FREE ELECTRONIC LIBRARY - Online materials, documents

Pages:   || 2 |

«The Chrysanthemums The high gray-flannel fog of winter closed off the Salinas Valley from the sky and from all the rest of the world. On every side ...»

-- [ Page 1 ] --

John Steinbeck

The Chrysanthemums

The high gray-flannel fog of winter closed off the Salinas Valley from the sky and from all the

rest of the world. On every side it sat like a lid on the mountains and made of the great valley a

closed pot. On the broad, level land floor the gang plows bit deep and left the black earth shining

like metal where the shares had cut. On the foothill ranches across the Salinas 1~iver, the yellow

stubble fields seemed to be bathed in pale cold sunshine, but there was no sunshine in the valley now in December. The thick willow scrub along the river flamed with sharp and positive yellow leaves.

It was a time of quiet and of waiting. The air was cold and tender. A light wind blew up from the southwest so that the farmers were mildly hopeful of a good rain before long; but fog and rain did not go together.

Across the river, on Henry Allen's foothill ranch there was little work to be done, for the hay was cut and stored and the orchards were plowed up to receive the rain deeply when it should come. The cattle on the higher slopes were becoming shaggy and rough-coated.

Elisa Allen, working in her flower garden, looked down across the yard and saw Henry, her husband, talking to two men in business suits. The three of them stood by the tractor shed, each man with one foot on the side of the little Ford-son. They smoked cigarettes and studied the machine as they talked.

Elisa watched them for a moment and then went back to her work. She was thirty-five. Her face was lean and strong and her eyes were as clear as water. Her figure looked blocked and heavy in her gardening costume, a man's black hat pulled low down over her eyes, clod-hopper shoes, a figured print dress almost completely covered by a big corduroy apron with four big pockets to hold the snips, the trowel and scratcher, the seeds and the knife she worked with. She wore heavy leather gloves to protect her hands while she worked.

She was cutting down the old year's chrysanthemum stalks with a pair of short and powerful scissors. She looked down toward the men by the tractor shed now and then. Her face was eager and mature and handsome; even her work with the scissors was over-eager, over-powerful. The chrysanthemum stems seemed too small and easy for her energy.

She brushed a cloud of hair out of her eyes with the back of her glove, and left a smudge of earth on her cheek in doing it. Behind her stood the neat white farm house with red geraniums close-banked around it as high as the windows. It was a hard-swept looking little house, with hard-polished windows, and a clean mud-mat on the front steps.

Elisa cast another glance toward the tractor shed. The strangers were getting into their Ford coupe. She took off a glove and put her strong fingers down into the forest of new green chrysanthemum sprouts that were growing around the old roots. She spread the leaves and looked down among the close-growing stems. No aphids were there, no sowbugs or snails or cutworms. Her terrier fingers destroyed such pests before they could get started.

Elisa started at the sound of her husband's voice. He had come near quietly, and he leaned over the wire fence that protected her flower garden from cattle and dogs and chickens.

"At it again," he said. "You've got a strong new crop coming.

Elisa straightened her back and pulled on the gardening glove again. "Yes. They'll be strong this coming year." In her tone and on her face there was a little smugness.

You've got a gift with things," Henry observed. "Some of those yellow chrysanthemums you had this year were ten inches across. I wish you'd work out in the orchard and raise some apples that big."

Her eyes sharpened. "Maybe I could do it, too. I've a gift with things, all right. My mother had it. She could stick anything in the ground and make it grow. She said it was having planters' hands that knew how to do it."

"Well, it sure works with flowers," he said. "Henry, who were those men you were talking to?" "Why, sure, that's what I came to tell you. They were from the Western Meat Company. I sold those thirty head of three-year-old steers. Got nearly my own price, too."

"Good," she said. "Good for you.

"And I thought," he continued, "I thought how it's Saturday afternoon, and we might go into Salinas for dinner at a restaurant, and then to a picture show--to celebrate, you see."

"Good," she repeated. "Oh, yes. That will be good."

Henry put on his joking tone. "There's fights tonight. How'd you like to go to the fights?" "Oh, no," she said breathlessly. "No, I wouldn't like fights."

"Just fooling, Elisa. We'll go to a movie. Let's see. It's two now. I'm going to take Scotty and bring down those steers from the hill. It'll take us maybe two hours. We'll go in town about five and have dinner at the Cominos Hotel. Like that?" "Of course I'll like it. It's good to eat away from home."

"All right, then. I'll go get up a couple of horses."

She said, "I'll have plenty of time transplant some of these sets, I guess."

She heard her husband calling Scotty down by the barn. And a little later she saw the two men ride up the pale yellow hillside in search of the steers.

There was a little square sandy bed kept for rooting the chrysanthemums. With her trowel she turned the soil over and over, and smoothed it and patted it firm. Then she dug ten parallel trenches to receive the sets. Back at the chrysanthemum bed she pulled out the little crisp shoots, trimmed off the leaves of each one with her scissors and laid it on a small orderly pile.

A squeak of wheels and plod of hoofs came from the road. Elisa looked up. The country road ran along the dense bank of willows and cotton-woods that bordered the river, and up this road came a curious vehicle, curiously drawn. It was an old spring-wagon, with a round canvas top on it like the cover of a prairie schooner. It was drawn by an old bay horse and a little grey-andwhite burro. A big stubble-bearded man sat between the cover flaps and drove the crawling team.

Underneath the wagon, between the hind wheels, a lean and rangy mongrel dog walked sedately.

Words were painted on the canvas in clumsy, crooked letters. "Pots, pans, knives, sisors, lawn mores, Fixed." Two rows of articles, and the triumphantly definitive "Fixed" below. The black paint had run down in little sharp points beneath each letter.

Elisa, squatting on the ground, watched to see the crazy, loose-jointed wagon pass by. But it didn't pass. It turned into the farm road in front of her house, crooked old wheels skirling and squeaking. The rangy dog darted from between the wheels and ran ahead. Instantly the two ranch shepherds flew out at him. Then all three stopped, and with stiff and quivering tails, with taut straight legs, with ambassadorial dignity, they slowly circled, sniffing daintily. The caravan pulled up to Elisa's wire fence and stopped. Now the newcomer dog, feeling outnumbered, lowered his tail and retired under the wagon with raised hackles and bared teeth.

The man on the wagon seat called out, "That's a bad dog in a fight when he gets started."

Elisa laughed. I see he is. How soon does he generally get started?" The man caught up her laughter and echoed it heartily. "Sometimes not for weeks and weeks," he said. He climbed stiffly down, over the wheel. The horse and the donkey drooped like unwatered flowers.

Elisa saw that he was a very big man. Although his hair and beard were graying, he did not look old. His worn black suit was wrinkled and spotted with grease. The laughter had disappeared from his face and eyes the moment his laughing voice ceased. His eyes were dark, and they were full of the brooding that gets in the eyes of teamsters and of sailors. The calloused hands he rested on the wire fence were cracked, and every crack was a black line. He took off his battered hat.

"I'm off my general road, ma'am," he said. "Does this dirt road cut over across the river to the Los Angeles highway?" Elisa stood up and shoved the thick scissors in her apron pocket. "Well, yes, it does, but it winds around and then fords the river. I don't think your team could pull through the sand."

He replied with some asperity, "It might surprise you what them beasts can pull through."

"When they get started?" she asked.

He smiled for a second. "Yes. When they get started."

"Well," said Elisa, "I think you'll save time if you go back to the Salinas road and pick up the highway there."

He drew a big finger down the chicken wire and made it sing. "I ain't in any hurry, ma am. I go from Seattle to San Diego and back every year. Takes all my time. About six months each way. I aim to follow nice weather."

Elisa took off her gloves and stuffed them in the apron pocket with the scissors. She touched the under edge of her man's hat, searching for fugitive hairs. "That sounds like a nice kind of a way to live," she said.

He leaned confidentially over the fence. "Maybe you noticed the writing on my wagon. I mend pots and sharpen knives and scissors. You got any of them things to do?" "Oh, no," she said quickly. "Nothing like that." Her eyes hardened with resistance.

"Scissors is the worst thing," he explained. "Most people just ruin scissors trying to sharpen 'em, but I know how. I got a special tool. It's a little bobbit kind of thing, and patented. But it sure does the trick."

"No. My scissors are all sharp."

"All right, then. Take a pot," he continued earnestly, "a bent pot, or a pot with a hole. I can make it like new so you don't have to buy no new ones. That's a saving for you.

"No," she said shortly. "I tell you I have nothing like that for you to do."

His face fell to an exaggerated sadness. His voice took on a whining undertone. "I ain't had a thing to do today. Maybe I won't have no supper tonight. You see I'm off my regular road. I know folks on the highway clear from Seattle to San Diego. They save their things for me to sharpen up because they know I do it so good and save them money.

"I'm sorry," Elisa said irritably. "I haven't anything for you to do."

His eyes left her face and fell to searching the ground. They roamed about until they came to the chrysanthemum bed where she had been working. "What's them plants, ma'am?" The irritation and resistance melted from Elisa's face. "Oh, those are chrysanthemums, giant whites and yellows. I raise them every year, bigger than anybody around here."

"Kind of a long-stemmed flower? Looks like a quick puff of colored smoke?" he asked.

"That's it. What a nice way to describe them."

"They smell kind of nasty till you get used to them," he said.

"It's a good bitter smell," she retorted, "not nasty at all."

He changed his tone quickly. "I like the smell myself."

"I had ten-inch blooms this year," she said.

The man leaned farther over the fence. "Look. I know a lady down the road a piece, has got the nicest garden you ever seen. Got nearly every kind of flower but no chrysanthemums. Last time I was mending a copper-bottom washtub for her (that's a hard job but I do it good), she said to me, 'If you ever run acrost some nice chrysanthemums I wish you'd try to get me a few seeds.' That's what she told me."

Elisa's eyes grew alert and eager. "She couldn't have known much about chrysanthemums.

You can raise them from seed, but it's much easier to root the little sprouts you see there."

"Oh," he said. "I s'pose I can't take none to her, then."

"Why yes you can," Elisa cried. "I can put some in damp sand, and you can carry them right along with you. They'll take root in the pot if you keep them damp. And then she can transplant them."

"She'd sure like to have some, ma'am. You say they're nice ones?" "Beautiful," she said. "Oh, beautiful." Her eyes shone. She tore off the battered hat and shook out her dark pretty hair. "I'll put them in a flower pot, and you can take them right with you.

Come into the yard."

While the man came through the picket fence Elisa ran excitedly along the geranium-bordered path to the back of the house. And she returned carrying a big red flower pot. The gloves were forgotten now. She kneeled on the ground by the starting bed and dug up the sandy soil with her fingers and scooped it into the bright new flower pot. Then she picked up the little pile of shoots she had prepared. With her strong fingers she pressed them into the sand and tamped around them with her knuckles. The man stood over her. "I'll tell you what to do," she said. "You remember so you can tell the lady."

"Yes, I'll try to remember."

"Well, look. These will take root in about a month. Then she must set them out, about a foot apart in good rich earth like this, see?" She lifted a handful of dark soil for him to look at.

"They'll grow fast and tall. Now remember this. In July tell her to cut them down, about eight inches from the ground."

"Before they bloom?" he asked.

"Yes, before they bloom." Her face was tight with eagerness. "They'll grow right up again.

About the last of September the buds will start."

She stopped and seemed perplexed. "It's the budding that takes the most care," she said hesitantlv. "I don't know how to tell you." She looked deep into his eyes, searchingly. Her mouth opened a little, and she seemed to be listening. "I'll try to tell you," she said. "Did you ever hear of planting hands?" "Can't say I have, ma am.

"Well, I can only tell you what it feels like. It's when you're picking off the buds you don't want. Everything goes right down into your fingertips. You watch your fingers work. They do it themselves. You can feel how it is. They pick and pick the buds. They never make a mistake.

They're with the plant. Do you see? Your fingers and the plant. You can feel that, right up your arm. They know. They never make a mistake. You can feel it. When you're like that you can't do anything wrong. Do you see that? Can you understand that?" She was kneeling on the ground looking up at him. Her breast swelled passionately.

The man's eyes narrowed. He looked away self-consciously. "Maybe I know," he said.

"Sometimes in the night in the wagon there--" Elisa's voice grew husky. She broke in on him. "I've never lived as you do, but I know what you mean. When the night is dark--why, the stars are sharp-pointed, and there's quiet. Why, you rise up and up! Every pointed star gets driven into your body. It's like that. Hot and sharp and-lovely."

Pages:   || 2 |

Similar works:

«Carlos Veloso da Veiga A ARCIL E O EMPREGO PROTEGIDO: MEMÓRIAS DE UM TEMPO DE INVESTIGAÇÃO Neste pequeno texto recupero as memórias do investigador que passou 15 dias na ARCIL em trabalho de campo por ocasião da realização da minha tese de doutoramento em Sociologia no ano de 1999, salvo erro durante o mês de Setembro. Recordo que expostos, à direcção e coordenação do centro de reabilitação profissional, os objectivos que me levavam a solicitar à ARCIL a minha presença, os...»

«Review of Current TAXATION PAPERS WORKING PAPER N.31 2012 Practices for PwC Taxation of Financial Instruments, Profits and Remuneration of the Financial Sector Taxation and customs union Taxation Papers are written by the staff of the European Commission's Directorate-General for Taxation and Customs Union, or by experts working in association with them. Taxation Papers are intended to increase awareness of the work being done by the staff and to seek comments and suggestions for further...»

«ISSUES BRIEF School Fee Abolition: Parents’ Perspectives Introduction Parents make many important choices regarding their children’s education beyond the decision to enroll them in school. These choices include the type of school their child attends, whether to use private tutoring, and their level of school involvement and support. School fees, or the lack thereof, can have important implications for each of these decisions. While substantial evidence indicates that school fees are a...»

«Responsible Service of Alcohol A Trainer’s Guide Responsible Service of Alcohol: A Trainer’s Guide Index Planning a Course Page 3 Page 4 Identifying Training Needs Questionnaire Page 5 The 5 W’s Page 6 Planning Course Timing Page 7 Designing Exercises Page 9 Summary of Activity Types Course Content Page 10 Marketing a Course Page 21 Running a Course Page 22 Page 22 Atmosphere Page 23 Room Layout Page 27 Using the Equipment Page 28 Communication Page 29 Feedback Page 29 Questions...»

«Latin America Proprietary Trading Incentive Program Questions & Answers January 2017 1. What is the Latin America Proprietary Trading Incentive Program? The Latin America Proprietary Trading Incentive Program (“LAPTIP”) enables brokers and proprietary trading firms located in the region to receive discounted fees for qualified CME Group products. Discounted fees apply only to electronic proprietary trades that are done by qualified registered traders in accordance with CME Group policies....»

«Canada Under Attack: How Government Policies Threaten Canada’s Military, Public Safety, Sovereignty, and National Unity. © 2005, M. Paul Cook TABLE OF CONTENTS TABLE OF CONTENTS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS PREFACE CHAPTER 1 THE LEGACY CHAPTER 2 THE AIR FORCE – SPIRALLING OUT OF CONTROL Fixed Wing Fighter and Bomber Aircraft Transport Aircraft Helicopters CHAPTER 3 THE ARMY– GRINDING TO A HALT Light Armour The Liberal Tank Fiasco, and the ‘Light Force’ Lie CHAPTER 4 THE NAVY– STRUGGLING TO...»

«Trading Complex Assets∗ Bruce Ian Carlin† Shimon Kogan‡ Richard Lowery§ April 11, 2011 Abstract We perform an experimental study of complexity to assess its effect on trading behavior, price volatility, liquidity, and trade efficiency. Subjects were asked to deduce the value of a particular asset from information they were given about the composition and price of several portfolios. Following that, subjects traded with each other anonymously in a well-defined, simple bargaining...»

«Reviews foR ReapeRs Reapers is Bryan Davis’s best work yet. With a refreshing new concept that takes you deep into a dystopian world, Reapers will keep you riveted through the last page. Phoenix, Singapore, and Shanghai create a strong new cast of characters who must navigate the underbelly of ghost-filled Chicago to discover the secrets behind the mysterious Gateway. —Amanda L. Davis (Author of The Cantral Chronicles) Bryan Davis’s Reapers is hands down the best science fiction/fantasy...»

«Preparatory study on lighting systems 'Lot 6' Specific contract N° ENER/C3/2012-418 Lot 1/06/SI2.668525 Implementing framework contract ENER/C3/2012-418 Lot 1 Paul Van Tichelen, Wai Chung Lam, Paul Waide, René Kemna, Lieven Vanhooydonck, Leo Wierda Contact VITO: Paul Van Tichelen mmmll Preparatory study on lighting systems Table of Contents CHAPTER 0 INTRODUCTION 0.1 METHODOLOGY FOR ECODESIGN OF ENERGY-RELATED PRODUCTS (MEERP) 0.2 EXISTING ECODESIGN AND ENERGY LABELLING LEGISLATION ON...»

«TBS VENDETTA FPV Racer Revision 2016-09-24 Full carbon fiber ready‐to‐fly 240‐size fpv racer Full carbon fiber monocoque, quick swap arms, solder-free repairs, ready-to-fly as 240-size fpv racer, for 5 props. But it doesn't stop there! Sporting the brand new TBS Triumph antenna in combination with the TBS CORE Pro and TBS Unify Pro, the TBS Vendetta allows you to configure every parameter of your FPV racer via R/C stick commands! Each drone comes tuned and test-flown by our professional...»

«Introducing Windows Server® 2012: RTM Edition Mitch Tulloch with the Windows Server Team PUBLISHED BY Microsoft Press A Division of Microsoft Corporation One Microsoft Way Redmond, Washington 98052-6399 Copyright © 2012 by Microsoft Corporation All rights reserved. No part of the contents of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher. Library of Congress Control Number: 201944793 ISBN: 978-0-7356-7535-3 Printed and...»

«No. 13/1 maxpo discussion paper Moral Categories in the Financial Crisis Marion Fourcade, Philippe Steiner, Wolfgang Streeck and Cornelia Woll Marion Fourcade, Philippe Steiner, Wolfgang Streeck and Cornelia Woll Moral Categories in the Financial Crisis MaxPo Discussion Paper 13/1 Max Planck Sciences Po Center on Coping with Instability in Market Societies June 2013 MaxPo Discussion Paper ISSN 2196-6508 (Print) © 2013 by the author(s) Marion Fourcade and Cornelia Woll are codirectors at the...»

<<  HOME   |    CONTACTS
2017 www.thesis.dislib.info - Online materials, documents

Materials of this site are available for review, all rights belong to their respective owners.
If you do not agree with the fact that your material is placed on this site, please, email us, we will within 1-2 business days delete him.