Nature in a Pickle

The girl crouched on a hill of wild grass overlooking the river where her people fish for eel. A ragged elk skin dress hung loosely on her scarred and dirty skin. She watched the translucent image of vehicles and people silently traveling to their offices in downtown New York.

It was happening again. The island of Manahatta was unstuck in time, sharing its terrible future. She stood tall and vowed to keep Lenape land green forever. But how to convince others to join her?

It would be impossible to describe what to she saw, the terrifying possible outcomes of her home. So she worked on her music, weaving together her polyrhythmic beats and earth loving words in hope that it would spread far beyond her normal reach.

Her neighbors rapped at her door one day. She feared they were there to complain, but they liked her music. "You know," Mrs. Rothbauer said, "Martin here plays the banjo and I play the zither. Can we join you?" And so it was, the three of them, sending their music into the world.

“Oh my god, the Zither?!” Mrs. Rothbauer blushed. “Didn’t know that was still played in these parts.” And so it began. The musical trio traveled the globe playing glorious music, cementing their friendship, and, eventually, falling in love. For a while, things were perfect.

Then, one night while eating before a show, a lone pickle—the group’s favorite food and aphrodisiac—remained. All passed, leaving the morsel uneaten. This became a metaphor for the trio, too timid to take risks. Soon they broke up, and the expression ‘to be in a pickle’ was born.