Lilac, Llewellyn & The Gale of '53

Llewellyn lived alone in a small, snug, well built cabin in the hills above Bay St. Mary.  On a clear night, you could see the lantern light glowing from the windows and, if you listened closely enough, hear dulcimer music from the tiny front porch.  He had no near neighbors and kept only a dappled old cur dog - unaccountably he called him Lilac - for company.  In the summer, he came to the village to sell apples and sweet corn, maybe even make a yearly stop at Alton's barber shop.  Otherwise, he minded his business and stayed to himself.  He was a rough-looking old man in homespun clothes, not unfriendly exactly, but hardly congenial or outgoing. He might nod if you passed him, Lilac might raise his shaggy old head from the back of the buckboard and give you a passing glance - more like a sneer, the old timers liked to say - but neither was much noticed.  In the winter, they hardly came at all and the village, hunkered down and resignedly waiting out the snow and ice, rarely gave them a thought.

The gale of '53 changed that.  The storm was especially hard on Bay St. Mary, blowing down Llewellyn's fences and uprooting trees, eventually violent enough to tear the roof off his barn.    It was early spring and with no shelter for his stock, the old man packed up his chickens and pigs, hitched the oxen to the wagon, and made the journey into the village over the still icy dirt roads and through the snow drifts, all the way to McIntyre's.

Done lost the barn, Missus, he told Mrs. McIntyre hesitantly, Be needin' someone to take in the animals for a spell.

A good hearted woman, Mrs, McIntyre nodded and made some calls.  By noon, every chicken and pig and even the oxen had been farmed out.  Llewellyn carefully recorded each and every one and where they went in a small leather bound notebook.

I'll be payin' for their care come June, he told everyone, Ain't lookin' for no charity.

Ain't nobody lookin' to give none, Sparrow, who had been warming his hands at the pot bellied stove, assured him shortly, 'Ceptin' you might be needin' a ride back.

Reckon we kin walk, Llewellyn said roughly.

Yep, reckon you could, Sparrow nodded, but it's a long road for Lilac.  And it's colder'n a witches tit so git your mangy ol' dog and you raggedy ol' ass into the pick up.  I'm drivin' you and that's all I'm sayin' 'bout it.

The stand off might've continued but for Lilac, who at hearing his name, had gotten to his feet and barked sharply.  Llewellyn shrugged and gave in.  He pulled his bearskin coat a little tighter, settled his sweat stained hat on his head, stamped his muddy work boots.

Reckon I got all day then?  he demanded and trudged toward the door, Lilac at his heels.  Sparrow laughed, tipped his hat to Mrs. McIntyre and followed.

Well, Nana said with a sigh and a smile when I told her about it, Ain't that somethin'.  Those two old coots ain't had a word for each other in forty years.

Not since Lilac run off with that preacher-man, Aunt Pearl agreed aimiably.

Scandalous!  Aunt Vi declared, I heard tell he died a year or so back.  Kinda though Lilac might come home after that.

Not likely, Pearl shook her head, Why, that woman was a train wreck to every man that crossed her path!

They was might young then, my grandmother said thoughtfully, Mebbe it ain't for us to judge.

All's I know, Miss Clara looked up briefly from her newspaper to scan the card table and frown at Aunt Vi, All's I know is that a woman ain't got much choice 'cept to follow her heart and .... VIOLA!  WE BEEN PLAYING BRIDGE ALL YOUR NATURAL LIFE AND YOU STILL AIN'T CAUGHT ON!  DON'T PLAY THAT GODFORSAKEN ACE WHEN A JACK WILL DO!

And what, Clara?  Aunt Pearl smirked.

And that's what she done, Clara said snappishly, still glaring at her helpless partner across the table. Aunt Vi trembled and her eyes welled up.  Clara muttered an apology and Nana patted Vi's shoulder gently while  Aunt Pearl took another trick and looked serene.

The bridge game ended and it wasn't until the women were settled on the sun porch with pound cake and martinis that the story of Lilac and Llewellyn emerged.

They was childhood sweethearts, Nana began, lived next door to each other up by where the ol' Crocker place used to be.  

Practically joined at the hip, Pearl added.

Never did see one without the other, Vi agreed, Always planned on gettin' hitched.

Leastways 'til Lilac and Sparrow got stranded in the hurricane, Clara said and there was an edge of bitterness in her voice, Ended up spendin' all night in the root cellar while Llewellyn was still on the mainland.

Ayuh, Pearl nodded, Lilac called off the weddin' the very next day, like to broke her mama's heart.

Sure broke Llewellyn's, Nana said mildly, He was mighty forgivin' of her but he never had another word for Sparrow.

Then, Aunt Vi said tentatively, the new preacher-man come and......

And all hell done broke loose, Clara interrupted, end of summer come and Lilac and the preacher-man run off together.  Sparrow went after'em, acourse, but he never did catch'em.  

And Llewellyn and Sparrow ain't never spoke ever since, my grandmother wound up.

Until now, I said.

Until now, the women agreed.

And Lilac?  I asked.

Don't rightly think anybody knows, Clara said with a frown, Ain't heard her name in a coon's age 'ceptin' for Llewellyn namin' every dog he's ever had after her.  Damn foolishness, if you ask me.

Later that spring, the village united - as tiny villages do everywhere - and Llewellyn's barn got a new roof.  He collected his stock and paid for their care just as he'd promised and sometimes Sparrow accompanied him, sharing the seat of the old buckboard with Lilac the dog sitting proudly between them.  It wasn't a pure reconciliation and to anyone who didn't know them, you'd wouldn't have thought them friends.  But it was a place to start - forty years notwithstanding - it was a place to start and now and again, that's all any of us really need.

Sometimes life pushes us in directions we ought to have found for ourselves ~ 
Bob Hoskins, Maid in Manhattan