Literary Sampler: Essays, Book Reviews, and More...
Monthly Column by Charity Gingerich

“Happy anniversary, Mr. Weems. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you ordered this today just to try me.” She poked at the jelly-rolls in his side but nearly missed hitting a rib instead. Usually he tickled, but this morning he only goosed a bit and groused at her gently, only half in jest.

“I think it’s rising, Leitha honey.” He dragged his game leg over to the window and looked out at the roaring sludge.

“How much water we got left – food?”

“Half a gallon, a dozen rotten eggs…not much.”

Laughter’s webbed-feet had left their footprints around his eyes over the years and made them dance with fun; today the creases appeared as the gullied wrinkles of an old man. How many years was today? She’d never been good at counting backwards…let’s see, fifty-nine, as best she could figure.

“Fifty-nine years, Mrs. Weems.” He chuckled and turned to her. They’d both counted backwards and come up with the same figure, so it must be right. He opened the dark refrigerator. “Sweet n’ sour omelet anyone?”

“Don’t fun now about that Sam Weems. Help me get a chair and we’ll see what’s in the pantry.”

“I will, but we already know what’s there.”

“Well, maybe we caught that mouse we set for last night.”

“Mmmm, barbequed leg o’ rat.” He mimicked a drooling fit, and made her laugh in spite of herself.

Her bones ached. They had ached for a week before the storm hit; she’d known it was going to be bad, real bad. Sam had asked if they should go over to her sister’s in Alabama, but she said no. Why leave the old house alone, especially on their anniversary? This was just one more storm, one of many, she’d told him, rubbing her swollen, arthritic knees.

“Not many folks our age get to spend their anniversary in the attic.” He gave her a pink-gums-grin as they headed for the stairs, a sack of meager supplies swinging between them. They spent the morning sitting on the hard pine floor looking through boxes of old photos: their kids' first birthdays, trips to the zoo, a weekend in Montgomery. The hours ebbed by.

“Yessir. And not many folks our age can wake up in Louisiana and end up in Mississippi without ever having to leave their front door.” She stood on a stool and peered out the tiny porthole framed in the roof’s spidery peak. The water continued to rise. If they were younger they’d be heading for the roof right this minute. She glanced back at Sam. He was sitting next to a stack of shoe-boxes, pouring over an old journal written by his grand-dad sometime during the civil war. She hated to disturb him; he looked so peaceful, absorbed. It was just another storm, only this one was going to carry them further than Mississippi, she reckoned. In fact, if she wasn’t mistaken, those were the pearly gates just yonder where Mrs. Clam’s peach tree once grew.

Copyright © 2005 by Charity Gingerich.

About the Author: Charity graduated from Kent State University with a BA in English, as well as minors in writing and history in 2006. This fall (2008) she will be entering the MFA in Creative Writing program at West Virginia University where she will be specializing in poetry. Charity always welcomes any questions/suggestions about this column. Click Here to send her an email.