Henrietta and Lucinda
Fall 2024
“Girls,” Mother said before she and Father departed, “please make sure you gather some firewood today. Father and I are headed to the market. We’ll be gone until well after dark. I expect the house to be in order when I return.”
“Yes, Mother,” Henrietta and Lucinda intoned together as their parents left.
“Well,” Lucinda, the elder of the two, said, “you’d better get started. You have a lot to do. Don’t tarry! You haven’t got all day.”
Henrietta glared at her sister, who had no intention of lifting a finger to help.
“Don’t you make evil eyes at me, you waste-of-a-life,” Lucinda scowled.
Henrietta looked at Lucinda with a downturned mouth as she continued to sweep the floor.
“You missed a spot,” Lucinda snarled, pointing to a corner by the cupboard.
Henrietta finished sweeping the floor, washing the dishes, and scrubbing the table. Lucinda lounged in her bedroom.
“I’m bored,” Lucinda said from her bed. “Are you done with the cleaning yet? I think we should gather kindling for the fireplace as Mother asked. Let’s go.” She took her stick, not for walking but for prodding poor Henrietta. They walked into the nearby woods.
They found sticks and twigs, which they piled on Henrietta’s back. As they worked their way into the forest, they came to the gorge, a deep chasm at the end of the village.
“Henrietta, get more wood for the fire. You’re so lazy, so slow. Henrietta! Henrietta! Henrietta!”
Lucinda’s voice grated on Henrietta. I can’t bear to hear her say my name one more time. She threw down the firewood that they’d piled on her back, and she ran at Lucinda. The uncharacteristic behavior caught Lucinda off guard. She swung her stick at Henrietta and missed. Off-balance, she stepped back into nothingness and careened into the gorge. Henrietta listened to Lucinda’s cries fade into a distant muffled sound as her sister plummeted down the gorge’s steep wall.
“Good riddance,” Henrietta muttered. She retrieved the sticks they’d gathered and returned to their cabin.
Once home, Henrietta sat, initially at ease, but, as evening came, her conscience began to gnaw at her. I’ve procrastinated long enough. The time has come to rescue Lucinda. I’m not an evil person. Granted, it is peaceful without her. What will Mother and Father say if I do nothing?
Henrietta had smiled when Lucinda fell off the cliff into the chasm. Now she wrung her hands as she thought about not making some attempt to rescue her. She imagined Lucinda at the bottom, struggling, in pain, desperate to escape. How could I leave her there? I should have done something.
Henrietta left the cabin and ran to the ravine where she last saw her sister. She carried heavy lengths of rope in one hand and a lantern in the other. She draped a quiver with arrows and her bow over her shoulder. The moon sat low on the horizon and cast a dim reflected light onto the ground.
Henrietta reached the edge of the ravine, approaching it with caution, her hands shaking. She peered into the darkness and held her breath but saw nothing beyond a few feet. She placed the lantern on the ground, leaned over the edge, and shouted, “Luccinndaa? Lucinda, are you down there?”
Henrietta cupped her hand to her ear and listened. Distant voices, shouting, angry argumentative sounds wafted up to her on gentle updrafts from below, but there was no answer to her call. Henrietta began to tie the ends of the ropes together to create one long line.
“Lucinda, I’m going to lower a rope with a knot on the end. Climb onto the knot, and I’ll hoist you up,” she called into the darkness.
Henrietta lowered the entire length of the rope and waited, hoping its length was sufficient to reach the bottom. She felt a tug and started to pull the rope up. At first, she pulled with enthusiasm. Her heart raced, full of expectation and joy that she was not too late. As the rope’s end neared the surface, she began to pull with less vigor, her hands shook, and her palms were wet with sweat. How will Lucinda act once she is beside me? Henrietta stopped retrieving the line.
Memories of Lucinda’s shrewish behavior flooded back to her. She heard Lucinda’s shrill squeaky abrasive voice echoing in her head.
“Good riddance,” Henrietta had said and walked away. Now, she was pulling Lucinda to safety. She recalled her evil-eyed sister’s taunting and poking at her with a stick, making her feel like a lowly cockroach always under her oppressive foot. Henrietta started to question her own good intentions, only to be snapped out of her deliberation by a voice calling from below the canyon’s edge.
“Yo, what’s the problem up there?”
That’s not Lucinda. Henrietta secured the line to a tree. She picked up her bow, notched an arrow, and moved the lantern to the edge. As she approached the rim, she drew back the bow string. Five feet from the top, sitting on the knot, was a little man, clutching the rope with wrinkled, veined hands, and knobby fingers.
“Pray, don’t shoot!” he shouted, eyes wide, and a hand extended in a defensive posture. “I am Master Pripet. What are you waiting for? Pull me the rest of the way up. If I must spend one more moment with that ungrateful termagant I assume you delivered upon us, I don’t know what I’ll do.” His eyes glowed as the lantern’s light reflected from them. His face was animated as his thousand-year-old wrinkles rippled with each word. He wore a pointed hat, broken at the tip, cocked to the side, and a short woolen coat, woolen pants, and leather boots laced to mid-shin.
Cut the line, send this strange little creature back from where he came, and call for the people of my community to fill the chasm with rocks. Henrietta put down the bow and arrow and lowered the rope.
As the little man began to descend, he spoke again with urgency. “No. No, please don’t do that. I cannot go back, not so long as that young woman is there. She is insufferable, unbearable, just horrible. She even poked me with a stick. She did! She poked meee, the Master, with a stick. Can you believe that?”
Henrietta held the rope fast with one hand, and the lantern high with the other, and looked down at the little man.
“She poked you with a stick?” Henrietta asked.
“Yes, she poked me with a stick.”
“She used to poke me with a stick, too. I know what you mean.” Henrietta took the opportunity to unburden herself to the little man. “Who does Lucinda think she is anyway? It was enough as I watched our parents dote on her. It was enough to know that, in their eyes, Lucinda did no wrong. Lucinda was pretty, graceful, bright, the good daughter. If only one cookie was left, they gave it to her.” Henrietta looked into Pripet’s eyes. “There seemed to be only enough love for one child, and it wasn’t me.” She paused and choked back a tear. “Once our parents went to work each day, a long day that stretched to well after dusk, Lucinda would begin to badger and demean me. She always had to be in charge.”
“My poor dear. Maybe we can make a deal.” The little man spoke, words rushed, desperate to get away from Lucinda and willing to bargain. “You rescue me from the hell my home has become, and I will make you rich.”
“Me, rich?” Henrietta finished raising the little man to the edge of the ravine. “But, what about Lucinda?” She still wrestled with her dilemma.
“Lucinda?” The little man grabbed the edge of the cliff overlooking the gorge and pulled himself up. “That young woman, if that, indeed, is what she is, can take care of herself anywhere.”
Henrietta nodded her head in agreement. Her ambivalence, supplanted by curiosity, and a sense of kinship had developed with this stranger. The prospect of riches warmed her heart as she savored the possibilities.
They sat in the moonlight by the gorge and talked into the night. The little man said that he could be the source of considerable wealth for Henrietta. He proposed that they find a rich person to torment and harass. He would meddle in their life and make them miserable. After a week or two, for he didn’t think it would take longer, Henrietta would present herself and offer—for a fee, of course—to exorcise the demon that had afflicted the wealthy individual.
“I have one stipulation, however. We do this trick just three times.”
“Can I trust you?” Henrietta asked.
The little man took off his hat and handed it to Henrietta. “With this, we seal the deal. When you have received the money from the third rich person, you will return my chapeau, and I shall be on my way. I am Pripet, the Master, that is what my friends call me.” He extended his hand to Henrietta, and they shook.
Henrietta, unwilling to face her parents, decided to spend the night in the forest with Pripet. The next morning, the two arose early to begin their journey to find a rich person. A simple task for the most part, since this was a wealthy land. Before setting out, Henrietta returned to the ravine one last time. Although the bottom was not visible through the foliage, she heard the muffled faraway voices still arguing. She smiled at her good fortune, turned, and left to join Pripet.
By noon of the second day, they were passing a huge farm with acres of wheat, cattle, and horses. Pripet looked at Henrietta and bit his lower lip. Not much farther down the road was a massive home, finely appointed, and freshly painted. Next to the house stood a fine barn, coops for chickens, and storage bins brimming with grain.
“I think we have discovered a very rich person,” Pripet said. “I’ll leave you now. You go. Return here in one week, as we discussed.”
Henrietta left the little man and occupied herself by a nearby stream away from Pripet and his mischief. After seven days, she walked back to the farm, past the fields of wheat, cattle, and horses, to where she had last seen Pripet. When she came to the house, she found the owner seated on the front lawn. He looked up at the sky, his hands balled into fists, shaking his head.
“Hello there,” Henrietta called. “Hello.”
The man looked up. He grumbled to himself, his eyes darting back and forth, preparing for an assault from any direction. He swatted the air. A harsh cackle came from behind him, and he whipped around to face it, but nothing was there.
“Are you all right?” Henrietta asked, amazed at the spectacle Pripet had created.
“I was a sane man a week ago,” the man said. He stood and walked backward toward Henrietta, keeping his face pointed in the direction from which Pripet’s cackling had come. “This peaceful land, my land, is possessed. The chickens have laid no eggs. They peck at each other and won’t sit on their nests. The cows have given no milk, remain in the fields standing on rocks, and my workers have fled with fear in their eyes. My family is held prisoner in the house, afraid to come out. I am concerned that all I have will be lost.”
“What if I can help you?” Henrietta asked. This is too easy to be true.
“Name your price,” the rich landowner answered, and Henrietta named a price.
“I will come back tomorrow,” Henrietta said, “and, once I receive the agreed-upon fee,” for she insisted on being paid for her services in advance, “I promise to bring peace to the farm and rid it of the demon that has invaded it.”
The next morning the farmer gave Henrietta the money. In return, she danced a very silly dance, shouted nonsense, and threw rocks at the house, the barn, and the coops. She tapped the ground with a stick. After several hours of this behavior, she grew tired. Without anything further to say or do, Henrietta took a seat by the man.
“Well, that should do it,” she said.
“I hope so,” said the man, already greatly relieved and extremely impressed with Henrietta’s thoroughness. Of course, Pripet was long gone, having slipped away the night before. Henrietta bid the man and his family farewell and departed that much richer.
By dusk, she caught up to Pripet at a previously selected meeting place. Pripet prepared a meal from the food that he had gathered at the farm. Henrietta hugged Pripet. After they ate, the two scoundrels sat by the fire and counted the gold Henrietta had collected from the man. Henrietta smiled and stood tall. I wish Lucinda could see me now.
The next weeks brought Henrietta and Pripet great fortune as they found the second and third rich persons, possessed them, and exorcised them, for a fee, of course. Henrietta’s incantations and gesticulations became more elaborate, and her love for power and riches grew. But, according to their agreement, they would only perpetrate their scam three times. Pripet was ready to depart. Wealth bred greed, and Henrietta, who now had plenty of money, wanted more.
“I’m leaving,” Pripet advised Henrietta. “I’ll be taking my chapeau.” The little man was not himself without his hat.
“Let’s do it one more time,” Henrietta demanded with a snide smile and narrowed eyes. “One more time, and then I’ll give you back your hat.”
Pripet knitted his brow and his lips turned down. “I have kept my part of the bargain. Now, it is time for you to honor yours.” He opted not to beg or argue further—after all, a deal was a deal—but she continued to refuse.
“All right, keep my hat! But, beware, you’ve scorned this little man,” Pripet snarled and stomped off.
“Be off then,” Henrietta shouted after him. “I’m a woman of means now.”
Henrietta began her journey home at the next daylight. She avoided the areas through which she’d passed previously, not wanting to bump into any of the people she had deceitfully “helped.” She decided, as she walked, that she would build a mansion on the site of her family’s cabin. She could begin to live the way she had always intended.
How proud she anticipated her mother and father would be when she returned with a plan and the ability to make it come true. It would more than make up for the loss of Lucinda. They would have to excuse her prolonged absence. She passed by the ravine where her adventure had begun, but she neither looked down nor listened for Lucinda’s voice.
She arrived home after nightfall and stood at the door listening. Voices emanated from within. They are home. A broad smile spread across her face anticipating a joyous reunion. She drew a breath and opened the door only to stagger backward, horrified by the sight.
Sitting at her table, using her utensils, and eating from her plates, were a host of slovenly little creatures covered with dirt and grease. They reeked of the putrefaction they consumed as they sat in the slimy mess. As the hot air in the room rushed through the open door, Henrietta became nauseated by the disgusting odors that engulfed and smothered her. She turned and began to retch. Between heaves, she heard the familiar cackle that had tormented those she and Pripet had bilked.
“Seen Pripet, Henrietta?” One of the beasts at the table asked and then cackled. Henrietta covered her mouth and her nose as the smell of rotting flesh emitted with those spoken words blew over her. Her eyes burned; her stomach cramped. She wanted to lie down but not in the slime that coated the floor. Her head spun as she started to lose consciousness, only to be alerted by a searing sting across her back.
She turned in the direction of the presumed attack, but no one was there. She dropped her bag of money, and, when she tried to reach for it. A blistering pain crossed her arm. She pulled her hand back and ran out the door. She sat in the yard, facing the door, as cackling laughter filled the air, mixed with the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood.
“Well, Henrietta, how does it feel to be rich?” Master Pripet whispered with a sharp edge into her ear.
“Where are my parents?” Henrietta shouted. “What have you done with them?”
“Oh, they’re safe in a closet,” Pripet mocked.
“Make your horrible friends go, you little . . . ” Henrietta snarled and swung her arm viciously in the direction of Pripet’s voice. She struck nothing. Henrietta jumped up, flailing the air with her fists, kicking, spitting, and cursing Pripet. Henrietta was frantic now, desperate to rid herself of these devils. Then she stopped, smiled, and ran to the ravine. The bow, quiver of arrows, and spliced ropes were where she had left them. She seized the rope and lowered it over the edge.
“Lucinda! Lucinda! Hop onto the rope; I’ve come to rescue you.”
From the depths of the gorge, Lucinda called, “Henrietta? Is that you? Where have you been, you lazy, good-for-nothing? I can’t believe I call you sister or that we come from the same parents. Why, you’re just—”
“Lucinda, hurry!” Henrietta pleaded, ignoring the epithets being heaped upon her.
“I don’t hurry, Henrietta, especially not for you. Only low-rent, good-for-nothings like you hurry. Hurry, she says; you are worse-than-worthless. Wait until I tell Mother and Father how you’ve behaved.”
The rope stiffened as Lucinda climbed onto the knot. With fierce determination and speed, Henrietta raised the rope until Lucinda appeared. She had her hickory switch in her hand, poised above her head in anticipation of striking Henrietta at her first opportunity.
“Don’t hit me or I’ll lower you back down to the bottom of the gorge,” Henrietta threatened.
“You haven’t got the—” She caught her breath as Henrietta let the rope slip backward in her hands. “Okay, I won’t hit you. Get me out of here,” Lucinda said.
Henrietta secured the line and took her sister in her arms, but not to hug her. She secured an arm, turned, and ran in the direction of home. Upon reaching the house, without hesitation or explanation, she rammed open the door and dumped Lucinda onto the slimy floor.
“What has happened to my house?” Lucinda screamed, shrill and as irritating as ever. “What are you ugly diminutive creatures doing here?” Her hickory switch flew this way and that, more often finding its mark than not.
“Oh, no! It’s her!” the little monsters cried and began to scramble toward the windows and doors, shouting in pain as Lucinda whipped them left and right. Pripet and his band yelped all the way to the ravine.
Once they were gone, Henrietta looked at Lucinda and sheepishly braced herself for a reprimand or another prod from Lucinda’s stick. Henrietta pointed to the bag on the table.
“I got that for us,” she said, biting her lip.
“For us?” Lucinda said, as she poured the contents of the bag onto the table and smiled.
“For all of us,” Henrietta answered. She placed Pripet’s hat on Lucinda’s head and turned to look for their parents, stowed away in the close
The first time I met Henry Smith was outside an old factory in the summer of 1965, right before I entered my senior year of high school. I was there because Hap Phillips, our baseball team’s coach, had offered me a job helping a client of his move into a new location. I think Coach Phillips was taking pity on me. He’d probably noticed I wasn’t playing with much enthusiasm, even when I made a good play.
I was too worried about my future to enjoy almost anything, even sports. My sister, mother, and I occupied a small apartment, and we didn’t have much money. Whatever happened after my senior year of high school would be a huge transition for me. From the perspective of the summer of ‘65, graduation seemed like the end of the road, not the beginning. Without resources, university seemed like a reach, and the alternative was the draft and Viet Nam. Work could provide money for college applications, and I didn’t mind the prospect of lifting and toting things. Being productive was better than sitting at home or hanging out somewhere.
I’ve never liked public transportation, and I had to take the P&W trolley, a brief walk from our apartment on Manoa road, to get to the job. The trolley took me to the 69th Street terminal, and then I had to switch to the Media line to get to where I was going to work. It took about forty minutes as long as the connections were good. That was always a source of anxiety for me. What if the trains were slow, or I got on the wrong train and ended up on the other side of town?
The building Henry Smith was moving into was a short stroll from the trolley stop. He was at the front door when I arrived.
“You the boy Hap sent me?” Mr. Smith said.
“Yes, sir. My name is Joe,” I replied.
“I can pay you, $1.50 an hour. I need help setting up the shop. A van will be here soon. Can you unload it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t have to call me sir. This isn’t the military. Just call me Henry,” he said and smiled.
That’s how we started. He was a tall man, probably six feet; I’d guess taller when he was younger. He stood hunched-over, leaning on his cane, and wore a fedora and a long coat even though it was summer. His stomach stretched his white shirt to the limits of its buttons, and his tie fell well short of his belt, which was pulled up above his waist. He looked tired. The deeply creased lines on his cheeks extended to his jaw and framed his jowls. It wasn’t clear where his chin ended, and his neck began. He had kind, bright eyes, bushy brows, and thin, white hair that stuck out from under his hat.
“Come inside,” he said. “Let me show you around before the van gets here. I think you’ll find this place interesting.”
He gave me the key and asked me to unlock the door. I did as he said and held the door as he pulled himself up the steps with the rail, using his cane to maintain his balance.
“Damn neuropathy,” he muttered.
Once inside, he asked me to locate the light switch and turn it on, even though the interior was quite bright. The room was huge, two or more stories high. The sun’s rays streamed through large windows that lined three sides. There was a loft for storage over the entrance, and a raised platform opposite. On either end of the platform, stairs led to balconies spanning the length of the room on both sides and connected to the loft.
“This was an old cigar factory, vacant for years. The foreman sat there.” Henry pointed to the raised area, that looked like a dais, at the end of the room. “That way the boss man could see all the workers and make sure they were doing what they were supposed to be doing.”
Is he going to be sitting up there watching me?
“Don’t worry. I won’t sit up there and watch you,” he said as if he’d read my mind. “We better get back outside and wait for that van. When it comes, it’ll be full of barrels. You’re going to have to unload them and set them up in here. Now, help me to the door and down the steps.”
That’s when I realized he really couldn’t see.
“Damn diabetes is taking my sight,” he murmured.
We sat on the steps in front of the building waiting for the moving truck.
“So,” Henry began. “It’s your last year of high school, isn’t it? Do you have plans?”
“Yes, I’ll be a senior in September.” My heart sped up and I had a sinking feeling in my gut. “I’m not sure where I’m going. I’d like to go to college, but I have to get in somewhere. If not, then, I guess I’ll go to Viet Nam.” I thrust my hands into my pockets and looked away.
“Go to college,” he said with stern conviction.
Mercifully, the van arrived at that moment, giving Henry no chance to pose further inquiries about my future. He had the driver back the truck up to the entrance, then open the rear doors, and place a couple of boards from the van bed through the doorway, so I wouldn’t have to constantly go up and down the steps.
“Okay, Joe,” Henry said, “the truck contains barrels filled with spices. You are going to unload them into this room and put them into neat rows. I’m not sure how I’d like them arranged yet; not certain they need to be organized. Most are fine powders. Try not to spill any. It’d be a mess.”
Henry must have spotted a chair in the corner of the room. His cane clicked on the cement floor as he toddled his way to it and sat down. I entered the van and started to move the barrels.
Illustration by the author
Fortunately, I had access to a hand truck. The drums were three to four feet high and held forty to fifty pounds of spice. Not all were filled, it seemed, as some were heavier than others. Each had a label. There were three with cinnamon written on them. One marked cassia (Chinese), another, Padang cassia (Indonesia), and the last, Ceylon verum. I lined the three cinnamon containers up and started for the next. Henry got out of his chair and shuffled over to where I last stood. When I returned with two more barrels, he was standing by the cinnamon.
“The Ceylon cinnamon is more pungent than the Chinese and the Indonesian. It has less coumarin; that’s rat poison and used medicinally as a blood thinner. Problem is that the Ceylon cinnamon quickly loses its flavor in cooking. Each spice has a story.”
I decided, right there, that this job could be fun. He’d piqued my interest and stirred my curiosity. As Henry returned to his chair, I wondered what he did with all these spices.
I placed a drum labeled nutmeg next to the cinnamon and one marked mace by that. I moved barrels all morning. There seemed to be hundreds of spices, and for many there was more than one barrel. Formula H24 appeared on multiple containers. I noticed other barrels carried letters and numbers, like Apple pie J17 and Salmon P5. The numbers were a code that I compulsively tried, but failed, to figure out.
By noon, I had emptied the truck, although I’d left a jumble of barrels, needing placement, at the entrance. At the back of the van, I found a few metal cases, some locked, a couple of scales of different sizes, and what looked like an industrial-sized grinder/mixer. I slowly wrestled the heavier items onto the hand truck and wheeled each into the building. Henry paid the driver, we said goodbye, and he took off.
Thirsty, wet from sweat. and hungry for lunch, I looked at Henry.
“How about we take a break?” Henry said, again seeming to read my mind. “It’s Tuesday. That’s when they slaughter the chickens at the Lamb Tavern. The chicken livers will never be fresher. Sautéed, they are delicious. Chef likes me to pop in and taste his creations. I can’t eat like I used to, due to the damn diabetes. How about we feed you?”
Feed me? I licked my lips. Eating was one thing I could do well. I liked food. Mom served us calves’ liver, smothered in onions and sometimes with bacon--outstanding. I liked chopped chicken liver salad. How bad could sautéed chicken livers be?
“You know how to drive?” Henry asked me.
“I got my license a year ago when I turned sixteen,” I said.
“Good. Let’s take a trip to the Lamb Tavern.”
Did Henry have a car there? I had wondered how he got there today. If I were going with him, given the state of his vision, I’d better drive. I’d heard of the Lamb Tavern, but I didn’t know much about it, except it was close to a hamburger hangout called Scotties. We locked up the building and got into Henry’s car, an old Studebaker.
He directed me to the restaurant. When we entered the bar entrance, he was greeted by everyone, the bartender, maître de, and the waitstaff. It was like I was with royalty. Even the chef came out to say hello to Henry. Henry introduced me to him.
“He’ll be doing the eating for me.” Henry said.
The chef smiled. “You’re in for a treat.”
They sat us at the bar. I guessed that was okay if I was with Henry, although I must admit, I was a little uncomfortable. Mom never took us out to eat, and I was too young to be at a bar by myself.
Before long, the food started to appear. As predicted, I was served a plate of sautéed chicken livers smothered in fried onions, and mushrooms in a brown gravy. There was a side salad of mixed greens, tomato, cucumbers, raisins, and walnuts topped with a light vinaigrette, fresh grated cheese, and French bread. The chicken livers were steaming hot, and the fragrances rising off them made my mouth water.
As the chef and Henry watched, I gently pierced a portion of chicken liver with my fork, careful to include some onions and mushrooms with the gravy and put the morsel in my mouth. I was unable to suppress my pleasure. I let out a long, low spontaneous moan as the flavors exploded on my tongue. Henry and the chef smiled proudly at their achievement as I proceeded to devour my meal. Henry enjoyed a glass of wine and tasted several sauces the chef had prepared for him. He made some suggestions, I finished my lunch, and we prepared to leave. There was no charge.
On the way out, Henry told me in a stage whisper that the Hungry Star was getting in fresh fish tomorrow. I think he had gotten a kick out of feeding me, watching me moan with each bite, that extemporaneous affirmation of culinary perfection. Once in the car, I thanked him. He responded that it was his pleasure, and, for him, I sincerely think it was.
“I have an incredible sense of taste,” he told me as we drove back to the warehouse. “I started making blends of spices and developed a whole business, Henry Smith’s Seasonings.” I could hear the pride in his voice.
“Did you know my spices are in seven houses of royalty across Europe? They fly me in periodically to sample the food. I supply many supermarkets and grocery stores all over the world. All built on my palate. I get hired by Heinz and Kraft to go into their shops for tasting. They pay by the hour.” Henry paused. “The hardest part is taking my time. One taste and I can tell what is needed.” He chuckled. “I’m getting older, time is catching up with me. I’m slowing down. All in all, I’ve been very fortunate.”
I listened carefully. Here, I was at the beginning of my life, hardly able to imagine a future, uncertain if I had one. Henry’s words gave me hope: Dreams are attainable. Maybe I, too, could feel joy and satisfaction of accomplishment like Henry when I reached his age.
“How would you like to finish out the summer helping me mix spices? Same wage.”
“Sure,” I said.
When we arrived at the warehouse, I started setting up the drums in neat rows, separated by an aisle, pairing each barrel with another. I noted there were several containers labeled pepper. Black pepper, Henry told me, was produced from the green pepper cooked and dried in the sun to produce the dark, wrinkled appearance of the black peppercorns. White pepper came from the seed of the plant with its darker skin removed. Green pepper was the black pepper with its green coat preserved. White and green pepper, according to Henry, tasted different than black and were used in Chinese and Thai dishes. Henry said the Malabar black, from southern India, was the best.
Henry invited me to open the barrels and enjoy the fragrances. I accepted the invitation and proceeded to lift the lid of each barrel of pepper, sniffed, and snuck a taste. I agreed that the Malabar black was the most flavorful. Opening barrels and inhaling the rich, pungent odors became a regular thing. I didn’t like coriander; it smelled and tasted like soap.
Some of the last drums I moved contained chili pepper.
“Joe,” Henry called from across the room when I started to work with them, “be especially careful with the chilis. You need to wear a mask when you open those barrels, especially the habanero and naga. After handling them, don’t lick your lips or touch your face, and don’t get any in your eyes. Remember to wash your hands.”
I rolled the chili pepper barrels into place with care, heeding Henry’s advice, and left them alone. It took a couple more hours to get everything set up and organized. Once things were in order, Henry explained his system.
“I started with A1 and worked through the alphabet, A to Z with 1, then A to Z with 2. Just using my sense of taste, it took me to H24 to reach perfection. Formula H24 became the basis for most of my blends. I keep that one secret. That’s the only one I don’t share. Later this week, we need to make up a hundred pounds of apple pie seasoning. I’ll walk you through the process. All the formulas are in those locked metal boxes.”
I finished setting up scales and mixers, swept up the floor, then helped Henry to his car, uncertain how he drove it. He assured me he saw well enough to go the three blocks he needed to get home, although, he admitted, Mrs. Smith wasn’t happy with this plan.
I found my way to the P&W. As I waited for the trolley, I wondered about the hundred pounds of apple pie seasoning. That’s a lot of apple pie. Surely, the blend must include cinnamon. But what else would he put in it? Nutmeg, maybe, and—? I guessed I’d find out.
Summer moved along quickly once I got into the routine of going to work. Lunch was always an adventure. Monday, most of the restaurants were closed, but not to Henry. He had his pick. Tuesdays, we always went to the Lamb Tavern; Wednesdays, to Hungry Star; Thursdays, to Mike’s Inn, and Fridays, to the Grill. The chefs always appreciated the delight I displayed, a confirmation of their skill. I was never able to suppress that unconstrained moan of pleasure with each mouthful.
My enthusiasm for baseball picked up, and I became more positive about everything. College became an attainable goal. Mom took a job at the University where the salary wasn’t much, but it came with free tuition for my sister and me, if we could get in. It was as if Henry’s seasonings had not only invigorated my sense of taste, but my life as well.
When I thanked Coach Hap for the opportunity to work for Mr. Smith, he just smiled. I think he knew what being with Henry would do for me. At the end of the summer, I said goodbye to Henry Smith, and he gave me a bag of small jars with his seasonings, each with the Henry Smith Seasoning logo on them. My favorite was the Malabar Black peppercorns. I ate them straight out of the container.
In September, I started my senior year. Life got very busy with college applications, sports, and school. I hadn’t much time to think about Henry Smith until Coach Hap contacted me that November to tell me Mr. Smith had passed away.
He will always live on in my memory.
“Henry Smith’s Seasoning” originally appeared in ArtPost Magazine, September 1, 2018.
Home smoked pastrami on Jewish seeded rye with deli mustard (smoked pastrami rub: black pepper, coriander, brown sugar, and mustard seed)
Stuffed cabbage: ground beef, rice, raisins, thyme, red wine vinegar, crushed tomatoes, light brown sugar, black pepper, salt
Boiled lobster in the shell with melted butter
Ice cream (custard based, dutched cocoa powder, and dark chocolate swirl
Grilled cheese on buttered sour dough bread three cheeses: provolone, cheder, and Swiss
Crisp garden salad: lettuce, cucumber, tomato, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, salt, coarsely ground black pepper
Smoked salmon with dry rub: brown sugar, salt, black pepper
Smoked baby back ribs: paprika, brown sugar, salt, black pepper, cayenne, apple juice
Fried eggs, sunny side up or over easy, served on top of buttered seeded rye toast, with salt and black pepper
Broiled salmon: potlatch seasoning, brown sugar, mayonnaise
Spring 2021
Her Beautiful View
By Peter Barbour
Gracie sat on the veranda upon a soft cushioned wicker couch with her feet propped on a pillow atop a wicker ottoman, waiting. From the tenth floor of her condo, she looked out on her beautiful view, the intercoastal water-way, the ocean, the clouds, the buildings, and the boats.
Breezes filled with the sweet freshness of the ocean, moist and salty, bathed her. Her head rested on a pillow as she intermittently napped. A book lay on her belly, open, face down. She had read the same pages over more than once. No matter, as long as on awakening, her view was still there.
When she awoke, she read a few more pages of her book and stopped. Waves beat on the sand just beyond the buildings that lined the coast. I should go down to the beach; but she hadn’t gone to the beach for months.
The phone rang disturbing her reverie.
“Have you decided about moving?” her daughter asked. “You seemed to like the last place we visited. You agreed it would be better to have people around should you need help, a place with programs and activities, and a nurse available to help with your medications. It’s time. Right?”
“Of course, you are always right.” Gracie shuddered at the thought of moving anywhere.
“Will you send in the deposit?”
“Yes. I’ll take care of it.” She grimaced as obstinacy, fueled by anger, arose within her.
“Today?”
“Yes, today,” She said and hung up. I’m not giving up my independence.
Gracie sat on the veranda upon a soft cushioned wicker couch with her feet propped on a pillow atop a wicker ottoman. As she napped, she dreamed. He was sitting beside her, here on their porch, so real.
“Look,” he said, “that’s a Cal 25. Twenty-five feet of sheer beauty. Just like the sailboat we had on Long Island.”
She awoke, forgot for a moment that he was gone, then realized it was just a dream. A tear formed at the corner of her eye. She smiled, and the tear ran down her cheek. She reached for the glass that always sat by her side and took a sip.
“Is it Tuesday or Wednesday? Does it really matter?” She said aloud and took another sip. It needs more ice. Maybe I’ll get some from the fridge, but first, I’ll rest a little longer.
She picked up her book and started to read. The words had no meaning without context from what she had read before. She went to the beginning of the chapter, then to the beginning of the book. I’ll start it again, and this time pay attention. She laughed, no longer caring.
A kayaker paddled on the water below. Three pelicans flew in a line above her. Her head rested on the pillow behind her, and she started to doze again.
He guided the boat almost into the wind. The sail snapped as it filled with air. She pulled in the jib, and the boat rose out of the water, heeled over, water beat against the prow as the boat gained speed.
“Coming about!” he shouted.
She ducked, the boom swung above her, and the boat tacked. The wind blew back her hair, a fine spray wet her face, and the salt air filled her lungs. He was beside her, and they were both full of life.
She startled awake as the phone rang.
“Can I call you back in a few minutes?” she asked.
“Did you decide on Manor House?”
“Let me call you back.” She hung up.
She reached for her glass. Empty. Gracie stood stiffly and hobbled from the deck into the kitchen, made her way to the fridge, refilled her glass, took two ice cubes from the freezer, and placed them in her drink. She picked up the forms from Manor House and pushed them aside, then made her way back to her perch high above the water.
Gracie looked out at the view before her, the clouds, the water, the ocean, the buildings, and the boats, her beautiful view, and there she sat upon a soft cushioned wicker couch with her feet propped on a pillow atop a wicker ottoman and waited.
Dr. Peter J Barbour retired his reflex hammer to become a fulltime writer and illustrator. His works include Loose Ends, a memoir, three illustrated children’s books: Gus at Work, Oscar and Gus, Tanya and the Baby Elephant, and over forty stories in e-journals and magazines. “The Fate of Dicky Paponovitch” earned him Raconteur of the Month from Susan Carol Publishing Company.
He lives in Oregon with his photographer wife of over fifty years. They enjoy traveling and the outdoors. Visit his website, Pete Barbour Stories and Illustrations.