Throwback Thursday: Straw Into Gold, By Elizabeth Creith

Editor’s note: This a very early essay from EC, from 2011. But it’s a good nonfiction post.

Rumpelstiltskin turned animal bedding into precious metal; for millennia people spun straw into gold when they made linen from flax. Linen is durable and moth-proof, soft and smooth enough to wear comfortably next to the skin, tough enough to make into sails or rope. Until 1780, when Richard Arkwright's spinning machine made a strong, smooth cotton thread possible, linen was the queen of plant fibers.

The Egyptians considered linen the gift of Isis, ritually pure, and used only linen for mummy wrappings. To the Hebrews, fine linen was the fabric of the wealthy. The Phoenicians used tightly woven linen garments for armor. Even in eighteenth-century Russia, transit duty on goods could be paid in linen shirts. What made this fabric so prized?

To spin wool, shear the sheep, then wash the fleece, tease the locks open and card or comb the fleece. If the fleece is very clean and loose it can often be spun straight from the sheep with only a light teasing preparation.

Linen is made from the stem fibers of the flax plant (Linum usitatissimum). Plants bred specifically for fiber have straight single stems, 24" to 36" tall, branching only at the seed-head. 

Linen production, now largely mechanized, was historically slow and laborious.

Just before the seeds ripen, the plants were pulled up by the root, tied into bundles and set to dry in an airy place. Ripening, and therefore pulling, could take several weeks. After pulling, the stalks were "rippled" – dragged through a comb – to remove the seed heads.

Once the whole crop was harvested, the stalks were retted in stagnant ponds, or sometimes "dew-retted" on grass. To ret means to cause to rot; retting promotes bacterial action that breaks down the pith and straw around the fibers. It's a smelly process and must be watched closely; too much spoils the fiber, but too little makes it impossible to carry out the next steps. Pond retting took five to seven days, dew retting three times as long.

After retting, the dried stalks were broken by hammering in a sort of guillotine of interlocking boards. This broke the straw and pith around the fibers. A wooden knife was used to "scutch" the flax, scraping away the broken bits. For both of these processes, the bundle of flax had to be held firmly by the root end to prevent tangles.

The flax was next "hackled," combed through three successively finer sets of teeth. This removed the short fibers and split the long ones down to their finest diameter. Only about half became "line flax," the long fibers, which make a smooth thread and cloth. The remaining short fibers, or "tow," make a coarser, weaker thread and coarser fabric.

The long fibers of line flax couldn't be spun from the hand, as wool (or tow) could. It must be spun from a distaff, either draped over a comb distaff or spread around a conical "lantern" distaff, a process called "dressing.".Dressing involved patiently spreading a bundle of line flax in overlapping fine layers, then rolling it onto the distaff and tying it in place. Only then could the flax be spun into linen.

Wool can go from sheep to thread in a few days; flax takes weeks of work and attention to become linen. At every stage, careless handling can weaken or tangle the fibers and spoil them for becoming the valuable line flax. It's not the gold of the fairy tale, but it's the next best thing – and far more comfortable to wear.


References:
Atton, Mavis. Flax Culture from Flower to Fabric, The Ginger Press, 1988
Baines, Patricia. Linen Handspinning and Weaving, B.T. Batsford Ltd., 1989


Elizabeth Creith has been a spinner and weaver for nearly thirty years. She specializes in historical techniques and natural dyes.

Throwback Thursday: Little Rattle Belly, By Mae Empson

I'm going to die because the King twisted my father's simple pride in my craft and profits into an impossible boast, as binding as a ligature knot. The King will return at dawn for gold or blood. 

At least there's straw here to help pass the time. Bales and bales. I can't make gold from it, but I can shape it for the pleasure and distraction that affords.

I braid dozens of corn maidens and piles of countrymen's favors. I weave a Norfolk Lantern using a cascading 5-straw spiral plait, and then a harvest cross using a 12-straw diamond plait. That reminds me of the handle I made Jane for her wedding day flowers, so I construct an entirely strawcrafted bouquet, a wild explosion of star and floral straw shapes. Jane and Alfred will have their baby soon, and I know I won't live to see it, but I make them an Anglesey Rattle anyway--another spiral plait like the lantern but sealed with dry chips of straw inside to shake.  

I've avoided thinking about what it means to die when I am only sixteen, but my hands tally the losses. Courtship, marriage, baby. I cry a little. It wastes time that I could be making something.

He Tore Himself In Two, By Kurt Newton

He tore himself in two.
What was he to do?
She guessed his name,
the Devil he blamed,
there was no other way she knew.

If truth be told,
his youth was stolen
and his height divided by three,
by a witch in a dell
who had cast her spell
when he trespassed her property.

She kept him then
in a wooden pen,
his leg held by a golden chain.
Until one day he chewed
the chain straight through
and escaped the witch's domain.

But little did he dream,
as he sat by a stream,
that the gold was now in his blood.
He was a hideous runt
that no woman would want,
all he had was his golden touch.

And so his life was altered
when the Miller's daughter
became stuck in a horrible bind.
He spun straw into gold
to save her soul,
once, twice, three times.

On the third
he took her word,
a promise of her first born child.
But when he came to collect it,
she cried and objected,
so he gave her one more trial.

Guess my name
and I'll remove my claim,
he offered the young Queen mother.
When she guessed it right
it broke him inside,
so badly he couldn't recover.

His heart made of gold,
his bones brittle and old,
there was nothing left to do.
He stomped hard with his foot,
the King's castle shook,
and he tore himself in two.


Kurt Newton says, "My poetry has appeared in Mythic Delirium, Strange Horizons, Star*Line, Dreams and Nightmares, and Space and Time.  I hail from the tiny mythical state of Connecticut."

Batul and the Rumpel, By Rumjhum Biswas

atul was short. His sisters had to reach the top shelves of cupboards for him. His brothers had to hoist him up so he could see the rooster fights in their village square better. The pehelwans and other musclemen of their village mocked Batul, despite his wrestling skills. His parents despaired of finding a bride for him. But Batul despaired the most.

“Can’t live like this. Got to do something,” muttered Batul to himself as he tried to hoist himself on the low lying branch of a tree to get a better view. The girls were at the village pond, hitching their clothes up, getting wet, as they filled their pots and washed clothes, laughing coyly and gossiping with each other.

Batul swung from trees. He ate dozens of bananas and drank gallons of milk. He even swallowed the bitter golis prescribed by Hakimji, who was the most trusted quack in the whole district. But nothing worked. Dejected, Batul went to the forest to pray to Hanumanji, the God of wrestlers. Hanumanji continued smiling beatifically, but he did not appear. Instead, a tiny fellow with piercing blue eyes and snow white beard materialized as if by magic.

“Hey!” said Batul, startled, but pleased nevertheless to find someone shorter than himself. “And who might you be Mr. Shorty?”

Shorty smirked. He looked Batul up and down, from head to toe. Batul started to feel uncomfortable.

 “I can solve your problem,” said Shorty, still smirking.

“You? Solve my problem? How do you know I have a problem?”

“Oh come on,” said Shorty contemptuously. “Who doesn’t know? News about your get-tall-quick schemes has gone as far as Timbuktu!”

“You’re from Timbuktu?” said Batul incredulously. He had never heard of the place before. “What kind of a place is it Shortyji?” He asked eagerly. “Are all the people there like you?”

Batul was suddenly filled with visions of being the tallest in the land; and that could happen if he went to Timbuktu. Maybe he ought to befriend this strange stranger. “Would you like a moong dal laddu Shortyji? It’s made with roasted moong beans, the finest sugar and ghee from our own buffalos.”

Shorty looked at him disgustedly. “What nonsense! Stop blathering like a buffoon! Do I look like a laddu-eater to you? Be serious. I don’t have all day you know. You want to grow tall or not?”

“You can help me?” Batul was still incredulous. “Shortyj…” But before he could finish, Shorty snapped his fingers, and Batul found himself in a medieval torture chamber, lying on a bench with his hands and feet shackled to two iron pillars at either end of his body. Shorty snapped his fingers again and the contraption tugged at Batul from both ends.

“What is this machine?”

“No business of yours!”

“No but sir, does it work?”

“You’ll see.”

The machine cranked up and started to pull harder. Batul felt good. His muscles felt stretched. It must be working, he thought. He was sure to grow tall.

“How long do I need to do this Shortyji?” he asked enthusiastically.

“Forever!”

Shorty disappeared, leaving Batul dumbstruck for a whole week.

When he appeared again, with a jug of gruel and a loaf of bread, Batul was too frightened and weak to eat. He begged to be released.

“I am a poor man,” said Batul. “But my parents love me. They will sell all their buffaloes to pay you. My sisters will sell all their jewelry to pay you Shortyji. My brothers will shave of their moustaches in penance. Please sir.”

 “I can’t,” said Shorty, stroking his beard. “It’s a spell. Only you can break it. If, you can tell me my name, my real name!”

Batul stared at him. This must be a nightmare! This couldn’t be happening to him. But there was no getting away from it. Batul had to discover the fellow’s name.

“Can you give me a hint at least?” he pleaded.

Shorty shrugged. “Read any fairy tales as a kid? Shouldn’t be too hard if you did.”

Batul tried to bring back Masterji’s singsong voice reciting English Fairy tales from the distant past. He wished he had paid attention to those stories at school when Masterji had droned and droned, instead of fiddling with his catapult and marbles. He strained his head trying to recall, just as his muscles strained on the bench.

“Your name’s Rumple,” he whispered at last. “No Rumpel, something Rumpel? I mean like Rumpel-something, right?”

 “Close,” said the Shorty, smirking. “Not bad for a first try Batul, I must say. You’ve got the family right!” Then his smirk became wider. “But that’s me grand paw’s name! Not mine! No way! Ha Ha-ha Ha-ha!”

Batul focused for the rest of the week. He thought of every single English lesson that he had been taught. At last the name came to him.

“Rumpel Stiltskin,” he said steadily, though weakly.

A sound like thunder made Batul shut his eyes in anticipation. But when nothing happened, he opened his eyes to see Shorty, all cracked up with laughter, holding his stomach for dear life. A smell like rotten eggs hung in the air.

 “Nyah! Nyah! Nyah! Nyah! You Batul boy are still one generation away!” spluttered Shorty.

“One generation away? How many generations are you?”

Shorty rubbed his hands in glee. “That’s me Paw. That’s me Paw! Batul boy! Haw haw-haw haw-haw!”

“What do you mean that’s me paw, that’s me paw? Money’s paw!” said Batul getting upset. “Here I am being tortured, just because you want some fun and games. Not fair! I tell you, it’s not fair. You’re a liar! You promised. What you’re doing is nothing short of cheating! That’s what! You’re a cheat!”

Shorty only laughed, louder. Batul struggled to be free. Rage filled every bone in his body.

“Rumpel cheat!” He shrieked. “Rumpel scoundrel! Rumpel trickster! Rumpel robber! Rumpel Rat! Rumpel Shorty pants!” Batul began to pant. People always fooled him; conned him into believing their tricks. He was always being short changed. Batul was sick of it. Sick. Sick. Sick.

Shorty guffawed.

“Rumpel Shortchange!” squeaked Batul, trying hard not to burst into tears. “Rumpel Shortchange!”

Shorty spluttered in mid guffaw. His face turned red. He stamped his foot in rage.

Poof!

Batul was back beneath the Peepul tree. Except this time he had a sore back and limp limbs. For a few minutes Batul lay still, feeling dazed and bewildered. Slowly, he got up and looked around. He touched himself to see whether he was all in one piece. He was, but he was as short as ever.

Batul prostrated himself and thanked Hanumanji profusely.

Rumjhum Biswas writes fiction and poetry. Currently she lives on the outskirts of Chennai where local and migratory birds still fly around and do their bird things.

The Name Of The Helper, By James Hutchings

There was once a vizier of Baghdad who had such mastery of deception, and flattery, and insinuation, and all the false arts of the tongue, that he was called Abd al-Katheb, or Servant of Falsehood.

Baghdad was ruled by the Caliph Musa al-Hadi. The Caliph was a wicked man, who attempted to poison his own mother, and committed many other outrages. Ever was Abd al-Katheb at his side, whispering cunning and odious sophistries to calm the conscience of his master. For this service the unrighteous courtier was greatly rewarded, and his wealth was piled as high as his infamy.

At last al-Hadi was smothered to death by the women of his harem, and his virtuous younger brother Harun al-Rashid became Caliph. The new Caliph spoke thus:

"O Abd al-Katheb, it is well-known that your master, my late brother, was greatly influenced in his wickedness by your counsel. Many say that your life should be forfeit. Yet you served only as commanded. Further, Musa al-Hadi has died for his crimes, and it is not just that a debt already paid should be paid twice over. You are wont to boast that your words are so honeyed that you could prove a stone to be the moon, or a beggar's scabs to be rubies. I decree, therefore, that you shall toil in the palace stables, to be released only when you can prove the muck thereof to be purest gold."

Abd al-Katheb was thus sent to the stables to be the servant of animals, and to labor amid filth. Such was his rage and humiliation that his serpent's tongue deserted him. Had he kept his head he could have convinced the grooms and stable hands that he was the victim of an injustice, or that he voluntarily lowered himself from humility. Perhaps he could even have proved that the muck of the stables was purest gold, and gained his freedom. But instead he was as bitter and hateful in manner as in reality, and gained no sympathy.

One day, as he was bewailing his fate, he saw a crone who was a stranger to him.

"O crone," he said, "I see that you have a cheerful countenance. Have you come to gloat at my misery? Though I marvel that you have not been gathered up and thrown away, mistaken for a pile of horse dung." The crone did not respond to his jibe.

"I smile always, but do not gloat," replied the crone. "Indeed I have come to prove Harun al-Rashid a liar, and secure your release."

"Two mighty tasks," the former courtier said dryly, though in truth he thirsted for hope, and the taste of it was sweet. "Yet how may this poor ostler repay you?"

"In truth you have given me much already, though you know me not. Therefore I shall take only a small piece of meat. And since you are poor I shall not take a choice cut, but one you have scorned. And finally, O Abd al-Katheb, I shall not take even this if you can tell me my name."

Such was the certainty in the woman's voice that Abd al-Katheb did not doubt her sincerity, or her power to deliver what she promised, though he of all people should have known that the word is not the deed. Therefore he replied, "I accept your bargain. I cannot tell you your name, since although I know many names, they are those of men of dignity and power, not toothless and wretched old women." Again the woman made no response to his insult, but merely continued smiling.

"This being so, I shall return at sunset, when the bargain shall be fulfilled." With that, she left Abd al-Katheb to his work.

Abd al-Katheb was as greedy as he was false, and to give even a small piece of meat for liberation was against his nature. Therefore he desired greatly to know the name of his savior. To this end he put on the mask that he had laid aside, and all in the stable were greatly pleased by his new attitude of repentance and good fellowship, as they thought. But although he subtly guided the conversation towards the subject, none could name the old woman. This displeased him greatly, despite the great prospect suddenly before him. For it is the way with all who seek wealth and power, that it is as if they drink salt water: the more they attain their desire, the less they are satisfied. Therefore Abd al-Katheb would have found reason to complain in Paradise.

At last the sun set, and behold! The old woman was before him, though he did not see her coming despite his careful watch.

"O Abd al-Katheb," she asked, "have you guessed my name?"

"Indeed I have not, old woman," he replied. "But I remind you that the penalty for this failure is merely a small piece of meat."

"I have not forgotten," said the old woman. Having spoken, she reached into his chest, and pulled out his heart. Abd al-Katheb fell dead on the ground. Thus Harun al-Rashid was made a liar. For the false vizier had not proven that the muck of the stables was gold, yet he had been released from his punishment.

James Hutchings lives in Melbourne, Australia. His work has appeared in Daily Science Fiction and fiction365 among other markets. His blog, http://teleleli.blogspot.com, is updated daily.

The Duchess's Boy, By Louise Quenneville

er Grace, The Duchess Stilzchen of the North-East Gnomes, set down the letter she’d been reading. She took off her spectacles and laid them on the desk. Raising a hand, she summoned a messenger. She instructed the messenger:

“Find the human boy Edward and have him meet me in the bramble-garden in half an hour; and tell the Cook to have tea and cakes ready, the kind the boy likes. We are to be alone in the garden, absolutely no-one else is to be there.”

She rose from her chair and taking the letter with her she strode towards the garden, the very picture of gnomish dignity from the top of her ruby cap down to the tips of her claws, and all the wattles and warts in between.

She was sitting on a bench when Edward came into the garden.

“Come here, my boy and sit here beside me – I’m going to have to give you some unpleasant news.” The human boy, Edward, did as he was bid and sat down on the bench with the Duchess.

“I fear, Edward, that you are soon to lose your human inheritance.”

Now the boy Edward was a human boy, eleven years old, not particularly tall or handsome or in any way remarkable in appearance for a human boy; what set him apart from other boys was the way in which he seemed completely at ease sitting not two feet away from a pointed eared, pointy-toothed, pointy-nosed gnome.

“That’s not so bad, your Ladyship, I never really wanted to live in the castle and have the Queen tell me what to do all the time,” answered Edward.

“Edward, my dear, you were born to be a king among the humans. It was only by sheer good fortune and human foolishness that you’ve had a chance to grow up among the gnomes. And a kingdom is a lot of wealth to give up so easily... I could try to speak to your mother the Queen one more time.”

“Please Ma’am, don’t trouble yourself. She doesn’t want me; you’ve tried before.”

The Duchess lowered her head until the dewlap under her chin lay across her broad bosom. “It’s my fault, you know, that your mother is that way. You know the story of how my nephew Rumple made a bargain with the Queen – that was before she was the Queen, just a common girl she was then – that he would help her make gold in exchange for her first born child.” Edward nodded yes.

“Well I know about making bargains with humans, and they are not to be trusted to keep their end of the agreement. And Rumple was such a fool to advance gold for credit – you must never do that with a human, remember that –“ The Duchess paused, looking intently at the boy.

“Yes Ma’am, never; I’ll never extend credit to a human,” he said.

“Good lad... So, knowing that Rumple would have a terrible time collecting on the debt, and seeing myself as eminently more credit-worthy than the Queen, I facilitated the exchange in advance by taking you in escrow....You look confused, Edward – I just mean that I kidnapped you at birth and replaced you with a place-holder I made from a turnip, some clay and some baby clothes... I didn’t actually do anything to you except make sure the Queen couldn’t hide you from Rumple when he came to collect. I didn’t tell Rumple. Poor Rumple wasn’t very bright, and I don’t think he could have carried out his part in getting back the place-holder prince from the Queen without letting the secret out if he’d known.

"Rumple had already promised me he’d give me the Prince to raise once he’d collected the baby from the Queen. So, if all had gone according to my plan, at the end of the exchange the Queen would have been childless, Rumple would have been so proud, and I would have the place-holder back. No-one except myself would ever know I’d already had you here in my home for a whole year.”

“So,” Edward said with a smile, “the Prince in the castle is a turnip-head! No wonder everyone says he’s so stupid.”

“I made the place-holder Prince too well, I’m afraid. He’s got dimples and blue eyes and golden hair in the perfect proportions for a boy, and he always does what his mother and teachers tell him.”

“That’s not very real,” said Edward.

“Well, there is another thing – I needed the place-holder to be believable for a whole year, so I entangled his enchantment with another baby born in the castle three days earlier. That way whatever the real baby did, the fake Prince would do, just three days later.”

“Like growing and crawling and stuff?”

“Yes. I hadn’t thought some things through entirely, such as how unlikely it would be for two real babies to have all of their teeth erupt in exactly the same order, but the humans were fooled.”

“Humans are pretty gullible.”

“Except you, my special boy!” The Duchess tousled the boy’s rather ordinary brown hair. “Now you know how the story goes – Rumple, poor fool, gives the Queen a chance to keep her baby, and ends up dead. Poor Rumple.” She pulled a large handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “Now to honor Rumple’s bargain, I had to return you, the real prince, to the Queen. I wrapped you up and sneaked into the nursery.  I hadn’t expected the Queen to be sitting there, singing to the fake prince.”

“Prince Turnip-Head!” Edward added.

“Yes, Edward, she was singing to Prince Turnip. She saw me and stopped singing. I quickly explained that I was going to give her back her real baby, and that I could take the fake-prince if she wanted, or I could turn him back into a turnip if she preferred. She didn’t comprehend a thing I said. She grabbed a broom and chased me, screaming her head off that someone was trying to take her baby. Well, that was almost true, but  -- “

“She didn’t want me” said Edward softly.

“It’s not that simple. She thought she had the perfect baby – that’s my fault, for being such a good enchantress. You on the other hand, were real; you had a poopy diaper, you were teething, and once she started chasing us with the broom you started crying like a baby-banshee. She preferred the illusion.”

“Stupid humans,” said Edward, with a tear sliding down one cheek.

“Now there,” said the Duchess, wiping his face with the handkerchief, “you are an excellent apprentice-magician, and one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. I’m so glad I got to bring you back home with me again that day.” Edward managed a small smile. She patted his cheek “That’s it, lad, a brave heart can smile even on a dark day.”

“If she attacked you with a broom, why didn’t you put a curse on her?” asked the boy.

“I was too busy running away to stop and curse her. If her aim with the broom had been any better neither of us would be alive today. I tried again to fulfill Rumple’s part of the bargain on your second birthday. The Queen used a torch instead of a broom to chase me away. On your third birthday she was waiting for us to appear and she set the dogs after us. I had to use magic to get away that time.”

“So you gave up.”

“No. The Queen was convinced a terrible creature was trying to steal her baby and replace it with a changeling. So I thought it would be wiser to let the Queen keep the fake-prince until she figured out on her own that he was a fake, and then she would want her real baby back. She still hasn’t figured it out, which says a lot about her intellect.”

“Stupid Queen,” muttered Edward.

“The child that the fake-prince is still imitating, three days behind, is the daughter of the Master of the Hunt and his wife, the Mistress of the Queen’s wardrobe. The Master of the Hunt has no sons, so he takes his daughter riding, hunting, tracking, and so forth, so the fake-prince has not been a completely girly-boy turnip-prince. However, new and important events have transpired.”

The Duchess picked up the letter she’d been reading earlier. “My informant among the drain-pipe dwarfs tells me that yesterday the daughter of the Master of the Hunt was seen kissing the son of the Sergeant-at-arms behind the old west barn.”

“Oh!” said Edward.

“This is a very intolerant kingdom, at least among the humans. The Queen will faint. The King will call the Bishop. The Bishop will blame the Devil and will perform an exorcism. The exorcism will break my enchantment, and the fake-prince will revert to turnip and clay.”

“But then I can be Prince!”

“No. I wish it were so, but the Queen will declare that someone has stolen her blond-haired, blue-eyed boy with dimples, and that the turnip was a changeling. Although this is mostly true, it won’t be quite true in the way she means it. Soon hundreds of young men and boys having blond hair, or blue eyes, or dimples, will begin appearing at the castle, each one claiming to be the lost prince.”

“But I’m the real Prince!” said Edward angrily.

“I know, dear boy, but we can’t prove it. Also, you aren’t blond or blue-eyed, and you don’t have dimples. We’d have to use a spell to make you look that way, and you’d have to pay your first-born child to buy that kind of spell.”

 “I don’t want to look like prince-turnip! Why should I have to change when I’m the real boy?”

Edward’s anger was mixed with tears, and the Duchess made use of her handkerchief again.

“I know, it doesn’t seem fair -- but the world isn’t about what is fair. We gnomes say that it is the sign of a greater heart to look for what is good instead of what is fair.”

“So I should look for something good to come out of all of this?” asked the boy, sniffling back tears.

The Duchess wrapped the boy in her loose-skinned gray arms and hugged him close. “Getting to see you learn and grow has been the greatest good thing that has ever happened to me, Edward. I hope someday you will see all the good you’ve done by being here.”  

“That was the problem, wasn’t it, that the fake-prince was too good-looking?” said Edward, his face against the fabric of her silk and burlap gown.

“That was my fault,” said the Duchess. “I didn’t know what a real human baby would look like. “

“And to get to look pretty enough to be the Prince I’d have to sell my first-born? And I’d never look like myself again?”

“That’s what it would cost.”

“I don’t want to be Prince that much.”

“Do you think you might want some honey cakes?”

The Duchess felt the boy nod against her shoulder. 

They sat for a while eating cakes and drinking tea. By the time the supper gong sounded they had finished all the cakes, and washed their faces in the fountain.  They’d talked about the problem of how sometimes people of all kinds were blinded by beauty, or lack of beauty, and how that had caused so many problems for Snow White, the Beast of Beauty and the Beast, and so many others. They’d agreed; the Gnomish way was best: look for a good bargain, buy low and sell high, and never be afraid to take a profit.

During the daytime Louise Quenneville is found sitting in front of a microscope. Evenings, she investigates the tracks that birds, squirrels, cats, mice, and the neighbor's children have left in the snow of her yard and imagines what might go on in the yard when she is away at work. Sometimes she works late and it is dark when she gets home; that's when the night creatures come out and things can get strange. Skunk tracks look much like cat tracks in the dark. Life is full of lessons.