Excerpt: The Joy of Hate - A recipe for country livin'

The sound of a car in the driveway awakens Ethel from her nap. She rolls to the side of her overstuffed recliner chair and parts the flower patterned curtains on the window.

“Looks like we got a customer, Pa,” she yells to the kitchen.

“Hope they brought a pile of money, Ma,” he calls back.

Ethel slowly pushes her overweight body from the chair, watches the stranger the entire time. She sees a tall, slender blonde exit from the vehicle and hesitantly walk over the gravel driveway toward the shop.

“Forget the money, Pa. This looks to be one of those city folk,” Ethel says. “Well, this won’t take long.”

Fester laughs. “Be gentle on her, Ma. Those city people aren’t too bright, you know.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Ethel scowls.

The door opens with a tin jingling from the bells attached to the handle. The blonde enters and smiles at Ethel.

“Welcome! Welcome!” Ethel booms in an exaggeration of friendliness. “Look around. We have plenty of goods here.”

“Oh, thanks!” the blonde says quietly. She glances over the two rows of folding tables which are filled with country crafted items: knitwear from babies, carved wooden spoons, and items of unknown definition. Homemade jams and jellies line one small wall.

“Do you make all of these jellies?” the blonde asks.

“I sure do!” Ethel says proudly.

Fester enters the store now. “They are all homemade right from scratch,” he adds. “And I do all the woodcarving here.”

The blonde is silent and continues to browse the remaining items on the table. Finally she says, “I am interested in herbs. Your sign says that you have herbs in this store.”

Ethel points to the jars of tea bags in the corner. “Right over there!” she says.

The blonde frowns. “I saw those, but I’m actually looking for herbs for healing and such. I am interested in learning about that.”

Ethel stiffens. “Well, of course, I know how to do all of that. I learned it in the Ozarks from my family. We grew our herbs, my mother is an expert, and my sister makes all of her own medicines.”

The blonde looks incredulous.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” adds Fester. “She knows everything about herbs.”

Ethel’s eyes flare as she casts a sideways glance at Fester. He doesn’t notice because his eyes have not left the blonde. Ethel jumps in the conversation quickly.

“I cannot sell herbs for medicine. There are laws which govern such things, you know,” she explains. “I would lose my vendor license from the State of New York.”

The blonde sighs. “Yes, I do know. It is getting more difficult to find herbs like this. Oh well. Thank you anyhow.” She turns to leave the store and Ethel quickly says, “I have jellies here that are made from herbs.”

The blonde turns around. “Really?”

“Yes, look here. Dandelion jelly and …”

Fester points to a poem on the wall, “I wrote this poem about dandelions, see?” Ethel is visibly annoyed with him now.

“Oh, elderberry!” the blonde says. “You have elderberry jelly. I’ll buy this for sure.”

Ethel says, “I have an herb class tomorrow. Perhaps you would like to take it. Of course, it is about cooking with herbs, but you might find it interesting.”

“I didn’t bring a lot of cash with me. How much is it?”

“Twenty bucks,” Ethel says as Fester’s eyes brighten. “And you can bring it tomorrow. Do you live around here?”

“Yes, my husband and I just moved into town a few weeks ago,” the blonde says.

Ethel hands her a card, “Here, just put your name and phone number on the card and I’ll make sure you get in the class.”

The blonde writes her name: Blaine Kelly. Fester rushes over, looks at the card, and happily announces, “You are Irish! So am I.”

“Well, actually, husband is, Irish” says Blaine.

Nellie redirects the focus to herself. “I am Cherokee. Would you like to see my grandparents photos?”

“Oh yes,” Blaine smiles. “Certainly”

Ethel leads Blaine into a small, dark paneled living room that has a couch against the wall, and two reclining chairs which face each other at opposite sides of the room, but do not face the couch. The only window in the room does not provide enough light to brighten the room. Two small table lamps provide a muted yellowish illumination, similar to a campfire at sunset.

“Over here, on the wall,” Ethel says and Blaine’s gaze is directed to two oversized portraits depicting a young man and woman from another century. They look quite dignified, and they definitely do not show signs of Cherokee heritage.

“They are lovely,” Blaine says. “These are your grandparents?”

“Yes,” Ethel says proudly. “My grandfather was a preacher who used to travel from town to town on horseback and preach.”

“My grandfather traveled, too,” says Blaine.

“Oh, was he a preacher?” Ethel asks.

For the first time, Blaine laughs. “No, he was a communist and a rogue.”

Ethel and Fester exchange a quick glance with each other, as Blaine quickly adds, “He’s dead now.”

An awkward silence fills the room as Blaine looks away from her hosts. She notices a wall filled with books and comments on it.

“Oh, that is my library!” Fester says. “I have books about everything here.”

“Got any herb books?” Blaine asks.

“No, that’s for her,” he says and points to Ethel. “And she has cookbooks too. I mostly read historical books and a lot of fiction.”

“Oh yes,” Ethel says. “He is an avid reader.”

“I love books,” Blaine says and smiles. Then, “Well, I don’t want to take up any more of your time. Let me pay for this jelly and I will be back tomorrow for the class.”

Ethel looks at the writing on the card, “Okay, Blaine. I am Ethel and this is Fester and we are happy to meet you. The class is tomorrow at 2 PM.”

“Great, I’ll look forward to it,” Blaine smiles. She pays for her purchase and leaves the shop.

Ethel and Fester watch her walk to her car and drive down the long hill to the main road. Fester is smiling, and Ethel is annoyed.

“Another city bitch come to the country,” Ethel says bitterly.

“Their money is as good as anyone else’s,” laughs Fester. “And this one looks pretty good.”

Ethel bursts into a shrill cackle. “Looking is about all you can do so you may as well enjoy it.”

“I do,” he says. He walks into the living room, settles himself into a recliner, and opens a book. Ethel retreats to the kitchen and begins to prepare dinner.

“I used to look good, too,” she mutters under her breath.

The long, low light of autumn dances across the hills and grants a special glow to the trees which are now in peak color. The church steeples crown each of the dozen blocks in town and look particularly majestic against this backdrop. It was perhaps on such an afternoon that the town of Splendor got its name.

There are at least 20 amateur historians in this town of 900, and dozens more who happily repeat the local lore and legend. Strangely, no one seems to know how the town got its name even as they know the exact year it was founded.

Two, or possibly three families have continued their lineage in this area since the beginning and most of the population can trace their ancestry back to these key families. Everyone else is an outsider, even if they have been here for two or more generations. This is not the kind of thing one mentions In polite conversation, but outsiders quickly learn their unalterable standing soon after their arrival. An outsider is never, ever above suspicion, no matter what.

Another splendid thing about Splendor is that most mass media does not reach this town. By foil or design, television signals do not penetrate the air and radio reception is spotty at best. More prosperous families get their news of the world at large through cable television, but generally speaking, the daily news is gathered at the town grocery store, the post office, or the library.

If one has lived in the outside world, moving to Splendor is moving back through time to an era that one only sees depicted in Norman Rockwell paintings. The streets are clean, the houses are tidy, and children ride bikes and climb trees without helmeted protection. There is no need for security cameras because everyone keeps tabs on everyone else. For some this is a comfort. For others, it is an annoyance.

Moonbeams glide across the surface of Norma’s silken black slip as she paces the length of the barbed wire fence. With one hand, she clutches the bouquet of dead roses tightly to her chest while in the pasture, the cows gently sing their mournful chorus.

“Fuck you, cows,” she screams at the moon and takes another swallow of whiskey. “And fuck this stupid farm and the farmer who lives here!”

The ground is muddy, and Norma’s plastic barn boots sludge through the mixture of moist soil and animal manure. Her strong, sturdy body remains upright even as the landscape beneath her feet threatens to knock her off balance.

“Fuckin’ mud,” she mutters and throws the dead roses to the ground. “I hate this fuckin’ mud.” She slows her path beneath the old sugar maple tree, and her slip catches on an embedded syrup tap. The fabric tears and jerks her back quickly.

“Fuckin’ maple syrup,” she yells at the tree. “Just more sticky shit on this damn farm!” She takes another swallow from the whiskey bottle and tries to loosen the mangled fabric from the syrup tap. “God, I hate this place,” she says as she gives it one final tug. The fabric quickly surrenders to her force, but this time she loses her balance and falls squarely in the mud.

“Goddammit,” she screams. She slips a few times before ultimately resuming her stance. “There! That’s better.”

Norma sighs and walks along the path which leads to the house, occasionally taking sips from the whiskey bottle. The bottle is emptied just as she reaches the tractor, and she throws it against the machine. Krraack! Glass flies everywhere and startles a screech owl .

“EEEEEEhhhhooooooooooooooooo,” screams the bird as it takes flight over her head.

Norma laughs and says, “Who? You’re asking me who? It’s the goddamn asshole that I married, that’s who!”