someone in the family has a sense of decorum.”
“You don’t like Debbie.”
“I don’t like her or dislike her. She alarms me.”
“Why’s that?”
“She always looks like she’s wondering what good use she can put me to and suspicious there might not be one,” Mimi confided.
“And you’re worried she might be right?” Joe asked, quietly sympathetic. He could imagine how unpleasant it would be to have someone question your value. Not that anyone had ever questioned his.
“God, no!” Mimi rocked back. “I’m worried that she’ll never figure out that she is right about me and leave me the hell alone! It’s exhausting just knowing she’s out there planning something or arranging something or fixing something. Just look at her.” Mimi jerked her head in the direction of the picnic tables where Debbie bustled about, older people scattering before her approach.
Joe studied Debbie. She didn’t seem so bad to him. A woman who saw confusion and imposed order; what was wrong with that?
“Is Bill also an organizer?”
“Nah,” she said. “Olson men are utterly and blissfully un-desirous of heading anything. Especially anything that has to do with Chez Ducky. I suspect it began when Great-Great-Great-Grandfather Günter wrote in his Chez Ducky journal, ‘I make decisions all the time but here, in this place of retreat and refuge, I refuse to make any.’”
The notion was as foreign to Joe as ritual disfigurement. He couldn’t imagine not heading things. Control was too important a thing to cede to the less capable. Not to mention irresponsible.
“Ever since then, the Chez has been strictly a matriarchy,” Mimi continued. “There are six legal heirs to the place, but everyone’s kids and spouses and whoever else wants to gets a say in what happens here. Every year, just before we close up the cottages, we have a family meeting to decide if anything needs to be decided. Ardis used to oversee that, and before her my great-grandmother Lena.”
It sounded to Joe like a criminally inefficient way of dealing with things. “What does this matriarch do?”
“Besides look wise at the end-of-the-year powwow? Just stuff related to Chez Ducky. Poll the family on things like whether we should get a phone line in here or just hope the microwave tower in Bemidji gets a stronger signal. Keep the golf scores for the family tournament. Make sure the inner tubes are patched.” She said this last with a solemnity that suggested it was one of the more important duties.
“You don’t have phone service?”
“Not a land line. We get cell on and off.”
“Who’ll be the matriarch now?”
“Birgie,” Mimi said. “She has large shoes to fill.”
“What if Birgie doesn’t want to fill Ardis’s shoes?” he asked conversationally.
“Oh, she doesn’t,” she said. “But it’s one of the last traditions the Olsons have. The oldest Olson woman has been here ruling the roost at Chez Ducky ever since Olsons bought the land.”
“If Birgie doesn’t want to do it, why not you?” he asked. It seemed a reasonable suggestion. She obviously cared about the place, and she was just as obviously intelligent. “Ever think of initiating a coup d’état?”
She burst into laughter. “ Me? Ha! Nope. If Birgie doesn’t take the honors, someone else will, and we’ll just carry on like we’ve been carrying forever.”
She glanced toward the burr oaks at the far end of the compound. “Except for the view.”
He shifted. “The McMansions?”
She gave him a sharp glance. “Bingo.”
“I take it you’re not too happy about the, ah, recent lakeshore development.”
“Lakeshore?” She eyed him narrowly. “Look, I may be fond of this place, but it’s like being fond of a ditzy relative who farts in public. You like ’em in spite of their shortcomings, not because of them. The only reason the Sbodas and Olsons and everyone else here have a place on Fowl Lake is because none of their families, even
“You don’t like Debbie.”
“I don’t like her or dislike her. She alarms me.”
“Why’s that?”
“She always looks like she’s wondering what good use she can put me to and suspicious there might not be one,” Mimi confided.
“And you’re worried she might be right?” Joe asked, quietly sympathetic. He could imagine how unpleasant it would be to have someone question your value. Not that anyone had ever questioned his.
“God, no!” Mimi rocked back. “I’m worried that she’ll never figure out that she is right about me and leave me the hell alone! It’s exhausting just knowing she’s out there planning something or arranging something or fixing something. Just look at her.” Mimi jerked her head in the direction of the picnic tables where Debbie bustled about, older people scattering before her approach.
Joe studied Debbie. She didn’t seem so bad to him. A woman who saw confusion and imposed order; what was wrong with that?
“Is Bill also an organizer?”
“Nah,” she said. “Olson men are utterly and blissfully un-desirous of heading anything. Especially anything that has to do with Chez Ducky. I suspect it began when Great-Great-Great-Grandfather Günter wrote in his Chez Ducky journal, ‘I make decisions all the time but here, in this place of retreat and refuge, I refuse to make any.’”
The notion was as foreign to Joe as ritual disfigurement. He couldn’t imagine not heading things. Control was too important a thing to cede to the less capable. Not to mention irresponsible.
“Ever since then, the Chez has been strictly a matriarchy,” Mimi continued. “There are six legal heirs to the place, but everyone’s kids and spouses and whoever else wants to gets a say in what happens here. Every year, just before we close up the cottages, we have a family meeting to decide if anything needs to be decided. Ardis used to oversee that, and before her my great-grandmother Lena.”
It sounded to Joe like a criminally inefficient way of dealing with things. “What does this matriarch do?”
“Besides look wise at the end-of-the-year powwow? Just stuff related to Chez Ducky. Poll the family on things like whether we should get a phone line in here or just hope the microwave tower in Bemidji gets a stronger signal. Keep the golf scores for the family tournament. Make sure the inner tubes are patched.” She said this last with a solemnity that suggested it was one of the more important duties.
“You don’t have phone service?”
“Not a land line. We get cell on and off.”
“Who’ll be the matriarch now?”
“Birgie,” Mimi said. “She has large shoes to fill.”
“What if Birgie doesn’t want to fill Ardis’s shoes?” he asked conversationally.
“Oh, she doesn’t,” she said. “But it’s one of the last traditions the Olsons have. The oldest Olson woman has been here ruling the roost at Chez Ducky ever since Olsons bought the land.”
“If Birgie doesn’t want to do it, why not you?” he asked. It seemed a reasonable suggestion. She obviously cared about the place, and she was just as obviously intelligent. “Ever think of initiating a coup d’état?”
She burst into laughter. “ Me? Ha! Nope. If Birgie doesn’t take the honors, someone else will, and we’ll just carry on like we’ve been carrying forever.”
She glanced toward the burr oaks at the far end of the compound. “Except for the view.”
He shifted. “The McMansions?”
She gave him a sharp glance. “Bingo.”
“I take it you’re not too happy about the, ah, recent lakeshore development.”
“Lakeshore?” She eyed him narrowly. “Look, I may be fond of this place, but it’s like being fond of a ditzy relative who farts in public. You like ’em in spite of their shortcomings, not because of them. The only reason the Sbodas and Olsons and everyone else here have a place on Fowl Lake is because none of their families, even
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