The silver bell over the transom tinkled, breaking my thoughts. A woman I know as Mrs. Tangledwood came in, wielding her crooked walking stick along the crooked floor. She was dressed in a sensible coat not indicative of a lady of her stature. She was wont to save a penny where a penny could be saved. A longtime denizen of Asheville society and the leader of the Biltmore Society Ladies, Mrs. Tangledwood had been coming to the store as long as I have.
Mrs. Twiggs greeted her, easing her into the leather wingback chair nestled by the fireplace. “Emma, how are you feeling today, dear?” Mrs. Twiggs spoke to the elderly woman with a concerned air.
“Beatrice, my arthritis is acting up something fierce. I can feel winter coming in my bones.” She clenched her gnarled fingers as she peeled off her quilted coat.
Mrs. Twiggs quickly gathered some kindling and started a fire, then said, “Let me get you a cup of tea.” She bustled off and returned from the kitchen, carrying a tea service. She placed it on the small table. Placing several leaves in a strainer, she then poured boiling water over them, releasing an aroma I recognized.
“What is this, Beatrice?” Mrs. Tangledwood sniffed the tea.
“Emma, it’s green tea with a bit of ginger, a touch of rosehips and willow bark. And something a little extra to take those aches and pains away, nettle leaves.”
“What’s nettle?”
I had used the plant myself for similar ailments. Mrs. Twiggs pulled up another chair and sat next to Mrs. Tangledwood. “It’s a plant that has tiny stiff hairs which release stinging chemicals when touched, those chemicals numb aches and pains. The Appalachian mountain folk used it to reduce inflammation.”
Mrs. Tangledwood stared at the concoction and then back up at Mrs. Twiggs.
“Oh, Emma, it’s quite safe.”
Mrs. Tangledwood sipped the tea. I could see her whole body ease, not from the tea but from the assurance in Mrs. Twiggs’ voice. She had that effect on people. Her sparkling hazelnut eyes, her hair raven black without a trace of silver and her tender smile. For a woman of almost 80 years on this planet, her skin was remarkably wrinkle free and luminescent. She told me once that clean living and a purposeful life kept the gravedigger hungry. That must be true, for Mrs. Twiggs’ purpose kept her young. “One more thing, Emma.” Mrs. Twiggs reached into her daisy festooned apron pocket, retrieving a small crystal dangling from a piece of leather. “This is blue lace agate. It removes blocks from the nervous system and treats arthritic bones. I want you to wear it while you take a warm bath tonight for 15 to 20 minutes.” She placed the necklace gently over Mrs. Tangledwood’s head.
Mrs. Tangledwood touched the stone and smiled. She opened her change purse but Mrs. Twiggs waved her off. “No, Emma, I want you to have this. You come back tomorrow and let me know how much better you feel.”
“I appreciate it, Beatrice, you’re quite kind but I’m afraid that the report from my doctor’s visit was not good. Even all your wonderful teas and stones can’t cure what ails me. I’m afraid it’s just a matter of time,” Mrs. Tangledwood said, placing the teacup down.
Mrs. Twiggs’ smile disappeared. She took Mrs. Tangledwood’s hand in hers. “There’s always hope, Emma. I will help you anyway I can.”
Mrs. Tangledwood smiled. “On to more cheerful business--the annual pumpkin festival at the Biltmore. I’ve spoken to several of the ladies, and we agree this year we should have a haunted hayride through the forest.”
“Would you like me to speak with the curator at the Biltmore to arrange it?”
“That’s not necessary,” Mrs. Tangledwood said. “I’ve already spoken with her. They’ve agreed to allow us to use the woods for the event provided we donate the proceeds to their scholarship fund.”
“Let me know if you need any help,” Mrs. Twiggs said as Mrs. Tangledwood stood and buttoned her coat. “Emma, wait, it arrived. Let me get that book for you.”
Mrs. Tangledwood sat back down in the chair with a groan. Mrs. Twiggs returned with a bundle and placed it on the table. “Emma, I’m afraid this one was very expensive. More than the others. It’s quite old.”
“Oh, Beatrice, how were you able to find it?”
“A colleague from the university back east.”
“Thank you, Beatrice.” Placing the bundle in her shopping bag, Mrs. Tangledwood stood again. I watched Mrs. Tangledwood shuffle out the door with a newfound energy. Mrs. Twiggs closed the door gently behind her. Throughout the day, her patrons came and went, browsing through books, sifting through teas and sharing stories with Mrs. Twiggs. From my vantage point on the window seat, the afternoon sun filtered in through the beveled glass picture window engulfing me in a prism of light. The sweet smell of afternoon raspberry zinger tea wafted in from the kitchen filling the store with a sense of serenity. It would soon be overpowered by the scent of the expensive perfume worn by the ladies of the Biltmore Society as they pushed their way through the door. The shop would become a cacophony as the Asheville aristocracy pecked away the hours discussing matters of great importance. That would be my cue to part ways for the day for I am not privy to the hen party. The company I keep is looked down upon by the ladies with turned-up noses, but not Mrs. Twiggs. She sees me for who I am and not what I appear to be.
I thanked Mrs. Twiggs and headed out the back door, making sure not to be seen. There was a chill in the air as dusk settled in. The days and my time grew shorter as winter approached. I needed to make arrangements for a warm bed for the night.
I made my way down Biltmore Avenue, heading uphill toward the downtown square. Outside the shops, the buskers played for the tourists. The locals sat at the outdoor taverns tied to their beloved dogs. Ashevillians love their dogs. I do not share their sentiment. They are dirty beasts with limited intelligence.
The Blue Ridge Mountains rose up in the distance surrounding the town forming a fortress, silent, watching, waiting. I missed home, my real home, and a true New England winter. The Northeastern cold penetrates deep under your skin nipping at all your senses. Large flakes of snow drift up to the window sash. Feather beds and warm fires call. Here snow is a fleeting promise, never staying more than a day and leaving no memory of its coming. I missed the taste of salt in the air and the sound of the Atlantic dancing with the moon tides. But of all things missed, I miss my family most.