The Old Spinning Wheel

This whole vacation in the country thing had been a bad idea from the beginning. Lorna should have known that, considering that it was her own idea. She never had good ideas; her last boyfriend told her so when he dumped her and left for another woman. The very next day, H.R. reminded her that she still had vacation days to “use or lose” and that there were not many options left in the schedule. She considered what to do. Maybe a nice stay in the Scottish countryside? Perfect! she thought and called the airline. It wasn’t until after she booked her flight that she discovered there was no room at any of the inns or B and B’s. She decided to rent a cottage instead.

The solitary structure perched on a rise overlooking a bog. Outside it looked rustic and charming. The sun gleamed off whitewashed stone walls; a thatched roof protected the small wooden door. The narrow lane that led from the village stopped at the gate. Inside, to her dismay it was obvious it had been unoccupied for some time. It took her the whole first day to clean the dust, sweep the cobwebs and settle in.

Then the storms came. Wave after wave of angry clouds marched overhead, thunder echoing across the empty countryside, sheets of rain sluiced down the roof. The moors were dark and forbidding in the flashes of lightning. The lane melted into a morass, rivulets of mud carving new trenches along its edge. She was stranded in a cottage where the stone walls exuded cold and rain dripped incessantly as it percolated through the thatch - some of it dripping down the chimney where it turned to steam in the fire.

Lorna shivered. Her feet were tucked up under her as she huddled into the corner of the couch nearest the grate. The power had been off for hours. The storm whistled and pounded outside. “At least there is still a fire,” she muttered as she eyed the dwindling contents of the coal scuttle. She tugged a shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “I get the dregs of everything - boyfriends, the weather and now this” she fumed as she ran her eyes over the tiny, confining cottage.

Her glance fell on the old spinning wheel in the corner, a ball of floss still impaled on the spindle. When she was dusting it seemed to still work; at least the rickety treadle still moved and the wheel turned. She imagined another time and a woman sitting in a ray of sun, her foot rhythmically pumping the treadle, the slightly off balance wheel squeaking on each turn. As the fiber fed over the wheel and twisted into thread under her fingers, she hummed a tuneless lullaby, a satisfied smile illuminating her face.

A clap of thunder brought Lorna back to the present. She strained to listen as another, more distant rumble rolled over the bog. She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like the worst was over?

She turned back to the spinning wheel. She couldn’t shake the vision of the woman - her smile, her serenity, her confidence. Lorna desperately wanted to be that woman. Was it the wheel or the spinning? Her mind racing, Lorna moved slowly to the wheel, then sat. She was still and silent for a moment, then reached out and touched the wheel tentatively, as if expecting to receive a shock upon contact. The wheel rotated away from her with a slight squeak and she smirked. After a moment, she reached out, pulled a strand of floss and pumped the treadle. Slowly the wheel began to turn, creaking at each revolution. After a few moments thread began to gather on her lap and a smile began to creep into the corners of her mouth.

Morning came and with it daylight, pure and clean. A ray of sunshine crept across the floor and found her - spinning.