The Magic of Ordinary Days by Ann Howard Creel Read Free Book Online Page A

outbuildings. Stacked with crates and old tools, the inside of the shed smelled like the attic where my mother had once kept boxes of our old dolls and dresses. On a shelf, I found the hand tools Ray’s mother must have used for flower gardening. I picked up a small trowel, brushed off the dirt, and passed it slowly from one hand to the other. It was already too late to start summer annuals, but in the fall, I could still plant bulbs.
    I searched over and under the other shelves in the shed and found things I hadn’t expected to find. In the house, there seemed to be room for only the most practical of items. But here, I found pieces of the past—an old wooden butter churn, a small pie safe, buttonhooks, and a flat pan with a long handle that was once used to heat bedding. Pioneers would heat the pan over the fire, then run it in between the sheets to warm them before slipping in for the night.
    The butter churn and the pie safe needed to be sanded and refinished, but the buttonhooks and pan simply needed polishing. Everything I found could be worked on and restored. I could even learn to do the restoration myself. Soon I found an empty burlap bag, shook it open, and began stacking it inside with the things I wanted.
    That evening, Ray came in early. I was just about to tell him about the shed when he asked, “What do you say we go and visit my sister tonight?” Then he headed for the bathroom.
    Maybe he sensed I needed a change, or maybe he needed one himself. “For dinner?” I called after him.
    â€œYou bet,” he said as he closed the door.
    I looked about for the telephone before remembering we didn’t have one. “Don’t we need to let her know we’re coming?” I called back.
    â€œNo need,” he answered from behind the door.
    While he showered, I chose my khaki-colored dress with collar and shoulder pads that I had bought while shopping with my friend Dot shortly after Mother’s death. Never before had I bought anything so military-inspired, as was the latest fashion, but after I had tried it on at May Company and with Dot’s reassurances, I had decided it was a good fit and quite flattering. I donned the dress, polished my shoes, and then combed out my hair and put it up in pincurls so that just before we left, I could take it down and style it in a bob to graze my shoulders.
    Ray came out dressed in his better slacks and a clean plaid shirt. He had washed his hair and combed it over the thinning area on top, but obviously hadn’t checked the back of his head. Open to the air, his biggest bald spot shined like an Easter egg in the grasses.
    Finally ready, Ray and I slid into the truck. As he started the engine, Ray looked my way. “Onions are ready. This’ll be the last chance to get out for a long time coming.”
    The trip took us nearly twenty minutes of travel down rutted dirt roads, over wooden bridges without railings, and past wind-mills that creaked around in silent currents of air. As we passed by some spare green plants I hadn’t seen before, I asked Ray, “Are those tomatoes?”
    â€œNo. Those are potatoes.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œThey get grown mostly down in the San Luis Valley.” He glanced over at me once, then continued. “But some farmers around here grow a few fields, then send the harvest straight off to the potato chip makers.”
    â€œI see.”
    We kept the windows down for needed cooling, letting the air whip in. I could feel the output of plants landing heavily on my skin. And as we arrived, I could tell my efforts to stay neat had done little good. Dust covered the sleeves and bodice of my dress, and I could feel tangles twisted in my hair.
    Martha and Hank greeted us with smiles and handshakes, as if dropping by unexpected weren’t unexpected at all. Their farm could have been a replica of ours. Inside the house, which had had a second story added for more bedrooms, they