You have been patient, gentle reader.
Perhaps I should take a moment to fill you in on some details which I am sure have been swirling around the recesses, and gently jostling the cobwebs of your mind. Just exactly how was the Galubrious Accordion and Railway Coupling Manufacturing Company established? I am glad, dear reader that you have taken the time to ask. You see, it all began in grey wharf city of New Bedford Massachusetts in 1788. The Galubrious Bros. Musical Instrument and chicken feed company, as it was then known, was established primarily to make use of the excess bone, oil, and sinewy by-products from the whaling industry. This whale offal could be had, after the virgin pressing of oils, for two penny a ton. Rib bones were purchased quickly and in great quantity, steamed for a fortnight, and curved and carved by the nimble fingers of small children into elegant harps. Galubrious specialized in white harps in the tradition of the British Isles. During the great whale recession of the late 18th century, unemployed ship workers were hired to crown the harps with the now famous “Galubrious Girl”; miniature figureheads, bursting forth from the stem of the harps in the scrimshawed style of the whale ships particular that New England port. Do to the elegance of the carving and the extraordinary resonance of the whalebone of the northern waters; the harps became favored by symphonies worldwide. The pinnacle of the output was marked by the “white lady”, built exclusively for the Grand Duke of Florence, and displayed prominently at the world’s fair at San Gimignano, Italy, known to history as the “Fair of the ItalianWhite Lady”.
Composed by Dr. G on Nov 29
Composed by Dr. G on Nov 21
Composed by Dr. G on Nov 21
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In The Attic
Composed by Dr. G on Feb 13
Pin hole
There is a darkness, a warm darkness that envelopes you, moist and glowing, such as when you find yourself in the gullet of a whale, or when you are exploring Gomantong volcanic caves and find yourself sucking in the moist breath of a colony of Bornean fruit bats. This was the oppressive atmosphere we found ourselves crouching in as we crept, hunch backed, through the dark attic space that fluted the ridge space along the spine of the farmhouse. The spring sun beat down on the cedar shingles above us, and the steam sent up from Molly?s stew mingled with the wafts of maple syrup. The result was a sickeningly sweet smell of stale cedar and meat that hung dense in the air. Every few feet a beam of light pierced the darkness from a hole in the shingles lighting up and abandoned leather shoe, bundle tied rags or discarded dentures.After escaping from the pantry we climbed to the attic, and had found this the perfect place to spy on the rooms below. Despite the darkness we paced off the distances. Lucia stopped decisively and pulled a hairpin from my head, leaving a golden wave of hair to flop in front of my face. The hairpin was a family heirloom that had been passed to me on my sixth birthday. The long silver stem was crowned with a tarnished silver ladyclock bug in the 18th century trembler fashion, this treasure had been created by the Austrian jeweler Gustav Swarovski, and the small spring and mechanisms were devised so that its enameled wings fluttered up to reveal a vivid red carbuncle with the vibrations caused by a mild breeze or the light, quick second beat distinctive to the Viennese Waltz. Before I could protest she bit down on the tip end of the pin, pulled a lace from her dress, and made a small bow with it and the discarded bone of a corset from the attic floor. At first I though she was fashioning a small bow and arrow ? fit to slay a mouse ? but instead she looped the pin through the lace, and placed the pin on the plaster below us ? pulling and pushing the contraption set the little bug into a wild frenzy, and slowly drilled a small hole into the ceiling of the room below. She ripped a page from her pocket journal and held it some three feet above little hole ? there, displayed on the paper was transferred a perfect mirror image of a bedroom below. She raised her eyebrow at me in smug silence. I snapped my hairpin back and thrust the dizzied little bug grudgingly back into my hair. We made our way along the top of the house, balancing along the beams, making sure not to step directly on the lath and plaster between, but stopping occasionally to drill, and peer again into another room.
Composed by Dr. G on Feb 08
Composed by Dr. G on Nov 30
The Pantry
The pantry seemed like any other ?tall wainscoted cupboards painted pale green and pink held shelf after shelf of salting crocks and pickled provisions growing low as we reached the end of winter. There were sacks of flour and boxes of brown sugar and tea. Then there were the canning jars, scores of Ball and Atlas canners of languid blue, vegetable remnants of past summers paled in acrid cider vinegar and swam in the murky glow of our candle: garlic green beans, bread and butter pickles, Brussels sprouts, pinky wrinkled tomatoes and small white pickled pearl onions. As I passed the light along the shelves Lucia emitted a little gurgle ? like that last bit of sudsy water disappearing down the sink. She pulled my arm back down the shelf so that the light was once again thrown on the canning jars. These were not pearl onions after all ? Lucia and I leaned forward into the low shelf ? distorted and enlarged by the embossed blue glass were dozens of little eyeballs, unblinkingly staring back at us from inside the sealed jar. Moving through the gloom we sent spiders scurrying as we swept aside the webs and blew dust from the other jars; there were pale blue mushrooms, crow?s feet, and bloated toads ? their cloudy golden eyes reflecting back the flame of our candle. The wrinkly pickled tomatoes at second sight appeared to be some un-named organs, which we found less disturbing than the jar labeled ?Henrick? in a jittery scrawl containing an oozing milky-white substance.It was at this moment that we heard footsteps enter the kitchen. My sister and I stood as still as summer air before an evening storm, as we listened to Molly making her way around the kitchen, scraping through pans and opening cupboards. Then her foot falls made a direct line for the door of the pantry. The footsteps stopped and the iron latch lifted ? then there was a pause. Lucia and I scrambled, she in one direction and I in another. In a small alcove behind the shelves I hid amongst the hay in a crate that held the last of the acorn squash. The musty smell of Timothy grass and squash bugs replaced the sulphurous smell of my extinguished candle. A beam of white morning light pierced the darkness lighting up the jars in front of me. The silhouette of Molly?s full-figured form danced in the glass of twisting pickled garlic scapes before me as it advanced into the pantry. She stopped in front of me ? her soiled apron, with its pattern of pale blue and white flowers, filled my vision. She shuffled the jars on the shelf ? grabbed one (Henrick) ? and disappeared back into the kitchen.
I emerged from the hay, brushed the spider webs from my hair, and struck a match from my pocket to light my candle stub. The light broke out into the darkness, and the lid of the blue and white fifty-gallon crock lifted in the corner and my sister?s head emerged.
?that was close,? I whispered ?lucky you found an empty crock?
?it wasn?t quite empty? she mumbled ? A vinegar brine squished out of her shoes as she stepped out of the crockery and brushed damp dill from the hem of her dress.
Composed by Dr. G on Nov 30
Composed by Dr. G on Nov 23
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frost
We stepped into the frosty morning and the grass cracked under our feet. The sun had not yet reached the fields around us. There was no sign of footsteps, save our own and the hooves of sheep, anywhere around the house and barns. Unless our father had grown hooves, or sprouted wings, he had not left the house during the night. When sun at last reached us, it lit up the billows of steam escaping our mouths and melted away the cold morning and any remaining paths in the frost. My sister and I scraped the ice and mud off our boots and passed back through to the kitchen.The room was scrubbed clean, a pungent smell of ammonia, cider vinegar scrub and mothballs blended with a pot of something stewing on the top of the stove, a cloven hoof sticking at an awkward angle out from under a self-basting cast iron lid. Molly was gone, the rocker in the corner was still empty, and experience had told us that Mr. McCrunkstale would be busy in the barn with morning chores. It was time to do a little snooping.
As my father has stated, this farmhouse is typical of New Hampshire, In effort to avoid the cold winter winds, and to gain the body heat of the farm animals, almost all of the buildings on the farm are connected. The task of exploring room after room of the rambling homestead would be a daunting one. We gathered candles from the sideboard and started into the pantry.
Composed by Dr. G on Nov 23
Composed by Dr. G on Nov 11