(no subject)

Grrr. Arrgh.
Too much to do today. Clean house, grocery shop, cook, host mom overnight. Mom arrives early this afternoon, and the homestead's a wreck. Family coming to me for Thanksgiving tomorrow, so nothing but prep, prep, prep. I just wanna write. Damnit.

(no subject)

Got past the first paragraph. Hurray.

Martha keeps her truths carefully compartmentalized. She sorts them like the sheets and towels of the family linen closet, all carefully folded, with frayed washrags here, comforters and pillowcases there, all put away just so. What tears, she mends and puts back. What disintegrates, she replaces. It all comes easily, as long as she keeps up. Her secret to maintaining a happy home and family resides in keeping up with the load. She knows *her* Jonathan and *her* Clark sleep on clean sheets, under warm blankets, and burnish the grime from their workaday bodies with dryer-fresh towels as long as she does her job effectively. So the day Martha awakens to a linen closet devoid of anything with which to absorb the damp of her pre-dawn shower, the hamper overflowing in the corner of her bedroom, is the day Martha knows she ought to look at her truths, too. What she's overlooked in the corner, she might have overlooked elsewhere.

She dries herself with the flannel pajamas she wore to bed last night, dons white cotton panties and draws her terrycloth robe around her. Flipping wet hair out from beneath the collar, she first combs, then brushes until it all lies straight enough to dry without tangles, later, when she's finished making breakfast. Back in the bedroom, she shakes Jonathan's shoulder, gently, says "Rise and shine, Sleepyhead." He groans in acknowledgment, but sits up, eyes still closed, knees drawn up to his chest, arms curled up over his sleep-mussed hair. Same as every day. Always that defensiveness against the dawn, against the perpetual worries of life on a farm. He won't lie down again, steal more sleep once she leaves the room. She's awakened him nearly the same way every morning for all of their married life. He does as he's told.

Jonathan will wake Clark after he finishes dressing. Martha lifts the overfull wicker basket from the corner, carries it downstairs and then to the basement. Starts her first load. Reminds herself to get Clark to do the rest when he gets home from school today. Back up the stairs and to the kitchen.

It's a weekday, a little chilly in the house, so she decides to make her family something hot and simple. Apple cinnamon instant oatmeal, some bacon and scrambled eggs. Her truths peck at her like the hens Jonathan will feed in a short while, peck, peck as she scoops Folgers from red can to white filter, drops the batch in the basket of the instant coffee maker. Peck, peck as she fills the coffeepot with water, pours it in the back of the machine. Peck as she flips the on switch, red light glowing steadily. Hello. Truths here. Stop avoiding.

Something in the way she leapt, startled, after Lionel talked to her about his dead wife the other day. She wonders if she actually rolled her eyes when he compared her to Lillian. She's smart enough to know a come-on when she hears one. But why did Lex practically wrench her right out of her skin when he entered the room? Why does he so often effect her that way? Some truth hiding beneath a pile of dead leaves she doesn't yet wish to burn. Something perhaps slithering beneath, so she fears drawing near enough to pitch a match into the dry mass.

She hears the shower upstairs, winces at the thought of Jonathan's anger when he realizes in a few minutes that he has nothing with which to dry himself. Anger with her, first thing in the morning, and they've had so much tension lately anyway. He'll have to make do, she thinks, retrieving their own fresh, brown eggs from the refrigerator, bacon from the meat keeper. She fetches the cast iron skillet from the cabinet near the stove, lights the gas jets, peels one strip after another from the slab, settles them side by side in the pan.
Sing-song silly, she thinks "This little piggie is my Clark, this little piggie, Jonathan, this little piggie like Lionel and *this* little piggie all Lex. " Shakes her head. Just early enough in the day for her thoughts to tend toward the surreal. Watches them heat, slowly, then bubble up, begin to sizzle.

(no subject)

Yeah, so, I did clean the house, go grocery shopping, cook, host Mom, and now I've put Mom to bed. Hurray. Too tired to write now, but at least I knocked this snippet out this morning. Can't really expect to do the same tomorrow though. House full of family, big, big meal. Many pies already made.