The pulp
The very moment Florence completed her pen friend application, she begged her father to take her to the post office and send it off to England, the headquarters of the International Friendship League. Her mother, who enjoyed her daughter's writing, was eager to see her get started on this project also. Not because it assisted her in the literary sense, but because it kept her grounded. She would talk to real people, who had real lives. She would not be buried nose deep in her novels. They got in her father's truck and set off to purchase an Air Mail envelope and stamps. After the post office, he took her to the malt bar for an RC Cola and peanuts. When they returned home, they noticed that Nora, Florence's mother, was waiting for them on the front porch.
"You left so quickly, I didn't get a chance to get the lint from you," she said as she walked around to the opening of the bed and pulled the ghostly canvas bag up from it's sleep.
"Lint? Cotton lint? From the gin? What's it for Mother?" Florence asked.
"Why you didn't think we'd let you use just any paper for your first letter did you?" Her father said with a grin.
"Come on back with me so that we can get to work," her mother yelled out as she carried the bag to the back yard. Florence quickly followed behind. The yard looked like an outdoor factory. Two card tables sat near the back door. Upon one of them, her mother set up the kitchen blender connected to an extension cord running into the house. Upon the other, she had set aside several old wool blankets that she often used as filler for her quilts. In the grass sat a stack of bricks about two feet high laid in an alternating pattern. Her came out of the shed carrying an old washtub and set it right in front of Florence.
"I'll do the beating and you can fill the frames," she said pointing to the washtub as she head off to the kitchen before Florence could speak another word.
Florence just stared at all the equipment and felt overwhelmed. "Can't I just use my school paper? Why should anyone care what type of paper I use in my letters?" she yelled fixing her gaze at the galvanized washtub.
Her mother popped out of the back door with sponges in her hands and gave her a concerned look, "Florence dear, you cannot rely solely upon your command of the English language as a career nor as a homemaker. If you won't help me in the kitchen, then I have no other choice but to to teach you in other ways." She placed the sponges on the table next to the blender. "Has your father finished my deckle box?"
Florence sighed, she knew her mother wouldn't let her off the hook so easy. She always had to show her how everything was made. What's the point, she thought. Someone will always come along and make it better, cheaper and easier to purchase at the store. She dragged her legs over to her father's shed. He had his back to her while rummaging through his scrap wood pieces, but he heard her at the door. "Don't worry about your mother dear. She means well." He turned around, walked over to her and awkwardly raised his hands to meet hers. "She just wants you to be prepared." The scrap wood fell out of his hands and he cursed under his breath. "Tell her I have the pieces and I'm making the frame now."
"What's the frame for again," Florence said with a sympathetic tone.
"Well you see you pour the pulp into it and it serves as the mold for the sheet of paper," the pace of his words quickened as his excitement grew. He loved projects just as much as his wife, perhaps because she always needed some technical assistance, which he was excellent at giving.
Florence watched her father prepare the table saw for cutting the scraps. She could see that her father tried once again to make the two of them happy. She wanted to embrace him, but instead she offered a bit of trivia.
"You know the ancient Egyptians invented beer." her words seemed to cheer him on as he started pushing the scraps through the blade.
"They did? What kind?" James asked suddenly realizing that she wouldn't know the answer.
"What other kind is there? Isn't it all the same?" she asked.
"No," he said.
Her father jumped to work. He rummaged for some left over two-by-fours in his mixed wood pile and carried the lucky pieces to his table saw. Within minutes he made a frame they could use to shape the paper.
"And the window screen?" asked Nora. "I thought I saw you store some away after you fixed the hole in the screen door?"
"I'm getin to it dear," James said, with a tinge of frustration as he kept his back to her.
He then pulled down the role of wire mesh and laid it on his workbench. From his toolbox he brought out a tape measure and a pair of tin snips. He spread the mesh out flat, measured and cut a 9"x12" inch sheet, making sure to fold the edges of the mesh so that it wouldn't cut up their hands.
"Thank you dear," she said kindly as he handed her the piece. She looked at Florence with her own air of excitement.
bed and was bothering everyone with her anxiousness at the thought of writing to a person living in Egypt, France, Germany, England or Syria. Air mail would take at least 10 days to get to England and a few more days (or weeks) to process. Then she