Three other aspiring writers and I have been writing a short story a month for Elegant Literature Magazine since April. We’re given a prompt and a 2000 word limit. The four of us gather via zoom once a week to read each others work, offer our critiques, feedback and encouragement.

Writing these stories is like getting into the batting cage. It’s practice, testing out new skills, creating for the sake of creating. Sometimes the prompt will suit our tastes and the story lines come easily. Other times, not so much. And imagination can only take you so far. Those 2000 words have to get onto the page. We all wail that we needed another 300-500 words, or just one more week. If only.

Writing is generally considered a solo occupation. To write stories in tandem as we’ve been doing, we can watch each other’s progress. I cannot express how beneficial it is for me to see the others struggle with their creative processes; I’m not the only one feeling like I’m way out in left field wondering what my glove is for.

Below is the story I wrote for the prompt ‘mundane magic’. I like to think my stories have improved; I like some better than others, this is one I like.

Keep your joy.

Anne Milne is an every Sunday blogger, unless it’s a holiday weekend. Or summertime. Facebook or sign up for delivery to your email.

Vines and Milkweeds

I’m sure there is somewhere on God’s green earth where this weed is welcome, but on our soil it’s an invasive species. Funny then, how it’s a cousin to the milkweed I encourage in my butterfly garden. I pushed my foot onto the shovel with as much strength as I could muster. This vine’s been creeping in from the next yard, steadily trespassing across my lawn, choking out the lower branches of my cedar hedge. It’s not called Dog Strangling Vine for nothing.

When I learned who the Actons had leased their house to, I was shocked and disappointed. These people knew nothing, cared nothing, for gardens. They only mowed the lawn because someone from town hall explained to them (after I complained) that this is how we do things here.

The town is changing too fast for my liking. Why just yesterday, I walked downtown and you’d have thought I’d flown overseas. Used to be you’d recognize everyone you came across; they were the Actons, or Johnstons, McRaes, or O’Dwyers, all the families who built this town, been here for generations, just like me. Then in the grocery store! The cashier’s accent? I couldn’t make out a word. Not a word.

And the young people—off they go to school and never come back. No one stays put anymore. Everyone’s grandkids, spread across the country. My own are growing up way out west. They don’t know me. When I’m gone, this house will be sold before I’ve cooled in the ground.

A noise behind me paused me in my efforts with the vine. I turned to see a small girl in stretchy pink pants and a white t-shirt chewing her index finger. A pink ribbon held back unruly dark curls. Land sakes, she can’t be much more than three years old. Where is her mother? She giggled and pointed with her free hand. A white moth fluttered its way toward my vegetable garden. Her dark eyes shone as she jumped up and down and burbled excitedly. I assumed she was trying to say butterfly.

“Moth,” I said. And eager to lay eggs on my burgeoning zucchini vines. I looked sternly at the girl and pointed toward her yard. She giggled and scampered away, not the least bit phased by my stern demeanour. She fit neatly through a hole in the hedge where that cursed vine had choked out the lower branches. I quickly calculated the cost of replacing the cedar hedge with a cedar fence.

The girl’s father opened their side door and called for her. He looked over at my yard and for a brief second we made eye contact. I’d seen this type of man on the news. They control their wives, they don’t believe women should drive or go to school, and the women have to wear those head scarves.

Back in my kitchen for a well-deserved rest, I swished hot water around in my beloved chipped teapot. One of the few sentimental things brought over by my great-grandmother. Lord knows they hadn’t packed much in that trunk beyond rags and hope.

As soon as I settled myself onto the back porch, the doorbell rang. In the middle of the afternoon? In this heat? I stifled my shocked expression when I recognized Eileen Acton herself, on my very doorstep.

I greeted her politely enough. She was all smiles: would I care to join the town committee in charge of fundraising and aid for the new immigrants arriving? She ran on and on with what their needs were, housing, language skills, the need for diapers and so forth.

My ancestors did not scratch and claw their way so I could raise diaper money for people who refused to stay in their own country. Like we don’t have enough of our own to take care of, for pity’s sake.

I raised my hand.

“I’ll stop you right there. I’m sure you have your reasons, I know have mine. I won’t be volunteering any of my time for such a cause. I wish you luck.”

That stopped her short. I bid her good day and left her standing on the porch.

Early the next morning while the air was still cool and sweet, I took another stab at uprooting the dog vine. I peered through the hedge to see the damn thing climbing up their rain pipe almost to the eaves-trough. Heavens. They probably think it’s pretty. It was full of bean pods too. When those burst—millions of seeds would float freely on the wind, landing wherever they please.

Their side door opened. The mother and little girl stepped out. How does that woman survive the heat in a long skirt with a scarf on her head? Ridiculous. The girl beelined toward the gap in the hedge, but blessedly, her mother caught her. The father stepped out then, carrying a lunch bag. Good to know he has a job. He tickled the girl, made her shriek with laughter and then headed off toward the bus stop. I stepped away from the hedge. I’d be embarrassed to be caught looking.

I dug up as much of the dog vine as my back would tolerate. Moving on to more pleasurable tasks, I clipped a dozen or so roses to bring inside. It occurred to me that the little girl would probably like the pink ones, but I was not about to encourage her familiarity.

Thanks to my diligent hoeing, early potatoes were ready. I threw a few larger ones into a pile for dinner. The lowly potato. Who would have thought the lack of it could bring such grief to an entire nation. Well, almost an entire nation. If your name didn’t start with an ‘O’, your pantry remained well-stocked. A simple blight and hunger had dispersed a million people.

I can’t understand coming to a country where you don’t speak the language. Stay in your own country and solve your problems there. At least Ireland was part of the Commonwealth. Not like that made the welcome any warmer; stashed in the old trunk in the attic, I kept a sign: ‘Help Wanted. Irish need not apply’. My great-grandfather had gone to the Dutchman’s store every morning. He swept the back steps, or he shovelled snow, until eventually the owner hired him to make deliveries. Then Great-Grandfather became the man in charge of deliveries, and then he bought the store. My great-grandmother worked taking in laundry. Bit by bit, their life here blossomed. Their sons built this house. I’ll be the last of us to live here.

My reverie was interrupted by a sound, like a little sniffle. There stood the girl, gnawing at her finger. She stared at me, not giggling. No butterflies were in sight. I pointed at the hole in the hedge and made a shooing motion. She pointed at the hole in the hedge. Her chest heaved; she tried hard not to cry.

I sighed. Land sakes, what now? I walked over to her and gave her a gentle nudge toward the hole. She shook her head no. She reached for my hand and tugged for me to follow her. I scooted through as best as my knees would allow—that gap was growing bigger every day. I could hear their baby crying from somewhere in the house. Reluctantly, I opened the side door.

“Hello? Hello?”

The girl pushed past me and ran into the kitchen where her mother lay collapsed on the floor. A jumble of thoughts rushed through my mind. The woman was not wearing her head scarf; her cascade of jet-black hair was truly impressive. There was a pleasant scent of lemons. The kitchen was spotless.

In her prone position, I could plainly see she was with child. Of course. One barely out of diapers, one in a crib, and one on the way.

That unkind thought made me wince. It’s not like Irish immigrants hadn’t heard the same thing often enough.

There was a neatly folded stack of cloth diapers on the countertop. I grabbed one and ran cold water over it. She blinked awake as I pressed the cloth to her forehead and wrists. She looked embarrassed when she saw me and struggled to get up. I helped her into a chair and motioned for her to keep her head down. It seemed she had merely fainted, but no point in pushing one’s luck.

Upstairs, I found a baby boy in a soggy diaper, his little body damp from the heat. He had an abundance of dark curls; what my mother would have called a Black Irish cap.

Back in the kitchen, I kept Baby on my hip while I found a glass of water for the mother. I gestured like we were playing a crazy game of charades to ask if she had eaten that morning. No. Well that explains things. No breakfast in this heat, and pregnant to boot.

It was apparent from the small bowls in the sink that the girl had eaten. I suppose women the world over made sure everyone else got fed before they did. The fridge contents were sparse, but there was milk, some cheese and a few containers of things. She pointed at one of the containers. I could see bits of tomatoes and parsley mixed with something unidentifiable. A good bowl of oatmeal is what she really needs, I thought.

She said something in her own language, then carefully pronounced, “Zeen-koo,” which I took to mean thank you.

The girl chewed her finger and smiled shyly. The mother pointed at herself and said, “Amal.” I pointed at myself and said, “Jane.” The girl’s name started with ‘B’ but the rest of it was beyond my comprehension. ‘Betsy’ would do.

I took Baby upstairs and cleaned him up. A jolly little soul he was, too. Back downstairs, I handed Baby over and reached for Betsy’s hand. More charades told her mother we’d be right back.

Together in my vegetable garden we picked peas, beans, cherry tomatoes, spinach, parsley, and potatoes. Betsy proudly handed the wicker basket to her mother who smiled gratefully.

That evening, I rocked idly on my front porch, concerned with nothing but my own business when the father opened my front garden gate. I braced myself for confrontation. If he had anything to say about me interfering with his family, or some ridiculous objection about me seeing his wife’s bare head, well, I was ready to fire back with a piece of my mind.

My jaw dropped when he smiled. His English was limited, but I could understand thank you well enough. He gestured to my garden, pointed to himself and made shovelling motions. It took me nary a minute to realize the opportunity he presented. I pushed myself up out of my chair and led him back to his own yard.

Crazy or not, charades can get a message across. He seemed puzzled as to why I would want him to uproot the dog vine. I pointed at the eaves-trough, held the vine across my throat and pretended to choke. He threw his head back and laughed. I couldn’t remember the last time I made someone laugh.

I wonder why this family didn’t stay in their own country. My great-grandparent’s story began with hunger. This family’s story must begin somewhere—I don’t understand where, to be honest, but they must have their reasons. Uprooting is never easy.

The next morning, I searched all over my garden. I found what I was looking for hanging upside down, the transformation already in progress. I clipped the twig and put it with some leaves into a large pickle jar.

As if on cue, Betsy popped through the hedge. I showed her the caterpillar just beginning to pupate. Her wide eyes transfixed with wonder as I played charades to explain the magic that was to come.