Long
before the trio of elderly ladies in the immaculately maintained old
Model A had slowly and gingerly navigated boarding the ferry, word of
their arrival had already reached as far as The Point, courtesy of
Ms. Elsie and her switchboard. Mercy, Margaret and Carrie Mae Dill -
they had already been dubbed The Pickle Sisters - had inherited
Florrie Crocker's little gingerbreaded cottage off the square and had
driven all the way from Cape Breton to take possession. The entire
island was curious and anxious to meet the newcomers although truth
to tell, it was the polished and lovingly cared for old Ford with the
golden wheels that stirred the most interest.
“I'll
be double damned,” Cap confessed as Ms. Mercy delicately steered
the 30 year old classic contraption down the slip, “I ain't seen
one of those in a hunnert years! And by God, don't she run some
sweet!”
Ms.
Mercy blushed all the way to her roots, though whether at the
ferryman's language or his nearness as he collected the fifty cent
fare, was never quite clear. She slid two quarters into his hand and
gave him a shy smile when he tipped his cap and thanked her.
“Welcome
to Long Island, ladies,” he said with a grin, “Fine day for
travelin', wouldn't you say.”
Yes,
indeed, the sisters had agreed, it was that.
“You
ladies visitin' or just sight seein'?” Cap pressed innocently and
that was how the island grapevine kicked into gear. In the less than
five minute crossing, Cap had learned it all and as news traveled the
12 miles to The Point and to Ms. Elsie with the speed of light, it
was passed on and dispersed to the entire village nearly before the
old Ford pulled away from the breakwater and disappeared in a cloud
of dust.
Ms.
Mercy was the eldest, we learned, tall for a woman at 5'9, on the
thin side and like both her sisters, single her entire life. She
was, as Ms. Clara approvingly put it, “Book Learned” and had
spent all of her working years as a much loved school teacher. When
her trunks arrived some weeks later, they were full of books,
everything from The Bobbsey Twins to Jane Austen to Shakespeare. She
modestly admitted to having read or taught from every single one and
while reserved with those her own age, she clearly loved and
blossomed with children. We loved her at first sight.
Ms.
Margaret, whose trunks were filled with frilly, starched dresses and
high button shoes, was a cheerfully plump and good natured soul with
a cloud of untamed white hair and blue eyes that were always smiling.
She was fond of costume jewelry, wore several rings on each fluttery
hand and had a particular affection for - and a substantial
collection of – cameos. There was a sense of innocence and
goodness about her that was immediately endearing. “What you see
with Margaret,” my grandmother remarked not unkindly, “is exactly
what you get.” It was years before anyone realized she was smart
as a whip and had managed a small but highly profitable flower shop
for decades, at first supplementing then easily surpassing Mercy's
teaching salary and allowing the sisters to live quietly but
comfortably with themselves and each other.
The
third sister was the mystery, everyone agreed. She was the youngest
and despite the best efforts of the best island snoops, precious
little could be found out about her. To no one's real surprise, this
lack of information frustrated the gossips and triggered a tidal wave
of speculation.
It
was said she was a mute, that she wrote poetry and preferred cats
over people, that she had been born with a club foot, that she was
illegitimate and/or adopted. Some even raised the ugly possibiility
that she was Mercy or Margaret's daughter and not their sister. This
last proved to be too much for Ms. Clara.
“Seen
it with my own eyes,” Uncle Willie allowed, “Clara called the
damn fool woman out right there in the post office and when she tried
to argue 'bout it, ol' Clara jist slapped her right across the mouth,
in front of God and everyone. Ayuh, it was a sight to be seen.”
By
the middle of June, Florrie's house which had been shuttered and
vacant since the previous October, had been brought back to life.
Under Mercy's supervision, it was swept and polished clean from top
to bottom with a fresh coat of bright yellow paint and new curtains
at the windows. Florrie's classic, conservative furnishings were
replaced with an eclectically modern mix of chintz and shag rugs and
splashes of color here and there with clean lines replacing clutter.
Margaret attacked the yard and the flower beds with an impressive
ferocity, the wrap around veranda was soon a riot of assorted clay
pots and colors and a trio of newly painted rocking chairs. Window
boxes of daisies and ivy appeared at every window and a small army of
garden gnomes (the first we had ever seen) seemed to watch over it
all. It began to feel just a little magical but the real magic was
yet to come. It arrived on a sunny July afternoon in a small moving
van with a crew of five.
“A
piano?” Cap asked doubtfully, “We ain't never..........how the
hell does a piano fit in that?”
“In
pieces,” the driver informed him mildly, “And wrapped up
tighter'n a tick. Look, we made it from Halifax to Cape Breton and
then all the way here. I reckon we kin make it across a mile of calm
water.”
Cap
considered then shrugged. “Your piano,” he said diffidently,
“Reckon we can give her a try.”
And
so a grand piano was delivered to the magical little house off the
square and piece by piece, unpacked and unwrapped with great care
then carried into the front parlor and re-assembled.
It
took the rest of the day and well into the evening and the movers had
to be put up for the night. Mercy offered them rooms, “Not fancy,
mind you, but they'll serve and they come with a meal,” but
although they accepted the meal, they elected to sleep in the van and
were long gone by the time the factory whistle blew in the morning.
From
then on, music - some of which some of us had never even known
existed - poured forth from the square. You were as likely to hear a
raucous Little Richard tune as Vivaldi or a Joplin rag followed by a
Mozart overture. Carrie Mae Dill, who had never had a music lesson
in her entire life, had been a genuine prodigy from the time she
could sit at a piano without being held and a concert pianist by the
age of six.
From
books to flowers to music, the Pickle Sisters had arrived and brought
their own enchantments with them.
