The Glass Village

“And that includes fifteen minors. Thirty-six, going to be thirty-seven in December — Emily Berry’s fifth is on the way. Thirty-seven, that is, if nobody dies. Old Aunt Fanny is ninety-one. Earl Scott’s father Seth is in his eighties... might just as well be dead, he has senile obesity and lives in a wheelchair. For that matter, so does Earl. He’s helpless, too, had a stroke five-six years ago that left him paralyzed. Hosey Lemmon — nobody knows how old Hosey is. I’ll tell you about old man Lemmon sometime; it’s an interesting story.

“Twelve families,” murmured Judge Shinn. “That’s what we’re down to. If you leave out the unattached ones — me, Prue Plummer, Aunt Fanny, Hosey, and Calvin Waters — there’s only seven families.

“We’re down to four producing herds, in an area that during the last century had some of the best dairy farms in this section of the state. Hemus, Isbel, Scott, Pangman. And there’s a question how long they can keep going, with milk fetching eight cents a quart from the Association out of which they have to pay for cartage and rental of the cans.

“Only store left is Peter Berry’s over there on the east corner, and the only reason Peter makes out is he gets the trade of the Comfort people who happen to live closer to Shinn Corners than to their own stores... So you might say,” said the Judge dryly, “we have nothing left but fond memories and a tradition. Let the rest of New England welcome the durn New Yorkers and the rest of the furriners. We want none of ’em.”

“Except you,” said his guest.

‘Well, I’m sort of on the sidelines,” grinned Judge Shinn. “Privileged character. I and Aunt Fanny, that is.”

“That’s the third time you’ve mentioned Aunt Fanny,” said Johnny. “Just who is Aunt Fanny?”

“Aunt Fanny?” The Judge seemed surprised. “Aunt Fanny Adams. That’s her house t’other side of the church. That hewn overhang, one of the few left in this part of the state.”

“Fanny Adams...” Johnny sat up with a thump. “The painter of primitives?”

“Aya.”

“Aunt Fanny Adams comes from Shinn Corners?”

“Born here. It’s this valley most of her painting’s about. Aunt Fanny’s pretty good, I’m told.”

“Good!” Johnny stared across Four Corners Road, past the little church. He could just make out the old New England house, with its flowering garden.

“Didn’t start diddling around with paints till she was eighty, after her husband — Girshom Adams, he was her third cousin — died. Only kin Aunt Fanny’s got left is Ferriss Adams from over Cudbury, her grandnephew, practices law there. She was kind of lonely, I guess.”

“She’s said to be a fabulous old lady. Could I possibly meet her?”

“Aunt Fanny?” Judge Shinn was astonished. “Couldn’t miss her if you tried, ’specially when she hears your grandfather was Horace Shinn. Parade forms at her house, seeing she’s the oldest resident outside the cemetery. You won’t find her much different from any other old woman around here. They’re all pa’t and pa’cel of the land. Know every bulb in their gardens and every surveyor’s description in their land deeds. They outlive their men and they’re as indestructible, seems like, as the rocks in their fences.”

“She lives alone?”

“All alone. Does her own housework, needlework, cooking, puts up her pickles and preserves — they’re like ants, these old women; their routine is practically an instinct.”

“Well, I’ll be darned,” said Johnny. “Who handles her business affairs?”

“Why, she does,” chuckled the Judge. “She sold a painting last week for fifteen hundred dollars. ‘I just paint what I see,’ she says. ‘And if folks are fool enough to pay for what they could have for nothin’ if only they’d use the two eyes the Lord gave them, let ’em pay through the nose.’ Ferriss Adams takes care of her contracts, but he’ll be the first to tell you there isn’t a word in them she doesn’t know backwards and forwards. She’s made a fortune out of her Christmas card, wallpaper, and textile designs alone. Minute some big city dealer tries to skin her, she sits him down with some of her apple pan dowdy and cream she separated with her own hands — she keeps a Jersey cow, milks it herself twice a day and gives most of the milk to the school — and before he knows it he’s agreed to her terms.”

“What does she do with all her money?”

“Invests some, gives the rest away. If not for her, Samuel Sheare would have had to look for another church years ago. His only income is what Aunt Fanny donates and his wife Elizabeth makes as our grade school teacher. And Aunt Fanny’s made up most of our annual town deficit now for years. Used to be my chore,” said the Judge wryly, “but my income isn’t what is used to be... And all that comes out of Aunt Fanny’s diddling with paintbrushes.” He shook his head. “Beats me. Most of her daubs look like a child could do ’em.”

“You’d get a violent argument from the art critics.” Johnny stared over at the Adams property. “I should think Shinn Corners would be proud of her.”