RYHMING REASONS
by
Gail Gardner
One, two, buckle my shoe...
His head hurt. Of course it hurt, having hit it on a concrete wall, with all of Buck's not inconsiderable bulk driving him into said wall. Mind you it was a damn sight better than being skewered by the forklift truck that the perp had decided was a fair weapon.
Three, four, shut the door...
He'd thought he'd got off scott free from serious injury, but the inelegant throwing up and walking around in little circles squawking had tipped off the team. Buck's description of course. He would have said it better had he been coherent at the time. He shoved a pin into the cushion.
Five, six, pick up sticks...
He'd learned to do this when he was ten. A head injury of more serious nature then. The cousins he'd been staying with decided to teach him how to ride a bike. They were patient with him- up to a point - and with only hours old skills sent him careening down a hill lovingly called 'Suicide Hill'. He woke up in the hospital a week later almost unable to speak or move without difficult jerky movements. Maude had come to his side, but almost immediately left unable to sit with her 'darling boy in his terrible state'. It was his aunt who had hit on the best way to get his scattered brain back on track.
Seven, eight, lay them straight...
His hands moved at first hesitantly and then more quickly as he moved the ivory bobbins in their pattern over the pillow. His first piece of lace had been nothing more than a snarl of thread. His aunt had guided his hands carefully through the patterns, counting the moves. It took weeks before he was able to produce more than an inch of what could resemble lace, but his hands had stopped trembling and he could at least count out loud. Strangely enough whenever he counted cards in a poker game or handled a deck it felt like lacemaking. Both were complexities of numbers following patterns and manual dexterity. Well, shuffling a deck in front of the boys was accepted. How would they feel if they knew that the fine lace edging his feather pillows had been made by him? A nice pattern that one. He'd even considered edging the comforter, but figured it was just a little too effeminate. The pillows were just the right touch, appearance was everything.
Nine, ten, a big fat hen...
"Hey Ez!" Buck's voice boomed from behind him. The headached bloomed in intensity and his hands faltered in their intricate movement. "Ya left your front door unlocked."
"So the flies can get in..."Standish turned hoping to block Buck's view of the pillow and the lace pinned to it with the spread of bobbins placed around it.
"We brought you some food and your meds. Nathan said you forgot them." JD added from behind Buck.
"If you brought food then I suspect you've left it in the kitchen with Vin." Standish suggested smoothly. That ought to get them out of the room.
"Dang!" JD bolted for the kitchen "Hey Vin leave me some!"
"Well, well, well." Buck drawled grinning wickedly. "Watcha doin' there Ez?"
"It is a study of coordination and counting and is excellent therapy for a head injury, especially one caused by being a sandwich between a rock and hard place." Standish hoped that maybe Buck would get the hint.
"Hell Ez, looks like lace to me."
Standish stepped aside with a sigh letting Buck see the work in all of it's intracacy. "I suppose this will become a sure subject of mirth among you all." He grumbled rubbing his temples.
"I won't tell if you don't want me to." Buck said. "Hell if I did that I'd have to tell about Chris doing cross stitch." He looked deeply satisfied as Ezra's face dissolved into disbelief.
"Cross stitch?"
"Darn right. Remember that picture of Peso that we all admired. Chris did it. Think about the logic of it. Unless your head's still too scrambled."
"Of course, never saw Vin's horse, so how could she have done it. But," a gleam settled in the southerner's eye. "Someone else could have done it for him."
"Mebbe. But how can you explain the pictures that show up about every month or two. Nope. Chris does them. I think it helps him relax, be calmer."
The two men eyed each other. "Yeah right." they said together.
"So...you will not make this hobby of mine known." Standish said carefully.
"Nope. Won't breathe a word, pard. Got my word on it." Buck held out his hand. "Shake on it."
Ezra cautiously put his hand out to have it wrung heartily.
"Now would you look at that!" Buck said pointing at his cuff. "I got me a frilly dress shirt that would just be crying for a fancy little bit of lace on it. You wouldn't believe how the fillies go for a man that is willing to show his feminine side."
"This is going to cost me?"
"Yep. A set of genuine lace cuffs made by E. Standish. Fair enough?"
"Just push up against another concrete wall will you? Oh fair enough."Ezra muttered rebelliously.
"I'll go rescue us some food." Buck left hastily.
Ezra smiled to himself as he put the lace things away in the cedar chest. Rolls of delicate handwork were lovingly wrapped in tissue, enough to give Buck lace cuffs for every shirt he had. The smile widened. Wonder how Buck would feel if every shirt he had was equipped with lace cuffs. That would really show everyone his 'feminine side'. Would it be worth while to reveal his hobby to Vin? Vin would be the perfect accomplice. He chortled wickedly. Funny how lace making always took away his headaches.
The counting rhyme, One. Two. Buckle My Shoe is said to refer to lace making. The sticks are the bobbins, laying them straight is the pattern. The 'Big Fat Hen' is considered to be the special lace pillow. I've never made lace, always seemed terribly complicated, so I figure it suits a complicated person.