November 25, 1940, 5:37 p.m. CST [25
NOV 2016 23:37 GMT] St. Vincent, Minnesota.
Mildred “Millie” Bannister
shrugged out of her blue woolen overcoat and, after shaking off the
light dusting of snow it had acquired in her walk home from the
library, hung it on the hook in the mudroom of the modest home she
shared with her mother. She absently tucked a strand of her blonde
hair behind her ear that had fallen out of the tight bun she wore as
the town's assistant librarian.
“Mother?” she called. “I'm
home.” She walked into the parlor and smiled at the sight. Her
mother sat in the large, comfortable chair that had belonged to her
father with her legs under a granny square afghan that she had
remembered helping her grandmother make. Her mother was knitting a
sweater while the wireless was tuned to a station playing classical
music.
“Oh?” Her mother looked up from
her knitting. “Hello, dear. How was your day?”
Millie let out a frustrated sigh. “All
sorts of flabble about that 'Mysterons' hoax. And of course, since
I'm a librarian, they assume I know what's going on with it.”
“Well, don't you maintain poor
Johnny's subscriptions to those Zap Gun Pulp magazines and spend an
inordinate time watching those Republic serials at the Bijou?” her
mother asked with a gentle smile. It was tinged with sadness, as
Millie's older brother had died five years ago serving in the Army up
in Canada.
Millie spluttered. “Well of course I
do! I just don't know anything about the sort of person who could
override all of our wireless stations. Probably some sort of kook who
worked it up after that Welles Fiasco last Halloween.” She set her
newest copies of Analog and Astounding on the side table by her chair
and made her way to the kitchen. “Do you want anything special for
supper?”
“I'm sure whatever you make will be
fine, Mildred.” Her mother's smile widened. “You're such a good
cook, dear. When are you going to get married?”
“Mother,” Millie chuckled at the
old barb. “I'm twenty-three, I still have time.” She started a
pot to boil for rice and went to the icebox for the beef she'd bought
yesterday. “Besides, all the good men around here are taken, or are
the sort that frown on an 'educated' woman like myself.” She sighed
and returned to her cooking, daydreaming about a man who would not be
intimidated by her intelligence, or love for cheesy science fiction.
''We don't just borrow words; on occasion, English has pursued other languages down alleyways to beat
them unconscious and rifle their pockets for new vocabulary.''
-- James Nicoll
NOV 2016 23:37 GMT] St. Vincent, Minnesota.
Mildred “Millie” Bannister
shrugged out of her blue woolen overcoat and, after shaking off the
light dusting of snow it had acquired in her walk home from the
library, hung it on the hook in the mudroom of the modest home she
shared with her mother. She absently tucked a strand of her blonde
hair behind her ear that had fallen out of the tight bun she wore as
the town's assistant librarian.
“Mother?” she called. “I'm
home.” She walked into the parlor and smiled at the sight. Her
mother sat in the large, comfortable chair that had belonged to her
father with her legs under a granny square afghan that she had
remembered helping her grandmother make. Her mother was knitting a
sweater while the wireless was tuned to a station playing classical
music.
“Oh?” Her mother looked up from
her knitting. “Hello, dear. How was your day?”
Millie let out a frustrated sigh. “All
sorts of flabble about that 'Mysterons' hoax. And of course, since
I'm a librarian, they assume I know what's going on with it.”
“Well, don't you maintain poor
Johnny's subscriptions to those Zap Gun Pulp magazines and spend an
inordinate time watching those Republic serials at the Bijou?” her
mother asked with a gentle smile. It was tinged with sadness, as
Millie's older brother had died five years ago serving in the Army up
in Canada.
Millie spluttered. “Well of course I
do! I just don't know anything about the sort of person who could
override all of our wireless stations. Probably some sort of kook who
worked it up after that Welles Fiasco last Halloween.” She set her
newest copies of Analog and Astounding on the side table by her chair
and made her way to the kitchen. “Do you want anything special for
supper?”
“I'm sure whatever you make will be
fine, Mildred.” Her mother's smile widened. “You're such a good
cook, dear. When are you going to get married?”
“Mother,” Millie chuckled at the
old barb. “I'm twenty-three, I still have time.” She started a
pot to boil for rice and went to the icebox for the beef she'd bought
yesterday. “Besides, all the good men around here are taken, or are
the sort that frown on an 'educated' woman like myself.” She sighed
and returned to her cooking, daydreaming about a man who would not be
intimidated by her intelligence, or love for cheesy science fiction.
''We don't just borrow words; on occasion, English has pursued other languages down alleyways to beat
them unconscious and rifle their pockets for new vocabulary.''
-- James Nicoll