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Chapter For THE ENORMOUS PARSNIP by Bryn Colvin
There was once an old couple who lived together
in a pretty little cottage. They had not always been old and grey, of
course. They had once been young and carefree together. She, a shapely
young woman with a fine figure and a fair face, while he had been tall,
broad and rather handsome. Age had made them both shorter, deprived them
of the brilliance in their eyes, some of their teeth, and the easy graceful
way of moving they had been blessed with when younger. Silas, the old
man, had lived on the land all his life, and he had grown so close to
the soil that his skin was brown, leathery and lined like a ploughed field.
Eliza had grown rounder and softer with age, her hands red and puffy from
too much time spent washing clothes and making butter.
Silas was a farmer like his father and grandfather before
him, but once all his hair had turned grey and his back became stooped,
he could no longer do much more than manage his cottage garden. The little
farm he had worked on was taken over by his sons, and they saw to it that
he always had wood cut for the fire, his fences were mended and the roof
of his cottage never wanted for thatch. They were good children, who did
their best to see that their old parents never wanted for anything.
All through their lives, the couple had been careful with
money, never wasting it on frivolous things and always trying to put a
little away. They had saved carefully for many years, which meant Silas
and his wife were comfortable enough in their old age. They could not
afford any great luxuries, but they never went cold or hungry, as so many
older people did. The old couple kept a cow, a pig and a few chickens,
and he grew vegetables that fed them throughout the seasons. They had
been married for the best part of forty years, and Eliza, his wife, was
a hard-working, clever woman, who churned her own butter, made her own
cheese, baked her own bread, brewed her own beer and did a hundred other
things that made life pleasant and comfortable for them both. At the time
of this story, all their surviving children had grown up and married.
They all lived nearby and were happy enough, having children of their
own and following their own trades and businesses. Of Silas and Eliza’s
sons, two were farmers like their father, one had apprenticed as a farrier,
shoeing all the local horses, another worked for the local squire, and
the youngest had married an innkeeper’s daughter and was very happily
working for her father. Of the two daughters, both had husbands who were
farmers themselves, and several pretty children each. The old couple were
happy with how well their children had done. No one could have asked for
more, they thought. Many of their neighbours had not been so lucky, and
they knew they had been blessed by good fortune.
While some people grew apart as they grew older, Eliza
and Silas got along well enough together. They seldom quarrelled, and
their lives had intertwined so thoroughly over the years, they were like
two pea plants growing up the same pole, almost indistinguishable from
each other. All their neighbours commented on how happy they were, and
what a good marriage theirs had been. They were well respected for their
industriousness and for their good natures.
The seasons created the pattern of their lives, as they
worked the land, harvested its bounty and waited out the cold days of
winter. In the spring, the old man would clear the ground at the back
of his cottage and spread manure on it, then plant his seeds for the season
to come. Silas was good with plants, and they always flourished under
his care. As soon as the ground had been warmed by the sun, he would strew
whatever seeds he had bought or saved from the previous year, being careful
to keep the birds off them. As the months advanced, he would water, hoe
and tend his crops, harvesting them as they matured. As a result of his
careful efforts, they always had fresh food for the table. As well as
his vegetables, Silas had a few fruit trees, so with the milk from their
cow, eggs from their chickens, and bacon from the pig they kept each year,
they never wanted for anything. Silas was happy in his work and all he
wanted to do was spend his old age quietly growing his plants, looking
after his animals and resting in the sun whenever he could.
Eliza was a woman of many talents. It was her good housekeeping
that had allowed her husband to save so much money over the years. She
could find a use for almost everything, and seldom did anything go to
waste. Her butter was golden and delicious, her cheese crumbly and her
bread soft. She had taught all her children to be as industrious as she,
so when they went out into the world, they would always be able to take
care of themselves and their families. After all, a person who could sew
and mend, cook, clean, bake and brew would never want for employment and
could keep their own house in good order. Eliza was largely content with
her life, growing her herbs and flowers in the little front garden, doing
what little work was required to look after herself and Silas, walking
in the fields on sunny days, and having a great many friends she could
call upon. Her life had not been easy and she had always needed to work
very hard indeed, but she knew how to enjoy what she had, and how to make
the best of things. However, for all her labours and good humour, Eliza
was not much inclined to grow old gracefully, and this had long been the
cause of a bit of difficulty between the old couple, not that anyone else
ever saw a sign of it.
The root of their problem was that Silas was getting a
bit short of courage in his old age. When her husband was a young man,
he had been interested in a very different sort of ploughing and tilling
as opposed to the only sort he now did, and when he said he wanted to
get his hoe out, it seldom meant any weeding would be done. Eliza had
been very keen on that sort of thing once she got a taste for it, and
she wasn’t interested in giving it up just because they were getting
on a bit. In the early days, they had been well matched and happy with
each other; both equally keen on a bit of chase the ferret, beat the bishop,
or hide the sausage as the fancy took them. They enjoyed each other while
they were young, and on into their middle years as well, and each knew
just how to tickle the other’s fancy.
“There’s a furrow that needs a bit of attention,”
she might say to him when he was still a labouring man and she took him
his lunch in the middle of the day. She could be sure he would be home
early that night, keen to get to work with his hoe and get her garden
just right.
“I was thinking of planting some seeds tonight,”
he might comment as they sat together eating their evening meal. After
the first few children arrived, they didn’t get much privacy in
the house, so she would answer, “We could go into the woods, I’ll
give you a hand.” They would leave the little ones sleeping soundly
and creep off in the moonlight like they were courting again, and he would
find some soft spot to lay her down. They knew plenty of good places for
a quick game of hide the sausage, and more secluded spots where long ploughing
sessions could go undisturbed. Silas was good at sowing his seed, and
Eliza liked to get her doses of it nice and regular. If they’d both
had the time and energy, she would have gone looking for nuts with him
every day, but they managed a little something more often than not.
The trouble was that Eliza had never felt any inclination
to stop. Over the years, Silas found he was more interested in ordinary
digging than pleasurable ploughing, more inclined to go weeding up dandelions
than hoeing in her furrow, and he couldn’t keep up with his wife
as he had once been able to. She was gentle with him, never demanding
or unkind, but it grieved her to have to do without, and she missed the
days when he had tumbled her in the woodland glades, or crept up behind
her to give her a quick fondle while she was at the butter churn. Although
usually the butter wouldn’t churn at all until he went away again,
but she had never minded that.
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THE ENORMOUS PARSNIP by Bryn Colvin
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