Tea, Books, and Geraniums

A short story

On the tenth day of April of an otherwise unspectacular year that again saw the leaves grow and fall, and the bears roam and sleep, Annie Whittlebottom, age 76, planted sixteen geraniums in her garden.

The Spring air kept her cool, but not enough so to soothe the pain from spending the afternoon hunched over on her knees in fertile soil. The geraniums were a triumph, but she postponed her remaining yard work for another day. 

Geraniums: my geranium dot com

Annie retired to her humble-yet oh-so-comfortable cottage, where she began to boil water for her afternoon tea. She had dozens of varieties from which to choose—collecting tea was one of her simple pleasures—and she decided on a mild green variety to give her a stout boost (or so she was convinced) until bedtime. There was plenty to do until then. 

She focused on the kettle’s whistle and filled her favorite mug, made especially for her years ago by Mr. Dale, the potter one town over, as a token of appreciation for Annie’s help in his garden. Each time Annie held it, she could swear that the mug still had the faint smell of clay that reminded her of the evenings when she and Mr. Dale had met for tea or even a pint at the local pub. Annie was not one to drink, but for Mr. Dale, she made exceptions. He had since passed, and Annie cherished the thumbprint Mr. Dale had impressed into the clay before firing it.  

Annie’s hearth was defined by the hundreds of books that lined her walls, each read at least once and on shelves meticulously maintained by regular dustings. She occasionally wondered why she kept so much “paper” around. Were they not a fire hazard? Annie didn’t think so, for she was careful never to use her fireplace—books over fire was an obvious choice, even at the risk of cold—and never to light uncovered candles. A neighbor suggested that the weight of her books might cause her cottage to disappear into a sinkhole. Mere country speculation, Annie knew. If the suggestion made its way to the pub, it was of no concern of hers. She graciously offered to lend neighbors whichever new titles arrived, even if she knew that her overtures would be rejected. On a country evening, a hard worker picks sleep over literature.

Annie’s books toasted her soul as much as the tea did her hands. Their bindings warmed her bed on winter’s coldest nights. They were her references when curiosity sparked a question about Darwin or her beloved Church. She seemed to always know the answer—her prodigious memory trapped everything she had read—but the repeated search for knowledge always felt right, and it served as a necessary confirmation that her mind was still keen.

She thought often of her university days, when she had several million titles at her fingertips. That decadence ended one-half century ago, yet Annie still kept every book she had been assigned. They had been scribbled in, were tattered, the spine usually broken – each a sign of her scholastic diligence, as well as the kinship she felt towards the volume.

Mr. Dale’s mug, as Annie had named it, was now slightly cooler to the touch, and the tea ready to drink. She wondered what was in store for the evening. 

A favorite, she thought, and she made her way to Silas Marner, which she knew she could (yet again) consume in one evening. She settled in with her feet on a wooden stool, her legs swaddled by a wool blanket, and reintroduced herself to a peculiar old gentleman who had a different collection, one very much his own.  

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