Under the Midsummer Sky

By Carole Lexa Schaefer

Far up north where summer nights are long and bright, Mohma and Pohpa live in a red wooden house between the forest and the sea. One morning they stood in their garden shooing away crows.

“Those rascally birds love all this light. They won’t go away until the nights are dark again,” Pohpa complained.

“Well, crows are the only darkness we’ll see today, “said Mohma. “ It’s Midsummer.”

Pohpa flopped down on the garden bench. “Bah, Midsummer, “he grumbled. “The longest day of the year.” Pohpa mopped his forehead with his big handkerchief.

Mohma walked slowly into the henhouse. As she gathered up the eggs, she spoke to the chickens. “My pretty chicks, “she said, “our Pohpa’s working too hard. What he needs is the fun of a Midsummer Maypole. “

“Cut-cut-cut dut, “clucked the chickens.

“Ssh. Don’t tell. “ Mohma whispered. “I’m going to surprise him. “ Into her basket, along with the eggs, Mohma tucked a little hatchet and a cloth sack. She walked across the yard to the garden.

“Pohpa, “she said, “the hens laid so many eggs today, I’m going down the road to sell them. Folks like extra eggs for their Midsummer feasts. “

Pohpa watched her go out the front gate and across the meadow. “Phuff, I’m such a grouch, “he muttered to Esme the goat as he trudged into the milking shed. “ Mohma deserves some feasting herself today. I’m going to see that she gets it. “

“Ma-a-a, “Esme bleated.

“Hush now, “said Pohpa. “ It’s a secret. “

Carrying a pail of milk into the house, he said, “Ten-egg custard – that’s what she likes best, “ He plunked the pail down on the kitchen table “Milk goes into custard – and sugar, too, I think, “he said, setting the sugar tin beside the pail.

“And fresh eggs, of course, “he added, and opened the cupboard. “Och ! “ he cried. “No eggs! Mohma took them all with her! “Pohpa hurried out to the henhouse. “Come on, Hensy, Bertie, Hester, Nester, “he called, coaxing the chickens by name. “You must give me eggs.” But the chickens squawked and flapped away. All Pohpa found was one brown egg and two white ones.

Back in the kitchen, he stirred them in a pot on the stove. “I’ll make three – egg custard,” he said, adding only a drop of milk and a pinch of sugar. He cooked and stirred and cooked and stirred.

“Hm-m. This doesn’t look much like Mohma’s custard, but plenty of wild strawberries will pretty it up.”

While Pohpa worked, Mohma was busy too, but not selling eggs. She filled her sack with meadow flowers. Then she walked among the slender birch trees at the edge of the forest.

“To make a Maypole, I need a tree trunk with its branches trimmed off, “she said. “ But why should I fuss with all that chopping when there are plenty of nice sticks lying about?”

She stood one up in the grass. “Um-hmm. Smooth enough to decorate and tall enough to dance around,” she said with a curtsy and a twirl.

Back at home, in the front yard, Mohma called, “Hallo-o Pohpa. “There was no answer. “Good, he’s busy with something – probably those old crows,” she said, and stuck the birch stick into the ground.

Onto the stick she tied an old broom handle for a crosspiece with two twigs to brace it. “This will have to do,” she said. Next she wove the flowers into two wreaths. But when she hung them on the broom handle – it tilted. One wreath fell off. Mohma laid the other in the grass.

“I guess this isn’t tied right, “she said, loosening the rope.

Just the she heard Pohpa calling from the garden, “Hallo-o Mohma.”

“Oh no!” she cried, looking at the bare lopsided Maypole. “I must have something on this before he sees it.”

Mohma dashed into the house, grabbed a wrinkled paper moon lantern out of the wooden chest, and hung it on top of the Maypole. Then, rushing off to find Pohpa, she bumped right into him.

“Oof! Where are you going so fast?” he sputtered.

“To look for you, “she said.

“Well, I’ve been picking berries, “he said, taking her hand. “ Come and see. “

Pohpa led Mohma around back beneath the apple trees where he’s set a table with their best dishes, a pot of tea, and a platter of wild strawberries. In the middle of the platter, Mohma spied a mound of something yellow and lumpy.

“Oh Pohpa,” she cried, “you’ve made us a lovely Midsummer supper – wild strawberries and scrambled eggs!”

For a moment Pohpa stared at his three-egg custard surrounded by the berries. Then he chuckled. “So I have. Would you like some?”

“Yes indeed,” said Mohma. When they had eaten every bit, Mohma said, “Now I’ve something to show you.”

Pohpa followed her into the front yard.

“Haw! Would you look at that,” he cried, pointing in the direction of her Maypole. “You’ve made us a scarecrow to chase those pesky birds away!”

Mohma looked where he pointed. The wind puffed out the round moon-face of a scarecrow that smiled and waved its tilted broom-handle arms. Mohma laughed and waved back. “Yes, oh yes,” she said. “It’s a scarecrow for sure.”

“And look here,” said Pohpa, putting a wreath on each of their heads. “Flowers for us to wear”

Mohma curtsied. Pohpa bowed. And they danced far into the night under the Midsummer sky.