AUNT LUCY'S COUNTRY CURE

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Then she took a deep, deep breath. A strange, lopsided smile began to twitch on her lips, and her eyes danced like marbles in a blender. She reached into the kindling box on the porch and pulled out a hatchet. She fingered the edge carefully.

A few of us stepped back and she seemed to notice us for the first time. "Land sakes, look at you all. We'll need another turkey!" she exclaimed. Her gaze went past us to her little flock. One big gobbler strutted away nervously, and Aunt Lucy smiled and pointed with her hatchet. "That one," she nodded. Then she added softly, "is the informer.

" From that day on, she was a changed woman, completely calm and stress-free, but with marked eccentricities. Aunt Lucy never smoked another cigarette ("The FBI puts poison in 'em"), and her smooth forehead creased only when she talked about secret government agencies stealing eggs from her hen house.

As always, she'd rise early to start the morning breakfast, muttering ampersands and octothorps at the cranky old woodstove. But she delegated most other chores now. "I must have been crazy to work that hard before," she'd laugh gaily, even wildly, as she played with us kids. "Smash something else, young'uns," she'd urge us on, handing us fresh china and cackling as it hit and the pieces skittered over the floor.

She stopped using recipes altogether, relying on "the voices" to tell her which ingredients to use. She still made tables full of pies and cookies, but she'd always tuck an extra sheet or two of tinfoil down her bodice and wink, "Stops the &#&!% x-rays, when They fly over in their invisible jet aeroplanes.

" And now she no longer tolerated raised voices or unkind words; the old house grew very quiet and peaceful. Everyone became more relaxed and filled with the true spirit of the holidays. Stress was, to put it simply, unwelcome under her rooftree on holidays, and at the first sign of an argument, she'd shake her old head sadly and sigh, "Guess it's time for Dr. Griswold to administer a sedative." Then she'd take the Griswold No. 9 frying pan down off the wall and investigate the commotion. Like an ancient Apache, Aunt Lucy would creep up behind both parties and give them both a solid chop with her cast-iron mediator. When they came to, usually neither one could remember what they were arguing about. Or with whom.

And above the evergreen wreath on her front door, she tacked up a sampler, on which was embroidered a reminder:

This holiday season, put all cares behind, If life is the fruit, then worry's the rind, Put a smile on your face, hold your head up high,

In this house you're safe from the FBI.

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