“Let’s get you to bed,” I said, standing, waking her up. “Me, too, Retta. I’m tired.”
Retta gave a sleepy, toothless grin as she pushed herself away from the teacup and pressed her palms down on the table to stand. “Ya don’t get to be tired till you is ninety-two young, child, and not a day sooner.” She wagged a finger.
“Ninety-two, Retta?”
“Sunday.” Her eyes were tired but playful.
Her birthday was March 15, and here it was already March 17 and I’d forgotten and spent the day with Pearl. I began to lay down an enthusiastic apology and well wishes across the room when she shushed me with a dismissive hand.
I hugged the ol’ woman and said “Happy birthday,” sad and feeling badly that her nephew, and now me, had missed it.
“Ninety-two and not going anywhere!” Retta exclaimed. “I got me a girl to finish raising.”
***
Wednesday morning, Retta fussed and insisted she was better, then shooed me out of the cabin. She watched from the porch as I climbed atop Junia.
“Retta, you sure you’ll be okay?” I snatched glances at her as I rode over to the cabin. “I can stay.”
“Go on, ride safe, child, Alonzo’s takin’ me to town. A girl only gets one chance to grow up, an’ I want mine to have the very best.” Retta waved, then pointed a gnarled finger to Junia. “Keep my girl safe, ya obstinate beast.”
“I can ride into town with you.”
“No, child, you need to get out and exercise Junia some. Have yourself a bite of youth. I’ll be back this afternoon.”
“Yes, ma’am. I think I’ll ride over to the fire tower and visit the new lookout.” I hoped the visit would be welcomed because it would be nice to talk with my new friend again.
We rode slow, taking our time. I was trying to think of something nice I could do for Retta for a belated birthday surprise when I spotted it ahead. “Whoa, girl.” I climbed down and tied Junia to a tree. I pulled out a knife from my satchel, then walked through some maidenhair fern over to a clump of grasses.
Ramps. Me and Retta liked to collect them, and here the oniony treat was, popping up early. I cut off the broad leaves, wrapped them in twine, and then hooked it to my saddle. Retta always fried them in a li’l bacon grease, then seasoned the tasty greens with salt and vinegar. Tonight, I’d cook up some apple dumplings and butterbeans to go with them.
I moved to another patch, running my fingers over the leaves. Retta said you had to be careful and make sure you were foraging the safe ones, not the deadly lily of the valleys. I inspected to see if the plant had a bulb. Satisfied that it did, I tore the leaf and sniffed, inhaling the onion and garlic scent.
It was rumored Marigold Hall over in the next holler killed her husband with the poisonous lilies after receiving one too many visits from a frontier nurse to fix her broken, bruised body. The nurse noticed fresh lily cuttings on the table the day the couple’s cabin burned down and would remember the odd resemblance later. She’d arrived to stitch Marigold’s forehead. In a hurry to nurse the woman’s battered face, she paid no mind to the poisonous plant.
And when Mr. Hall came in lit from the shine later that evening, demanding his supper, Marigold had prepared a feast for him—a fine spread of his favorites: pork shoulder and cabbage, cooked-down greens and corn bread dipped in pot likker just the way he liked it. Solemn and shy, Marigold had told the sheriff how grateful she was for their last meal together.
I stood and wrapped the ramps and wiped my hands on my britches.
“Let’s go, Junia. Oh—” Several feet away, I spotted eyebright, and went over and dug up the herb, then carefully packed it in my pannier. These were perfect for making Retta an eyewash to soothe her ailing eyes.