Tuesday, October 19, 2010

VHP Author: Vila Spiderhawk

Good Tuesday morning, fellow lovers of the written word. Today, I have fellow VHP author and all around good gal, Vila Spiderhawk! Come get to know this VERY nice lady & wonderful writer! You won't regret it! :)


Vila SpiderHawk and her husband share a log home of their design in the woods of Pennsylvania where they live with their five cats and enjoy frequent visits with their many woodland friends.

After all the gremlins leave this Halloween, curl up with a SpiderHawk book or two!

Hidden Passages: Tales to Honor the Crones
Forest Song: Finding Home
Forest Song: Little Mother
Forest Song: Letting Go
Forest Song Cookbook

http://www.vilaspiderhawk.com



Dagmar

“Where’s your papa?” I switched Karl to my other aching breast. “His last class was two hours ago! Even if a student held him up with a meeting, he should have been home by now! Come on liebchen. Eat for Mama. Or are you worried too?” He spat up. I wiped his mouth then threw a towel over my shoulder. “Do you have gas?” I willed the door to open to my husband and absently burped my son. “It’s not like Papa to be late. Our whole dinner will be wrecked,” I fretted rubbing circles on his back. “Oh that’s a good one. Good boy!” I put him back to my breast but, however much I coaxed, he would not suck. “Well, how about a nice nap until your papa gets home? Then we can play.” I rose and took him to the bedroom. I put him down on his belly and covered him up with the afghan I had knitted for him. Sitting down on the old rocker, I sang to the child.

Sleep, baby, sleep
Your father tends the sheep.
Your mother shakes the branches small.
Lovely dreams in showers fall.
Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep.
Across the heavens move the sheep.
The little stars are the lambs, I guess
And the moon is their shepherdess.
Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep.
I shall give you a sheep.
And it shall have a bell of gold
For you to play with and to hold.
Sleep, baby, sleep.*





Karl grunted as I sang. I smiled and looked around the room, as I often did when I was alone. The floor was bare; the paper peeling; the curtains, Mama’s hand-me-downs. The bed was saggy in the middle, but I liked our little trough. It forced my Gustav and me to sleep like spoons. By any standards, our apartment was shabby and small, but to me it was a gold and crystal castle. “Imagine me, Dagmar Weiner, Dagmar ­Rosenfeld now, with my own home and with a husband and a son! How did I come to be so blessed?” I shook my head in disbelief.


Don’t be so recklessly complacent, the old-cellar brown voice of caution resonated from my girlhood. The things you treasure lavishly can disappear in the next breath. Be watchful. I went over to the window.
The street was five o’clock busy, people rushing home from work in street cars, and on bikes and on foot. Frau Schmidt locked up her bookstore and nodded to the door. She patted her yellow tiara of braids and pulled her collar up against the wind. She had no one to go home to, and I always felt sad that her husband had died before his time. I’d often thought to invite her to dinner or for tea but had somehow never managed to do it. I thought to open the window and to call out a hello, but the worry over Gustav stayed my hand.


Going into the kitchen, I turned off the stove. I’d made a pot of linsensuppe, since it was Gustav’s favorite dish. But it had simmered too long. The carrots were soft, and the lentils had turned to mush. At least the brötchen were all right, though they were no longer warm. Yeast rolls last. They would be fine for several days. But I feared that the bienenstitch was going to be soggy by the time we got around to dessert.


Like a thief, the sun had crept behind our neighbors’ tiled roofs. I sat down. My stomach growled. I had to eat. I felt sorry for Frau Schmidt as I ladled soup for one and dipped a chunk of roll into the bowl. “Gustav, come home right now!” I demanded of the door. Knowing that anything that kept him out so late was certain to be bad for our marriage, I laid my head down and wept until my heart was wrung dry, as I would do every night for many months.


*Old German lullaby, no attribution possible.
© Vila SpiderHawk 2009
All rights reserved



To learn why Gustav was so late, pick up Forest Song: Little Mother.
Available in paperback or Kindle from
http://www.amazon.com
and from my website,
http://www.vilaspiderhawk.com

1 comment:

Sun Singer said...

Looks like good reading. Thanks for sharing it with us, Lauren.

Malcolm