Biddy

We pulled into the drive at 111 Racecourse Road just after lunch on Tuesday, the third. The gravel road was narrow and lined on both sides with bushy agapanthas, red hot pokers, daisies, and the shade of taller trees guarded us from the sun as we drove the short distance toward the house.

I was excited. I was anxious to meet my hostess for the next two weeks - Biddy. I had conjured up an exact image of her in my mind. She would be grandmotherly. She'd have long greying hair, tied back in an artistic knot of some sort, have beautiful skin, a sweet smile, and we'd probably find her in the back yard, sitting under a tree at her spinning wheel, whiling the afternoon away plying wool. She'd be the perfect knitting tutor for me. Kind and instructive, encouraging, inspiring. And she'd probably have some sort of baked good in the oven, ready to pull out at the exact moment of our arrival.

We parked in the middle of the drive, next to the house. The front yard was small and enclosed by yet more flowering plants and trees. A brick patio off the front of the house was covered in clutter - a picnic table, potted plants, garden art, a grill. We heard the sliding glass front door before we reached it, and there was Biddy. Ah, Biddy.

Biddy is a sixty year old woman, born and raised and married and mothered and grandmothered, all in a 20 mile radius of Gore. She stands about 5’4” and the bulk of her 300 odd pounds is carried in her lower half, so her body see-saws from one leg to another as she lumbers about the house. She has pixie-cut white hair, wears glasses that turn brown in the sun, and has at least one tooth missing from her lowers, so that when she talks, her slight lisp makes her tongue peak out through the missing holes.

I was able to observe her physical features in such close detail due to the amount of time that I spent, staring into her face, hoping to appear interested, as she talked. Perhaps yapped is a better word. Or went on and on. Or rambled. I’m not sure I’ve ever encountered such a talker in my life. She seamlessly moves from one subject I’m not now or ever will be interested in to yet another subject of the same genre. Even stories that have potential to be interesting turn sour, taken over by superfluous details.

Within our first hour there, we were introduced to the dog - "This is Lottie. She's called Lottie for lotsa reasons. She's lotsa things. She's got Jack Russel, shnauzer, etcetera, etcetera." (This would be the first of about 5 times we heard her say this.) We were also given an extensive lesson about her family. She told us the names, ages, and occupations of her three daughters, their husbands, and their children. One of her son-in-laws, she made a point to say, was really her "sin-in-law" "cause they never got married, never will". We also heard that line several more times before we left.

After a whirlwind introduction to her life, she finally turned to us. "So, what do you two do?" Uhhhh... As I told Bjorn later that day, I'd never felt so embarrassed at my lack of occupation. Even though she'd just told me that her sin-in-law worked at the local freezing works (an enormous factory where they slaughter and freeze the lambs), I felt totally uncomfortable under her gaze. Saying I was certified to teach but hadn't really gotten around to it yet and was just travelling a little bit - it just didn't feel good enough.

We stammered out a few excuses for our current joblessness, and she immediately turned the subject back to herself. That was the last time she asked us about ourselves for several more days.

She showed us our room, which felt like the guestroom in your grandparents' house - full of family stuff, but not inhabited by any particular person. About five dressers lined the walls of the room, surrounding the bed on all sides. One of them was empty and avaialble for our use. The other dressers were draped with handmade lace coverings, and sitting atop were old, black and white photos of previous generations, sternly looking at the camera, and family history scrolls rolled up into little wooden cases.

She led us around the one-story, three-bedroom house, pointing out the only bathroom, just off the main hall, as well as the shower, which was tucked into a corner of the laundry room. It was a cozy, lived in house, and we were so thrilled at the prospect of having a place to be for two weeks, having a place to put our things, having a real bed to sleep in, having a daily shower and cooked meals!

We weren't quite sure what to do with ourselves that first day, and that never really changed as the two weeks went by. Biddy would start talking, walk off in a direction, and we'd look at each other, wondering if that was supposed to be a cue to follow her. We followed her out to a shed in the back yard where she keeps all her wool dyes and watched in amazement as she dyed several hanks of wool she had spun herself, all the time yammering on about something or other. After following her around like lost lambs for a while, we asked her if there was anything she wanted us to do for her today, and she directed us to the vegetable garden, where we could pull out all of the beans, as they were done for the season, as well as do some general weeding, and oh, why don't you fill this bucket up with beets while you're at it? We'll have those for tea tonight.

As we sat out in the vegetable garden, working away in the afternoon heat, we talked a bit about first impressions. At the time, neither of us said anything about Biddy's tendency to...talk. She was quite a character, we both admitted, but this was all going to be great. Working with our hands, learning about gardening and farming - it would be an amazing experience, to be sure.