Vivaldi & The Infamous Pickle Sisters

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.