by Donna Poole
What to do next?
That was always the question. Bonnie sighed and looked at her lengthy to-do list on the fridge. Number one: Take decorations off the Christmas tree.
Not that. That always makes me cry. Maybe if I sweep up the pile of needles Ed won’t notice how dead the tree is getting, and we can keep it up longer.
Number four on the list caught her eye. Make Ed’s fruitcake.
She smiled. Ed had devoured the first fruitcake she’d made him even before Christmas. Their grown kids poked fun at his fruitcake addiction; no one else in the family could stand it. He’d looked so sad when he’d scraped the last crumb from his plate. When she’d found the candied fruit half-off at an after Christmas sale, she’d snatched it up. She was going to make him another one for a surprise treat.
The phone rang just as she got started. “Hi, Mom! What are you up to today?”
“I’m making a fruitcake for your dad.”
Becky laughed. “Not another one! I suppose he’s at work?”
Bonnie shrugged. “Where else?”
“Seventy-five and Dad still goes to the shop every day. If he didn’t own the place someone would have made him retire by now. Do you wish he would?”
“Two cups of water, one-fourth cup of oil.”
“What?”
“Oh, sorry honey. If I don’t say recipe ingredients out loud, I forget something. What did you ask me?”
“Do you wish Dad would retire?”
“Yes. But no. He loves it there, and the work isn’t too much for him. He mostly answers the phone, sets up appointments, and chats with the customers waiting for their vehicles. People talk to him about their troubles, and he tells them about Jesus and prays for them. And when an older model car comes in, he still likes to get his hands greasy working on it.”
“But sometimes I worry about you being home alone.”
“I’m fine honey. Two cups of raisins, one cup candied pineapple. Okay. I think that’s it. Give me a minute while I pour this into the bundt pan. Done! Oh bother!”
“What’s wrong? You didn’t burn yourself putting it into the oven, did you?”
“No, I forgot the eggs. I’ll just scrape the batter back into the bowl and add the eggs.”
It was quiet for a minute, and then Becky heard the refrigerator door slam and her mom laugh.
“Well, I guess we’ll see how fruitcake tastes without eggs. We don’t have any.”
“Mom, remember that trick I told you? Put out and measure all your ingredients before you start baking.”
“It’s a great idea, if I only could remember it.”
They both laughed.
“I forgot something else. I wrote the recipe on a three by five card, but I forgot to write down the oven temperature and how long to cook it. I saved the recipe on my cell, but now I can’t find my phone.”
Becky grinned. Should she? She couldn’t resist, and Mom always loved a good joke.
“Look on the counter. No? Check the couch cushions. You often lose your cell there. Not there either? You don’t suppose you put it in the fridge when you were looking for eggs do you?”
“It’s not anywhere! You don’t happen to know the oven temperature for fruitcake do you, honey?”
“Mom, the day I bake fruitcake is the day you know I am one. Do me a favor, okay? Go look in the mirror.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
She heard her mom start laughing. “Becky Joy if I had you here, I’d…”
“I take it you found your phone?”
“Honey, do you think I’m getting dementia?”
“Nope. I did the same thing I just did to you to my friend the other day. He was talking to me on his cell and couldn’t find it, and he’s only in his thirties.”
“You’re as much of a tease as your dad. But now I have to stop talking and look up the oven temperature. Love you.”
“Love you too. I’ll call you back later.”
Becky did worry though. She didn’t think her mom had dementia, but she did have some memory problems. She wished Dad would stay home more. Her parents seemed happy with their lives, but she hoped they could enjoy a few years of retirement before God took one of them home to heaven.
She whispered a prayer and then chuckled. “Another fruitcake! She’ll probably make him one for Valentine’s Day too!”
Bonnie turned the oven to 350 degrees. The old thing took a long time to preheat; what should she do while she was waiting? She glanced at the list again. Number seven: Find old Bible.
She was tired of reading the Bible on her cell, though the kids had installed three versions for her. She wanted to hold her old Bible in her hands, the one with dates, underlining, and tear stains, the one she’d had since the kids were little. She didn’t care that the spine had fallen off. She’d go find it while she waited for the oven to preheat.
Short of breath by the time she got to the top of the stairs, Bonnie stared at the empty shelves in the study.
Where in the world are all our books? Oh, that’s right. We put them in boxes on the closed in porch so we could get this room ready to paint. Where is my brain today? Oh, look, there’s a box of the kids’ baby pictures!
Bonnie sat down in a chair and laughed and cried her way through photos for the next hour before she headed back downstairs. A warm blast of heat met her near the bottom,
Why is it so hot down here? Oh! The oven! I forgot!
Bonnie popped the fruitcake in the oven, set the timer, and sat down on the couch to read her Bible on her cell. No way could she manage to find her old Bible in all those boxes on the porch. Engrossed in reading and a bit deaf, she didn’t hear the oven timer go off. Eventually, her nose told her Ed’s favorite dessert was overdone.
She ruefully set the fruitcake on the counter to cool, and its black edges looked condemningly back at her.
“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t turn you into a complete charcoal briquet. Not quite.”
Since the oven is hot, I might as well think about supper. Did Ed say something about supper? I can’t remember. Well, I have that roast thawed out in the fridge. I think I’ll brown it and pop it in the oven with some potatoes and carrots.
After fifty-five years of making pot roast, she knew that recipe by heart. She even remembered the cream of mushroom, cream of celery, and dried onion soups. Soon the kitchen smelled heavenly. She could barely smell burned fruitcake.
Bonnie tackled more things on her to-do list. She swept up the needles under the tree, but as soon as she did, more fell. She ignored them and went on to other tasks. She disregarded her aching muscles too; she knew she was overdoing, but it felt good to get a lot done. The phone never rang to interrupt her.
The kitchen door opened earlier than usual, and Ed hurried inside, snow on his shoulders, and a grin on his face. He put a big pizza box on the counter, swept Bonnie into his arms, and danced her around the kitchen.
“What are you doing New Year’s Eve?” he sang to her.
“This is New Year’s Eve?”
“You forgot?”
“I guess I did.”
“Remember, I told you I’d be home early and bring our favorite pizza.”
“Whoops. I made your favorite pot roast.”
They both laughed. “I’m eating roast,” he said.
“I’m having pizza!” she answered.
“I tried to call you several times to remind you about the pizza.”
She patted her apron pocket. “Oh dear. My phone. I seem to have lost it again.”
He went right to the couch and pulled it out from between the cushions.
“How did you know?”
“Lucky guess. You missed four calls from Becky. You better call her back. You know how she worries.”
Ed ate a piece of fruitcake even before supper and said it was delicious. They curled up in bed right after they ate and turned on a movie Bonnie had been wanting to watch, “The Man Who Invented Christmas.”
A few minutes into the movie Ed glanced over at Bonnie. She was sound asleep, and it was only six o’clock. He grinned, muted the movie, and slipped out of bed. They’d planned to undecorate the tree tomorrow, but that job always made her cry. He’d do it now and get it over with. And then he’d wake her up and tell her his good news. He took down all the red ornaments first. He couldn’t believe how many needles fell from the tree. How had it died so quickly? It had been alive just a few days earlier.
An hour later he went to wake Bonnie. Her wispy white bangs had moved to the side and he could plainly see her dented forehead from the brain surgery and the purple star shaped plate that bulged out. His throat tightened as he thought of the times he’d almost lost her. They’d have some good years yet. Wait until he told her his news.
“Bonnie!” He shook her shoulder. The patchwork quilt covering her wasn’t rising and falling; she wasn’t breathing! He thought of the pile of dead needles dropping from the tree and could barely catch a breath between sobs.
“Bonnie!” He groaned and pulled her to his chest, tears flowing.
“Ed!” She pounded him. “You’re hugging me too tightly. I can’t breathe!”
She pushed away and stared at his tear covered face. “You didn’t think I was…?”
She laughed. “Honey, you need new glasses!”
He climbed in beside her and told her his plans for semi-retirement, and she listened, a contented smile making her look as beautiful to him as she had when they’d married at twenty. They talked on as hours passed. He felt God still wanted him at the shop part time for the people who needed him, and she agreed. They’d always tried to let God love others through them, and Ed was in a good place to do that.
Bonnie didn’t tell him, but she wasn’t ready to give up her quiet hours of reading and writing either. This was a happy compromise; it would be wonderful to be together more.
“Happy New Year, honey,” Ed said when the grandfather clock struck twelve.
“Oh! Is that today?” she asked.
He nodded and kissed her.
“I think it will be our best year ever!” she said, and he agreed.
They fell asleep holding hands. And in the living room the needles kept dropping from the tree.
The end
***
These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.
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