Here is my newest story. It will be different from the Anne and Gilbert story by LMM, however it has the same characters. I am moving them to the Midwest of the United States. I am sure I can write them better since I know more about the culture here. They will also be in a different time frame 1924- World War II. I hope that is okay. Also, I am not trying to be LMM, so please keep that in mind.
PREFACE
The farmland was covered in a dazzling blanket of unbroken white. Occasionally, a long stretch of barbed wire fence peeped out of a drift here and there. The covered fields created an unending plane of snow refracting sunlight so bright that it hurt your eyes to look across it. Wind breaks of old bare Maple and Cottonwood tree trunks hiding sparse farm houses and barns were the only items breaking up the monotony of the wintery landscape.
The brisk chill in the December air burned Dr. Stewart's lungs. The blasted black Ford couldn't make it up the steep snowy incline to the Shirley residence atop the hill. Clouds of steam puffed around his nose and frosty moustache. He waddled as fast as his chubby legs would carry him up the slippery hill. His heart banged loudly inside his old chest.
He knew he shouldn't push his heart so, but it was an emergency. Walter Shirley and his wife were ill and they had a one month old baby daughter. Nobody had heard from them in two days and their neighbor, Matthew Cuthbert, hadn't seen smoke coming from the chimney since before the storm a day ago. Nobody could come sooner because of the heavy snow fall yesterday.
He huffed one last time and finally stood at the top of the hill. A sense of pride washed over the roly poly gentleman as he looked back down the steep incline. A small orange tabby cat welcomed the doctor eagerly rubbing her rough coat against his warm leg. There were no signs of anyone. The snow hadn't been walked in or scooped. All was quiet, except the cows in the barn who were bellowing to be milked. This alarmed the doctor and he shuffled his way through the knee high snow towards the front porch.
He knocked loudly on the wooden screen door afraid that he would break the cold glass window on the front door. No one answered. The screen door hinges squeaked outloud in resistance against the frozen snow lodged next to it. The door's opening pushed the area free of snow, allowing the doctor to peer inside through the frosty glass.
Nothing. He opened the door and found himself standing inside the Shirley's cold kitchen. The friendly cat slipped through his legs and into the house. Out of habit he stomped his snowy feet on the braided rug set there for that purpose. The few dirty dishes set inside the sink let him know the young family hadn't went on a trip. The loud meow of the cold cat echoed in the empty kitchen as she hopped onto the wooden countertop searching for a morsel of food. The hungry animal knocked over an empty Mason jar and sent it careening onto the floor. The shattering of the glass aroused a wail from a room somewhere in the house.
The doctor left the ornery cat and searched the house. No one was on the first level. He found the open staircase and made his way up noticing the collection of glass angel figurines posed on shelves along the wall. The hard soles of his shoes echoed on the waxed wood floors of the small upstairs. There were two rooms, one at the end of the hallway and one near the stairwell. He would start there.
Frost was on the pale blue walls. A double bed sat near the heat return in the floor. It immediately drew his attention. Two humps layed under the covers. The doctor's pulse quickened when his mind registered what he had discovered. Quickly he ran to the bed and pulled back the covers. Walter Shirley, blue in the face, laid in his night clothes. Snuggled next to him was an old red hot water bottle. He had to have been dead for sometime now. Dr. Stewart checked the dead man's pulse hoping for a miracle. The cold flesh of the departed man chilled the doctor's warm digits. There was no hope, the doctor covered Walter's head with a patchwork quilt that only a year ago had been given to him as a wedding present from his mother.
The doctor now feared what layed in wait next door. He straightened his worn back and trudged down the quiet hall. The door to the last room was a jar, letting him peer inside. A small bassinet sat next to a still wooden rocker. He pushed the door open and found Mrs. Shirley covered with a crocheted green afghan. She appeared to be sleeping. The doctor didn't want to awaken her yet, she was still recovering from the terrible delivery and her illness. She didn't need to worry about her husband yet.
In the bassinet was the babe he had delivered almost a month ago. He would never forget that night. It had been one of the worst deliveries he had ever seen, which was a lot for a man almost 50. The baby was wrapped snugly in a few layers of blankets with her head lovingly covered in a small bonnet. The doctor cleared his throat to announce his presence.
The baby began hoarsely crying. No movement or acknowledgement came from the sleeping mother. He grabbed the small child and immediately noticed how wet her dressings and blankets were. He quickly checked over the wee thing, and clumsily changed her dress and cloth diaper. A nasty red rash was spreading across her plump bottom. She had to have been laying in the wet clothing for awhile. The baby stopped crying and began to whimper.
He cuddled the girl and made his way over to her young mother. He tapped the sleeping lady on her shoulders, then nudged the wooden chair with his foot, and finally he checked her pulse on her cool wrist. The lines on his aged forehead narrowed together in dissapointment. There was nothing more to do here until he could get home to his telephone and call the mortician.
Dr. Stewart swaddled the tiny orphan in some blankets he found. Together they made their way back down the hilly road to his stranded automobile. That was how Dr. Stewart and Anne Shirley spent the last morning of 1924.
-
GONE WITH THE WIND
The hot wind rushed over the flat land. Dust and the remnants of dry gass and failed crops clouded the sky. Anne Shirley rushed to get the remainder of wash off the clothesline. Mrs. Hammond was busy shutting the windows and covering the dishes and food with towels to keep the dust off.
Anne hated the dust winds. They stung her skin and covered everything in a fine powder of dirt. On bad days, Anne could even taste the dirt in her food. Dirt was everywhere. The once green landscape was dirt. The houses were engulfed inside and out with dirt. It was impossible to keep things clean and the incessant howl of the winds carrying the filth scared Anne. Her active imagination allowed her to envision wild banshees calling her name across the dessimated fields promising her impending death.
She often stayed up late at night when neighbors came visiting. The grown-ups would sit in the kitchen and play pitch. As they played cards and drank coffee they would recall stories and past times. Anne secretly would lay on the floor next to the iron heat register in the children's room to eaves drop. Gossip mainly greeted her ears on most nights, but once in awhile a fascinating tale floated her way. That is how she heard about the banshees of Ireland and the death of the little Lewis boy.
The young eight year old was walking home from school when it happened. It was a fine afternoon with no wind or dust on the horizon. Somewhere between the school house and his farm a mighty dust wind blew up. He became disoriented in the darkness of the swirling debris. His skin was scratched from the pelting sand and his tiny lungs became filled with sand slowly suffocating him. When the winds let down, his mother found his dead body covered in a sand drift huddled next to the apple tree 15 feet away from the front door. The night before she swore she heard a banshee screech his name over the prairie.
The wet sheets flapped against her bare legs breaking Anne's morbid trance. The images of the Lewis boy left her mind just as quickly as they had came. She fumbled with the wooden clothespins and wet laundry the best her small frame could. There was an abundance of small diapers and baby clothes, and they took longer to hang and take down then the sheets. The Hammonds had 2 sets of twins under the age of 5. Anne had came to their house three years ago to help Mrs. Hammond with the children. Anne was gracious that the Hammonds had taken her in, because as long as she could remember she had been raised in orphan asylums, often being moved here and there due to the lack of charitable contributions.
"ANNE! Hurry" yelled Mrs. Hammond at the top of her lungs against the increasing wind"The winds are picking up".
"Coming" screamed Anne as he grabbed the last diaper and lugged the heavy basket into the house.
Mrs. Hammond shut the door quickly and bolted it shut. The woman rolled a towel out of habit and efficiently stuffed it in the small crack at the bottom of the door. She did this to keep the dust from seeping under the jam eventually causing sand dunes to form inside the house. It was bad enough that after some terrible winds they would have to scoop a path just to get out of the house. Anne sat down by her basket and took a deep breathe. The winds were really beginning to blow and the dark outline of the oncoming dust storm was already on the horizon.
Mrs. Hammond sat down beside Anne and pulled her close. She smoothed the petite girl's wind blown red hair. The storms drove them both batty. It helped to feel the comfort of one another. The tinkle of tiny sand grains hitting against the windows let them know they had barely made it inside safely. They sat entwined comforting each other for a short moment before they got back to their chores.
Anne made her way into the kitchen and began laying the wet laundry around, hoping that the heat from the cooking range and August day would be enough to dry them. The wooden chairs soon became covered in whites and light pastel colors. Towels and sheets were hung on two strings that Mr. Hammond had erected across the small room. The room suddenly resembled a pirate ship full of masses let down to grab the wind. Anne chuckled at the thought and added a couple of dried corn cobs to the fire on the stove. Soon they would need to start dinner and it took ages to cook anything if the fire was low.
A loud thump on the ceiling above let her know that atleast one of the children was awake. She quickly shut the heavy door and latched the handle ensuring it was closed properly. Heat began to radiate from the stove making the room overly stuffy and Anne feeling nautious in her stomach. Anne was glad to leave her massed vessel for her crew awaiting upstairs.
Mrs. Hammond sat at the upright piano in the living room picking out notes. She sat with perfect posture and titlted her head over onto her shoulder. The remaining sunlight played with the blonde strands in the sea of brown, making them twinkle in the dusty house. A sweet melody wafted throughout the house drowning the terrible moans bellowing from the wind outside. Once a month the town would get a movie for people to see at the town hall on Saturday night. Mrs. Hammond played the piano before the show and during intermission. Sometimes she played the music throughout the entire movie, but those were usually old silent ones. Nobody minded whether they talked or not, it was a treat just to see a movie.
On Saturday nights the Hammond family would go to town to pick up groceries and other necessities. Anne loved Saturdays. Saturdays were filled with baking bread and cookies for the week. Sometimes she would make 10 or 12 loaves of bread for Mrs. Hammond. That was followed by baths and an early supper of warm bread and milk. While the girls did the supper dishes, Mr. Hammond would load up the old Ford truck with babies and toddlers. Soon they would be bouncing down the dirt road to town crammed inside the cab. On rare occasions Mrs. Hammond would let Anne ride in the back so she could feel the breeze whip through her hair. Anne sighed sadly, it was only Thursday. She slowly walked up the staircase running her hand along the smooth wooden bannister in sweet anticipation of the weekend.
Just last week Mrs. Lindblad had dropped in to buy some fresh eggs to make a birthday cake for her husband. Her graying hair was braided and perfectly wrapped around her head fashioning a halo of sorts. She had always worn her hair that way as long as Anne could remember. She woreone hat that matched everyone of her flowered dresses, beige stockings, and perfectly laced brown heeled shoes. Anne always marveled at the clean white gloves Mrs. Lindblad wore and the faint smell of lilacs that accompanied her presence. The women's round figure and joyful personality made her a cherished neighbor and grandmother figure to the Hammonds. Mrs. Lindblad's memory stretched back to the late 1860's when she rode in a covered wagon over unbroken sod and prairie with her parents to Nebraska Territory. She knew all kinds of folklore, remedies, and stories. Anne truly enjoyed her visits and always looked forward to the next time they would meet.
On her last visit, Anne had overheard Mrs. Hammond hint to Mrs. Lindblad that this month they would get to see GONE WITH THE WIND. That made Anne smile and dream sweetly the night she overheard them whispering. She had read Mrs. Hammond's copy of Margaret Mitchell's story this past summer and was enthralled with the love story of Rhett and Scarlet. Articles about the movie were written in all the women magazines that were delivered by mail over the past few months. Clark Gable as Rhett Butler! Anne was so smitten with the actor, she couldn't think of anything else. His dark hair combed back with Dapper Dan and that trimmed moustache he wore snugly above his upper lip was enough to make her knees quiver. She secretly tore some of his pictures from the pages filling the magazines before she placed them in the outhouse to be used for wiping. She carefully stored her precious treasures under her mattress pressed inside a small reader for safe keeping.
The top of the stairs led into a long hallway, Anne walked her fingers along the railing while she inched her way closer to the oldest twin's bedrooms. There were three rooms upstairs, including an old trunk room near the stairwell. That room had been converted to a sleeping area for Anne. The other two rooms were for the children. Quietly, she turned into the open door frame and checked on the girls. Inside she found one of the little darlings sucking her thumb and rocking her baby doll made from an old dress of Anne's. Soft brunette ringlets made a crown around the four year old's head. She eagerly reached out her pudgy arms for Anne to lift her up. Anne sat down beside her instead and lifted the cherub onto her lap. Her sister, Augusta, still snored in the tiny bed against the wall.
"Birdie, you know you are getting to big for me to carry you" whispered Anne as she hugged the little child.
"Anne, will you play tea party" begged Alberta looking at the little tea pot and glued-back-together cups perched upon a small bench.
Anne nodded in agreement. Right now there was nothing to do but sit inside and watch the good soil fly away with the winds. For now they would play like elegant ladies keeping their minds off of the winds raging outside. She held her pinkie out and sipped her imaginary tea much to the child's delight.
