear preserves. Oh, I forgot the homemade pickles and tomato garnish that was also fabulous.

Down at the beach we enjoyed, not a breathtaking view, but a really one. The sun shimmered over the water while Baby G dug in the sand like a dog and K walked the beach collecting shells that we would later throw in the trash unbeknownst to her. The Husband and I walked and counted our good fortune before we set off to the San Jacinto battlefield.

Driving from Matagorda Bay into Houston brought with it a lot of stress. Entering the city through the backdoor of the southeast, the roads got busy and I began eating walnuts by the handful as I barked directions to The Husband while the children sang made-up rap songs in the backseat until I broke and screamed, “Stop! No more.” We veered to the east and the traffic subsided. Driving past an endless row of refineries the children wondered aloud who farted. “People, this is the land from which I came. The smell is everyday and the threat of explosion and cancer is a low-grade pressure, but the jobs are plentiful, though a bit on the dangerous side. Now, be quiet and appreciate how the enormous oil tanks have been painted to support the new Independence Parkway theme.”

Believe or not, I spent most of my high school years living a few miles from the San Jacinto battlefield, but I don’t recall ever having visited it, or at least not when I was sober. It’s a beautiful monument and the collection is alright. The Parks and Wildlife Department is growing the prairie grass to its original height and it’s fairly fun to tromp through it with children who like to stick their shoes into the bog and then get carried. The video, pointed out The Husband, has a wrong fact, and several of the written the descriptions have typos. Then, there is a random exhibit about the Tom and Jerry drink. Odd, and extremely out of place, but informative – I’ll be making Tom and Jerry drinks sometime soon. In fact, here is recipe.

We’ll probably go back to Matagorda Beach someday. It’s nice, I think…better than Galveston and South Padre I’d like to venture. The problem is the big sign stating, “No Swimming. Fine $1,000. Dangerous Rip Tide.” The mouth of the Mississippi empties into the Gulf of Mexico about right there. Guess summertime might be hot when you can’t take a dip in the water. Nevertheless, Christmas week, it’s lovely!

Texas History Tour – PALACIOS

Are you sitting around in Dallas, Houston or Austin waiting on another disappointing Christmas that will leave you wondering why you invited the relatives to cram around your dining table that seats eight but you wish seated twelve to eat food that normally you would render inferior to your highly tuned nutritiously packed diet? Yea, me too. That is why last night after a couple of margaritas I said to my family, “Pack up, people. We leave promptly at eight o’clock in the morning and set sail for Matagorda Bay to search for artifacts from the 1684 La Salle shipwreck. Bring me your packed cube with two days wear, brush your teeth and go to bed.”

I do need to explain the “cube”. For trips each person in my little tribe gets a cube made by Eagle Creek in which they are to pack their clothes. Into the main suitcase go four cubes with our wears for a trip. There is a notable exception, and that is for me, of course. I get two cubes because of the various skin care and hair styling products that I take along on vacations. It’s not that I use all the products, but I do bring a variety – from deep moisturizing facial masks to high gloss hair treatments – just in case there is a down moment that I need to fill with personal care. So, now you know.

Shortly after seven o’clock in the morning I awake and doze while hoping that another one of the people sleeping near me will pop out of bed with some enthusiasm about our trip to south Texas. Every few minutes I check the clock find that five minutes have passed and that my bed is warmer than ever. At nearly eight o’clock, I decide to stare really hard at my husband and hope that I can pierce his tranquil sleep with my glare. When that proves impossible, I pick out one of his bright orange earplugs and announce, “We need to leave in five minutes.”

Packed and rolling out of our neighborhood I hear from the big girl, “Will you quit talking with your mouth open?”

“I’m not,” retorts the boy child who has a breakfast taco crammed into his mouth.

“Well, you’re talking with it full now,” says the annoyed one.

“Children, please! Stop it. We haven’t even reached I-35,” I snap. Is this a bad idea? Should we instead stay home and drag all our Christmas ornaments out of storage and spend the day decorating our fence and windows with lights and wreaths. No. Christmas décor is so last century. Off we go to south Texas.

Our destination is Palacios, Texas where I am prepared to see all the artifacts from the sunken *La Belle ship. Driving through coastal plains, the roads are paved with milky gray asphalt. I’m guessing this color is different than other Texas roads because of all the caliche in the area. The tone matches the bare trees and compliments the random stand of scrub trees.

Each side of the road features rice fields in different stages of growth. Some fields are rows of mud heaps surrounded by stagnant water. My daughter proclaims the rice fields “beautiful.” And, she is right, sorta.

The brown flat land abuts the cloudless blue sky, and despite the fact that the fields are littered with rusty tanks and scrap metal every few hundred feet, the land is comforting to me. The more popular cities like Corpus Christi and Rockport share the same characteristics like short palm trees and grassy landscapes, but this land has a different feel. You would think that a rusty shrimp boat propped up by crumpling oil drums or a shabby clapboard house surrounded by six air-conditioned combines would be something esthetically offensive. Instead, it paints a picture of the people who work the land, and for some reason I like seeing skinny horses covered in mud standing beside the road and yards littered with tanks, trailers and lean-to sheds with rusted metal piled so that any single object is beyond recognition.

The part of this history trip that hasn’t been mentioned is that from third to seventh grade I lived in this area. Even though this was the place I lived the longest during my childhood, by the time I went to college I had erased this fact from my dossier. With my more cosmopolitan image, it seemed fitting to let all my Virginia friends know Houston was my hometown. Once I moved back to Texas the fact that I ever lived in south Texas had completely been erased. Also, my father worked on the South Texas Project, the nuclear plant, and because of its controversy I learned to never mention where I lived because the next question always had to do with my father’s objectionable employment. Cutting out four years of life meant sawing off some great memories and friends. For years I’ve wondered about my BFF from sixth grade — the girl with whom I sailed a cardboard box boat on the creek, the girl I accompanied on a hunt to find and destroy her brother’s marijuana crop, the girl who joined me in sneaking out of the old-timey cars at Astroworld and hiding inside of the mountain ride, and the girl whose bird was killed by a flying stuffed banana.

Driving into Palacios we seem to have the only car in a land of trucks. Most certainly, we are driving the only Prius in a region supported by oil refineries. The museum is housed in an old building on the town square, and I’m excited that we seem to be the only customers. Bursting through the door I imagine that we will be unrushed and get the full attention of the docent. The other side of the door resembles a grandmother’s attic with random “old” things displayed. Quilts hang here and there and nothing interests me less than an old woman’s love of something her grandmother used at the turn of the nineteenth century. No egg baskets, irons, and especially no old toys. Hate it.

I’m nervous because I can feel the disappointment welling around me and beginning to engulf my whole body. “Hi, we’re here to see the La Belle exhibit,” I say. “Well, we haven’t got any artifacts yet,” says the nice lady who sits alone at a folding table near some handwritten posterboards denoting each decade since 1940 and showing various representative objects like a newspaper clipping of a high school graduating class or a give-away toy from Sonic.

The disappointment is really bad, and I demand to know why the Internet told me that this museum had the biggest load of booty from the shipwreck, and yet none of it is here. “We need to get the museum in better condition before we can receive the artifacts. Humidity control and security is the first thing we have to address and then we can get the pieces promised us,” says Edna. “Who is going to design the exhibit? I ask. “Well, there people who design museum exhibits, but we are going to do it ourselves. We are thinking of an elevator that goes to the top like the cofferdam used to extract the ship from the bay. We’ll play music that sounds like waves.”

My disappointment turns to anger. They are going to ruin La Salle’s goodies that have been sitting on the bottom of the ocean floor for three hundred years. “Where is boat? It was found in 1995. Why isn’t it out?” I ask trying to remember that Edna is a volunteer.

“You are right. They found the boat in 1995 and it was extracted in 1997. The restoration process was supposed to take six to eight years, but the boat is still submerged in a water tank at Texas A&M Riverside. I’m not sure what is happening,” says Edna as she takes us to the back of the museum where we sit and watch a VHS on a small television sitting atop a Formica table. The video is about an hour long and tells about the ship recovery mostly from an archaeologist’s perspective. It’s fascinating. No matter how crappy the Palacios Museum, the video satisfied me.

Edna sends us to the Matagorda County museum and where we see some real La Belle artifacts like one of the bronze canons, wooden buttons, belt buckles, pewter plates, glass beads and signet rings. As it turns out the loot from the shipwreck was divided between seven local museums. We have plans to see the other five museums; so, I’ll keep you up-to-date on what there is to see at the others. Also, I plan to contact Texas A&M and find out what the hold up is with the boat. The plans that have been announced say that the actual boat will be displayed at the Bob Bullock State Museum, but I want to know when, as the boat should have been there about seven years ago!

*In case you are unfamiliar with the details of the wreck, La Salle and his fellow French friends left France in the late 1684 to set-up camp at the mouth of the Mississippi despite the Spanish had already claimed this land. From the bronze canons found at the bottom of Matagorda Bay, it is clear that La Salle planned to blow the Spaniards and those pesky Native Americans off the land, which he named Louisiana in honor of his king. The canons cost more than the ship that carried them.

Still looking for the grand prize, LaSalle attempted to find the Mississippi and set off on foot toward the Rio Grande River, which was also the wrong way, and left the colonists stranded for months. The colonists fairly hated their predicament in this new country, but when their ship sank in Matagorda Bay, they were really bummed out. Because they had no houses and the Karankawa Indians were itching to attack them, the colonists stayed on the ship La Belle. However, they started to run out of drinking water and the best sailors rowed to shore to find water. The bad news is that the sailors never returned with the water or the longboat they used to get to shore. The other sailors who stayed on the ship were so thirsty they drank the wine supply, but little did they know the alcohol would promptly dehydrate them. Yep, they died. The few crewmembers who managed to live didn’t happen to be the best sailors, and they were unable to stop the ship from running aground and eventually sinking. Before the ship sank the colonists were able to salvage some of La Salle’s papers and clothes, barrels of flour, casks of wine, glass beads, and other trade items.

Across the Finish Line

I made the 50,000-word NaNoWriMo finish line last Friday night! Twenty days – fifty thousand words. However, my story isn’t nearly finished. I’m at about 57,000 words now and have plenty more to go. Looking forward to rekindling our online relationship in December!

Have You Forgotten Me?

You might remember I’m writing 50,000 words this November for National Novel Writing Month, which is my excuse for not writing at Vanity’s Fare each day. I use Vanity’s Fare as my daily writing practice, but NaNoWriMo has taken up my extra writing time, and my project titled “Socially Unconscious” has become interesting enough to keep me disconnected from you.

To date my word count is 36,332, which is more than halfway do the finish line. It won’t be difficult to finish on time, barring any unexpected illnesses from me or my children or any time-consuming work project, but after November 30, I still won’t be through jotting down the story. Of course, once the first draft is complete there is a massive amount of editing to be done, and I’ve promised myself that this piece will not sit in my hard drive like the novel from 2006.

This is the part where you write notes of encouragement. Can I hear some support from out there? In the meantime, I’ll be thinking about you.

How Things Grow

Sitting in the passenger’s seat I turn to the back of the car and ask my daughter, “How was your play date at Mae’s house? Did you have a good time?” My expectation, and honestly, my desire, was to hear, “It was good.” Just that. Nothing more. Instead, my daughter says, “We looked at a book that showed a baby’s penis all the way to a grandfather’s penis.” My husband nearly wrecks the car.

“WHAT?” I demand in a you-did-something-wrong voice. My husband takes the lead and asks the question in a softer voice, meanwhile he has pulled the car to the side of the road. “What kind of book was this? Was it Mae’s book or her parent’s book? Where did you find the book?”

I am absolutely silent as my mind reviews my impressions of Mae’s family. Her mother is just short of uptight. Aside from her two children I can’t imagine that she’s ever had sex, much less the inclination to curate a pornography collection. Mae’s sixth-grade brother almost fits the age to hide porn under his bed, but unless the publications contain naked photos of R2D2 or Darth Vader, I am certain, he will have no interest.

“The book is Mae’s. There are also pictures of grandmas, and guess what? Grandma tiblets are brown!” A few years back my daughter misunderstood the word ‘nipple’ and has forever called that part of the breast ‘tiblet’. Often I hear my children fighting with one another and from time to time somebody gets called a tiblet.

My son chants from his carseat, “I want to see the book! Tell Mae to show it to me. Make her bring it to school so I can see.”

My husband continues to unravel the mystery while I feel faint. “Honey, were the pictures actual photographs of real people? If this book is Mae’s, then is it meant for children, right?”

Happy that we are hanging on her every word, my daughter says, “The pictures are cartoons. I don’t know if it is a kid book. I think maybe it is. It is about how things grow.”

National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo)

It’s Nanowrimo, and I’m busy writing at least 50,000 words this November to compete in the contest. The contest is really not a contest, though. If you win, you are allowed to buy yourself a t-shirt. I guess if you fall short you can’t get the shirt. That is why, Shelly, I’m not blogging these days. So far, I’ve stayed on top of my Nano word goal for each of past three days. However, today it’s not looking as rosy.

Wish me luck. See you in December.

B

What’s Really Scary About Halloween

“Here, Mom. I’m not using this,” says K as she pushes the rejected pumpkin bag with her name embroidered over the handle toward me. “I’m using a pillowcase that will hold more candy.”

With a gang of neighborhood children and a few fathers, my children race out of the house with a mission to collect as much candy as possible. The mothers had held a telepathic meeting and decided to abstain from the annual traipse around the hood begging for refined white sugar. “Someone should really stay at home to give out the candy,” I say. Looks like the dads bought my story, and I flop back into my chair and grab the book that all day I’ve been unable to put down.

The book weaves a tale of street children, abandoned young mothers, beaten babies, starving young girls and the enormous pain of so many unfortunate people. With my stomach full – though now churning with disgust for the hideous lives handed out to random victims –body healthy, heart full, mind curious, children smart, my life seems grossly excessive.

The front door bursts open. The smell of sweaty children fills the air. The lamp lit room that only moments before was soft and reflective is full of bouncing bodies. “We’re perishing. We need water. Hurry. We’re dying.” Reacting as if they truly are perishing, hastily I grab seven cups, pack them with ice and fill them with water.

All the children except one, who I’ve never seen before, drain their water and race out the back door. In a poof, the noise and energy is gone. The back door stands open and the cat looks alert and confused on the back porch.

Finishing the last pages of my book, I sit and wonder about the children in the world who are hungry, unloved, abused and homeless. Breaking my sadness, my two children return through the front door and dump two pillowcases of candy onto the rug in front of the fireplace. My husband and I sit and watch the ritual where the children sort the like candy and trade what they imagine is their favorite.

In truth, they don’t really have favorites because they don’t eat candy, for the most part. The typical routine is that they eat one or maybe two pieces of candy on Halloween night, leave the loot on the floor for a day, on the third day I put it in a bowl, the fourth day I place the bowl atop the refrigerator, the fifth day I move the bowl into the laundry room, the sixth day I pack the candy in the Halloween box, the seventh day it goes into the garbage.

Surveying the candy this year is different. Probably four pounds of toxic sugar and corn syrup litters the floor. Our neighborhood is short on children and heavy on grandparents who over purchase and dole out loads of empty calories. What about the children who drew the unlucky straw and hide at night from predators and get no food? Why do the fortunate children who had a nice dinner get an extra four pounds of candy that they aren’t even going to eat?

Who makes up these rules? Why did our neighborhood, me included, spend hundreds of dollars on candy for healthy, well-fed children? Why don’t we collect money or food for hungry children? Oh, the children did get their Unicef boxes filled with coins, but is that money going to make past the padded administrative costs of the executives? Will it even make it’s way outside of Austin, of Texas?

I sure hope so.

Friday Afternoon

On Friday afternoons Marcella washes my hair while I sit on a booster seat. The chair is designed for a woman, not an elementary school girl. Ripping through the tangles in my long hair that hasn’t been washed since the prior Friday, Marcella talks to my mother and ignores my eight-year old presence.

Blowing cigarette onto my wet and newly cleaned hair my mother points with her long, plastic fingernail and says, “Marcella those bangs look crooked to me. Straighten them up.” My mother never adds the word ‘please’ to directives. Instead she makes statements like, “Marcella, here’s fifty cents, get me a Coke-ola, would you.” The addition of ‘would you’ does not transform the statement into a question, but it’s my mother’s way of softening the demand.

After the weekly hair washing my choice is to sit on the vinyl couch surrounded by plastic plants and either browse a dated Family Circle or work on the embroidery piece I carry in a Holly Hobby fabric bag.

“Read the sign, Bitsy. ‘No Children Allowed in the Salon.’ You are an exception. Marcella doesn’t let children in here. Just you. Sit still and no horse play,” says my mother.

Hours go by as my mother’s hair is washed, set in rollers, dried, teased and violently hair sprayed with Aqua Net. Stitch after stitch I finish a unicorn.

Confessions of a Pilgrim Shopaholic

The following article is posted without permission from The New Yorker (please don’t sue me.) It is the most hilarious thing I’ve read in a while. You have to read every word.

Confessions of a Pilgrim Shopaholic
by Paul Rudnick

I am Rebecca, the wife of Mister Jonathan Harnsill. We arrived in the New World in 1626 and took up residence in a small cabin in the Plymouth Colony. Toward the end of our first January, I travelled to Boston to purchase a thimbleful of salt. And now, five years later, I have travelled to Boston for a second thimbleful. I am out of control.

During our first winter, I sewed two simple black woollen dresses, which I have alternated wearing in the years since. And yet this morning I find myself thinking about patching the frayed collar on one of the dresses. Have I no shame?

My mind has been consumed with nothing but thoughts of spending, purchasing, and the wanton enjoyment of unnecessary goods. On many nights I dream of acquiring a tin milk pail, like our neighbor’s. I picture myself strolling through the town as strangers whisper, “There she goes, the proud lady with the pail.” I imagine myself attending a fancy-dress ball with the pail on my arm, filled with pinecones and soil. I fear that I shall speak these dreams aloud, and beg my husband to bludgeon me.

I have heard tales of another woman, much like myself, in the Virginia colony. It is said that she bartered her second child to a local tradesman for a wooden button. The following Sunday, the preacher railed against the need for additional buttons, calling the woman a spendthrift and a profligate. She then stood and raised her arm high, opening her hand to reveal the button. It is said that the other women surrounded her, staring at the button in adoration, and then they ripped her limbs from her torso and ate them.

I tremble for my influence upon my children. Just this morning, young Abigail came to me and said, “Mother, look. I have made a doll from a small rock. I will call my doll Rockelle.” Of course, I struck her and grabbed the rock from her hand, saying, “Be ye the Queen of the Nile, with such gilded pleasures?” I will confess only to this diary that I have kept the rock for myself, and married it to an acorn, which I have named Mister Joseph Elmsford. Has my evil no limits?

Today I entered the lion’s den, as I went to market. I was dazzled, as if dancing before the Golden Calf! To one side, there was a tray of one-inch straight pins, and beside them a spool of pale-white thread! I was drowning! I turned away, only to see a cart piled with at least three wilted leeks, along with a rusted spoon! Was I at the French court? My mind reeled—I wanted everything! The box of damp matches; the single moth-eaten stocking, removed from a corpse; the tiny empty vial that had once held extract of vanilla! In my mind, I was naked, demanding to be draped in finery, in brittle cornhusks and crumbling bark and the splintering nub of a pencil!

My fever has broken. When I awoke, I was in our minister’s home, surrounded by all the women of our village, who were on their knees in fervent prayer at my bedside. It seems that I have been possessed by the Devil himself, and that I was found in the apothecary shop, speaking in tongues and babbling about something which no colonist has ever heard of: “guest soaps.” Pastor Witherspoon has suggested that I might be hosting a demon from some future century, and he has arranged for an exorcism. I am so grateful, as I was told that, in my frenzy, I had also approached our blacksmith and demanded to know which horseshoes were on sale. I am an abomination.

At the exorcism, I was taken to the barn and placed upon a rough blanket; various plasters and poultices were applied to my flesh. Pastor Witherspoon raised his Bible high over my head and demanded, “Satan, leave this good woman! She is a simple, pious soul, with no wont for luxury goods!” At first, I responded by shrieking in an unearthly wail, “Shoes! More buckled shoes!” As all the villagers began to repeat the Lord’s Prayer, I howled, “Tallow! Scented tallow and beeswax! Tied with a decorative ribbon!” Then, as the people laid their hands upon me, my demon cackled and swore: “A bonnet! Bring me another bonnet! A peaked black bonnet as fine as any widow’s!”

“Satan, begone!” Pastor Witherspoon shouted, and then I lost consciousness.

Now, a day later, as I return to life, I know that my demon is vanished, gone back into his fetid underworld. I am able to walk through the village, with my head bowed modestly, without even a thought of a turnip or the cobbler’s wares. This morning, I almost picked up a pretty yellow leaf from the ground, to press in my hymnal, but then I thought, I have so many leaves, and I returned it to the tall grass.

While I am wholly myself again, I am concerned for my dear husband, who I fear has been o’ertaken by his own demon. Last March, we had intimate relations, and now, although it is only November, he desires them again. ♦