The rain had stopped, and feeble rays of sun were glistening on trees and shrubs. When he stood on the veranda with his morning mug of coffee, he discovered that mountain air when freshly washed heightens the senses. He was seeing details he had not noticed the day before: wildflow-ers everywhere, blue jays in the evergreens, blossoming shrubs all over the mountains. On the way to Potato Cove he saw streams of water gushing from crevices in the roadside cliffs—impromptu waterfalls that made their own rainbows. More than once he stopped the car, backed up, and stared incredulously at the arched spectrum of color.
The rain had converted the Potato Cove road into a ribbon of mud, and Qwilleran drove slowly, swerving to avoid puddles like small ponds. As he passed a certain log cabin he saw the apple peeler on the porch again, rocking contentedly in her high-backed mountain rocker. Today she was wearing her Sunday best, evidently waiting for someone to drive her to church. An ancient straw hat, squashed but perky with flowers, perched flatly on her white hair. What caused Qwilleran to step on the brake was the sight of her entourage: a black cat on her lap, a calico curled at her feet, and a tiger stretched on the top step. Today the shotgun was not in evidence.
Slipping his camera into a pocket, he stepped out of his car and approached her with a friendly wave of the hand. She peered in his direction without responding.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am," he called out in his most engaging voice. "Is this the road to Potato Cove?"
She rocked back and forth a few times before replying.
"Seems like y'oughta know," she said with a frown. "I see'd you go by yestiddy. Road on'y goes one place."
"Sorry, but I'm new here, and these mountain roads are confusing." He ventured closer in a shambling, non-threatening way. "You have some nice cats. What are their names.
This here one's Blackie. That there's Patches. Over yonder is Tiger." She recited the names in a businesslike way as if he were the census taker.
"I like cats. I have two of them. Would you mind if I take a picture of them?" He held up his small camera for her approval.
She rocked in silence for a while. "Iffen I git one," she finally decided.
Til see that you get prints as soon as they're developed." He snapped several pictures of the group in rapid succession. "That does it! ... Thank you . . . This is a nice cabin. How long have you lived on Little Potato?"
"Born here. Fellers come by all the time pesterin' me to sell. You one o' them fellers? Ain't gonna sell."
"No, I'm just spending my vacation here, enjoying the good mountain air. My name's Jim Qwilleran. What's your name?" Although he was not prone to smile, he had an ingratiating manner composed of genuine interest and a caressing voice that was irresistible.
"Ev'body calls me Grammaw Lumpton, seein' as how I'm a great-grammaw four times."
"Lumpton, you say? It seems there are quite a few Lumptons in the Potatoes," Qwilleran said, enjoying his unintentional pun.
"Oughta be!" the woman said, rocking energetically. "Lumptons been here more'n a hun'erd year—raisin' young-uns, feedin' chickens, sellin' eggs, choppin' wood, growin' taters and nips, runnin' corn whiskey . . ."
A car pulled into the yard, the driver tooted the horn, and the vigorous old lady stood up, scattering cats, and marched to the car without saying goodbye. Now Qwilleran understood—or thought he understood—the reason for the shotgun on the porch the day before; it was intended to ward off land speculators if they became too persistent, and Grammaw Lumpton probably knew how to use it.
Despite the muddy conditions in Potato Cove, the artists and shopkeepers were opening for business. Chrysalis Beechum met him on the wooden sidewalk in front of her weaving studio. What she was wearing looked handwo-ven but as drab as before; her attitude had mellowed, however.
"I didn't expect you to drive up here in this mud," she said.
"It was worth it," Qwilleran said, "if only to see the miniature waterfalls making six-inch rainbows. What are the flowers all over the mountain?"
"Mountain laurel," she said. They entered the shop, stepping into the enveloping softness of wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling textiles.
"Was this place ever an old schoolhouse?" he asked.
"For many years. My great-grandmother learned the three Rs here. Until twenty years ago the Taters were taught in one-room schools—eight grades in a single room, with one teacher, and sometimes with one textbook. The Spuds got away with murder! . . . Here are your capes. I brought six so you'll have a color choice. What are you going to do with them, Mr. . . ."
"Qwilleran. I'm taking them home to friends. Perhaps you could help me choose. One woman is a golden blond; one is a reddish blond; one is graying; and the other is a different color every month."
"You're not married?" she asked in her forthright way but without any sign of personal interest.
