“Bo, get the picnic basket from your grandma and let’s get goin’. We got a long drive and I want to get there by ten.” Grandpa rubs his hands together in excitement and supervises loading the car. “Pearl,” he calls to my grandma. “Hurry up.”

Grandma comes down the stairs, her arms full of sweaters and blankets. “Smulling, hold your horses. You’ll get there in plenty of time.”

Grandma surveys my outfit just as I’m hopping in the car. She can always tell when I picked out my clothes to wear, and usually she doesn’t approve. “Bo, go put on that blue skirt I just sewed. Those jeans are a disgrace. And take off those filthy sneakers.”

I can’t believe my ears. Grandma is so old-fashioned, and I just don’t get it. Sometimes I can’t help but talk back to her. “Grandma, we’re going to a farm, not to church. I like these clothes.”

Grandpa can’t believe Grandma, either, plus he wants to get on the road. Pleasant Mound is way across the Mississppi in Iowa. “Wife,” he says in his sternest voice. “We’re not headed to a fancy night on the town, Pearl. Let the girl wear those old clothes so she can have a good time. I’ve got a hundred miles to drive, and I’m leaving in five minutes, flat. And Pearl, take that blasted hat off.”

Grandma grudgingly removes her straw hat with the plastic peaches and we plop all our gear in the trunk. Like Grandpa claims, we’re off in five minutes. Flat.

They make me sit in the back seat ’cause I can’t hold still worth a darn and that makes Grandpa jittery when he drives. A little singing shouldn’t bother him, though. “La, la, la. We’re goin’ to the pull. We’re goin’ to the pull. La, la, la.”

Grandma turns around and shakes her head. “Shush back there, Bo. Look out the window or take a nap. You must be quiet.”

I’m already bored and I just got out of bed, so I look out the window. We travel through the city and cross the Mississippi bridge. The metal bars on the bridge’s surface screech and clunk the car as the tires turn. No one likes the bumping and we’re glad to land in Missouri in one piece. After a long time, when I’m bored silly, we turn off the main road and head down a blacktop. We drive on the back roads into we cross the border to Iowa ’cause there’s not as much traffic. Grandpa and Grandma don’t like traffic. Grandpa especially. We drive forever, until I see the sign for Pleasant Mound. Grandpa stops for gasoline and to get directions to the pull. We’re going to a new farm this year and we need a map. He brings me back a Baby Ruth. As Grandma tsks over the treat, I thank Grandpa. He doesn’t buy me candy unless it’s a special occasion. He must think the tractor pull is special enough.

It takes Grandpa another twenty minutes to follow the back roads. We pass over a hill and see a gander of cars and trucks parked in the fields. Hundreds of people wander around the antique tractors. I eye the stands selling funnel cakes and cotton candy and the carnival game booths, but I better not ask now. I’ll ask after the first events and lunch.

Grandpa chats with the farmers and Grandma visits with the ladies. The mayor’s wife wears a straw hat covered with geraniums, and Grandma is jealous. Grandpa will hear about that hat on the trip home. I chase and run with the kids. We hide in the barn and jump off the loft into piles of fresh cut hay. All us city kids giggle.

Then a gigantic bronze bell tolls and the crowd gathers near the tractor path. It hasn’t rained and it’s been 95 degrees all week, so the track is dirt hard. The tractors will throw up dust and rocks as they pass. I think it’s more fun when the track is full of mud and water. Then we all get cooled by the splashes.

There are 7 antique tractors in the first meet, all made before 1860, and they run by steam. It’s hard to believe these tractors have been running for nearly a hundred years. Grandma won’t find out until we’re headed back home, but Grandpa bet on Tractor #3. Betting isn’t officially allowed, but all the farmers do it in secret. Grandpa says it’s the best part of the pull, and he tells me what tractor he bets on so I can cheer along.

“Tractor #1, position to start,” a booming voice hollers over the loudspeaker. Most of the men and kids line along the racing course. One of Grandpa’s friends, Torvis, gets ready to go first. “At the gun shot, begin.”

Two kids are ugging at my sleeve. “What are they doing?” I need to explain tractor pulling to James and Jeff who are only five. They’re town kids from Pleasant Mound and this is the first pull they remember coming to. “The farmer hitches the sled to the tractor. The tractor pulls that sled. See those long pieces of wood nailed together. That’s the sled. And all that hay is stacked at the back of the sled for weight. Every ten feet, another bale gets pushed to the front. That makes the sled heavier. When the tractor can’t pull any more, the judges mark his spot.”

Jeff nearly screams in my ear. “And who does it fastest of all wins the big prize. It’s five dollars. I want #3 to win.”

I don’t tell him Grandpa agrees with his choice.

#1 with Torvis driving finishes fair and #2 finishes poorly. When it’s time for #3, the men again load the sled. The gun goes off and the tractor pulls forward. By the time all 7 tractors in the first meet have pulled, #3 is in second place. The top three winners race again to see who can move the furthest distance. In the big pull, #3 wins by two yards. Grandpa goes behind the barn and all the men settle their bets. Grandpa wins two silver dollars, and he’s mighty happy.

Then Grandma spies Grandpa. “Smulling, there you are. Time for lunch. Let’s spread the blanket and get the food ready.” Grandpa and I are famished, so we hurry to get our food set out. A minister from Pleasant Mound gives a blessing, a long blessing as far as I’m concerned, and we dish up the food. We eat cold fried chicken and potato salad and apples. Grandma didn’t bring dessert ’cause there’s a cake walk and I always try for a good piece. I always pick chocolate cake with marshmallow icing if there’s any left. Today I get lucky.

The farmer’s neighbor girl, Kimberly, asks me if I can get cotton candy and play carnival games with her. She has twenty cents for a small cotton candy and two dimes for games. Grandma listens to us and snaps open her purse to get me 40 cents, too. “Now go play and be careful. The last pull is over by 4:30, so meet us in the car at 5:00, Bo.” Grandma turns back to the women, and I turn to Kimberly.

“Let’s go. We got about three hours. Let’s get our cotton candy and then throw darts at the balloons,” I suggest. “Good idea,” says my friend, so we buy our candy first. Kimberly picks pink, but I always get pink, purple and blue, all mixed up. The weather is warm and our candy gets sticky. When we go to the dart game, the carny chases us away. “You wash that sticky stuff off your hands, I’ll let you play two games for one.’ We agree readily and go wash up at the hose with a cake of Ivory Soap.

The carny recognizes us when we return. “Here, little girls. Six darts for the price of three.” He laughs when we miss all the balloons, but wishes us a good time. He gives us a suggestion. “Try the ring toss. That’s easier.”

The rings aren’t any easier for me. You got to throw these little wooden rings over the top of a case of empty soda bottles, and ring the bottle top. I don’t even hit the case all three tries. Kimberly does better ’cause she practices at home with her big brothers. She wins on two of her throws and chooses a black dog for her prize. But it’s filled with cheap saw dust and it smells funny. Kimberly sees a little boy who lost the duck float and gives the dog to him. He doesn’t care about lumpy animals or the smell. Laughing, he runs to his mother. His mom smiles and waves, and tries to give us a dime. We say no thank you ’cause our families wouldn’t approve. I sure did want another chance at the dart game, though. One of their prizes was a striped cane.

The final bell goes off at 4:30. I say good bye to Kimberly, and we each run to find our families.

“See you next summer, Kimberly,” I yell over my shoulder.

“Yeah. Next summer. Maybe you should practice those darts, Bo. Bet you could win.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” I see our car. My grandparents are packed and ready to go.

“Did you have a good time?” asks Grandma. “You sure are filthy.”

Grandpa rolls his eyes.

I nod. “I want to go with you every year for the rest of my life.”

“That’s nice, Bo. Real nice.” Grandpa grinned, thinking about his winnings

“And, Smulling, did you see the mayor’s wife’s hat? Black straw and geraniums. The women could talk of nothing else. I was heartbroken.”

Grandpa’s grin fades. ‘I’ll buy you a red and daisy hat next time, Pearl.” Now Grandpa worries about the winnings he has to spend it on Grandma’s new straw hat.

Grandma and I smile big grins. Grandpa says, “You’ll be the prettiest thing at the pull.”

“Smulling, will you walk to the Dairy and get me a gallon of milk?” Grandma yelled down to the basement.  Then she yelled again.  Grandpa hid out in the basement when he wasn’t listening to a baseball game. “Smulling? I need it for the gravy and I thought I might make some tapioca pudding. You want tapioca pudding for dessert?”

Grandpa didn’t sound like he was in any mood to stomp up the stairs and go get milk.  He yelled back from the bottom of the stairs.  “Pearl, I’m cleaning off my tool bench. Got a hundred nails need to be sorted in my jars, and I want to scrape the rust off this porch screen. Ask someone else. Let Dale take Bo.”

I’m playing doctor under the table. I’ve scheduled my oldest doll, Tessie, for brain surgery and then I’ll glue her hair back on her head. Dad isn’t home.

“Grandma, Dad went to the hospital to visit Mom. He’ll be home by dinner.” I cut Tessie’s hair, and then scrape her skull with a dull table knife. The procedure is slow going.

“Bo, where in heavens are you hiding? You’re just like your Grandpa.” I’m not anything like my Grandpa. I snicker and Grandma hears me. “What do you think you’re doing under my table?”

“Nothin’, Grandma. Just playing.” I bandage Tessie’s head with scraps of green plaid fabric. (Grandma made me a dress from the material last week, and I’m going to wear it to church tomorrow.) Then I wrap the bandage with cellophane tape.

“Well, Bo, it’s just you and me around. I’ve got dinner on the stove, so I guess I’ll send you to the dairy.” Grandma doesn’t like this idea, but I think it’s keen. “Bo? Your dad teach you to cross State Street? By yourself?”

“Mmm. Dad taught me all right. I never done it without holding his hand, though.”

“Oh shoot, Bo. I’m gonna give you a half dollar and you go get me a bottle of milk. Half gallon, though. Don’t s’pose I should have you carry a gallon. Probably too heavy.”

I throw on my sweater and race down the stairs. No one ever lets me go to the dairy by myself. Once I’m on the sidewalk, I turn past the drugstore, the paint shop and the gas station. Dad says always watch for cars going in and out of the gas station, but no cars are there right now. When I get to the corner, the dairy is kitty corner from me. I get butterflies just thinking about getting past those fast cars.

We live by the intersection of State Street and 18th Avenue. State Street is four lanes wide and is always busy with traffic. 18th isn’t so bad. I cross 18th Street with the stoplight, and then wait for the signal to change. It takes forever. A grandmother pushing a toddler in a stroller waits next to me. Now I’ve got it all figured out. I’ll cross State Street when she does.

The traffic finally stops and the grandma and I step off the curb. A garbage truck driver turning towards us honks. He waves us across the street, and yells words out his window, but I’m not sure what he says. The grandma tells me to never mind.

Then something scary happens. As the truck driver turns, the stroller wheel catches in the storm sewer grate. The wheel spins and settles between the grates. The little kid’s stroller nearly tips over and the kid gets scared and starts crying. The truck driver stops right next to us, and says nasty words that I’m not allowed to listen to or say.

I try to move the stroller, but no luck. “Lady, we gotta get out of the street. That garbage man’s mad.”

“He’ll have to hold on to his horses, little girl. He ain’t gonna hit us. This here wheel’s stuck and I can’t get it out.”

She pulls some and then we pull some together. The baby is screaming in my ear now and I can’t hear that nasty man anymore, but I can tell he’s screaming, too. His face is red and puffy, and he shakes his fist at us. Finally he gets out of his truck and pulls the stroller free.

“Get along, gals. I got haulin’ to do.” He gets in his truck and pulls around us really close. The baby’s still screaming and the grandma gets a pacifier for him to suck. She’s all nervous and she drops it on the street. The light’s changed twice now and I’m in a hurry to get my milk. Grandma will worry.

“Honey, reach down and get the baby’s pacifier. Then I’ll walk you ‘cross the street.”

I think that’s a swell idea. I bend down, but another car comes turning towards me and I freak out and trip on the curb. Grandma’s half dollar slides through the grate.

The baby’s grandma looks at me and shakes her head a little sadly. “I’d give you some money, but I only got a dollar and I got to buy this sweetheart milk before he breaks my heart with his crying. You don’t want this baby a’cryin’ for his milk, do you?”

“No m’am,” I answer is a shaky voice. “I’ll just be getting home.”

challenges, growing upAs soon as the lady turns into the dairy, I sit down against a storefront and sniffle. Then I can’t keep tears from sliding down my cheeks. I’m afraid to cross the street, so I stay huddled against the brick wall.

I’m hiding from the busy traffic and it’s five o’clock and getting busier. Then I most jump out of my skin. Someone’s tapping me on my shoulder. I try not to move. I’m not supposed to talk to strange adults.

“Hey there, little girl. You need some help.” The man laughs and turns me around to face him.

“Oh, Daddy! Oh, Dad! I can’t cross the street and I lost the milk money and a garbage man said bad words and screamed at me.”

‘I say, Bo. You had a rough time.” He puts his warm arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. “Sorry you had to learn the hard way. You aren’t old enough to cross State Street by yourself.”

“I don’t want to try, either, Dad. Never, ever again.”

“Maybe when you’re bigger, it will be easier. Now tell me why you’re out here all by yourself.”

“Grandma asked Grandpa to get her milk for dinner, but he was down in the basement and wouldn’t come up. Then Grandma said for me to go.” I start crying again.

“It’s all right, Bo. Enough crying. Where’s the milk?”

“I dropped the half dollar down the sewer. See, there was a lady with a baby…”

“Bo, enough. We’ll have to go without milk tonight. I spent my last money buying flowers for your mother. Let’s go inside and tell your grandmother.”

When I open the door to the flat, my grandparents are having words. They weren’t happy words, either.

“Bo,” said Dad. “Go wash your face and brush your hair. By then it’ll be time for dinner.”

I sneak under the table to fetch Tessie and then clean up in the bathroom. Dinner is ready when I sit down at the table.

I am mad at Grandpa. He ruined dinner. “Grandpa, we don’t have milk. I was hoping for gravy and tapioca pudding.”

“Hush, girl,” says Grandma. “You’ll have butter for your potatoes and there’s raspberry Jello for dessert. That will do you fine.”

Grandpa gets mad again. “Don’t fret so, Pearl. I’ll get some milk after dinner.”

My mind is still on the raspberry Jello. I hate red Jello. “Grandpa, can I go to the dairy with you. Maybe get an ice cream cone?”

Dad and Grandma both look over at my grandpa. Dad nods his head at Grandpa. “Sure, Smulling. Take her along. She deserves a nice ice cream after her busy afternoon.

“Oh, and Smulling? Be sure you hold her hand when you cross those streets.”

Grandpa, the handyman, the gardener, the landscaper, and the landlord of the apartment building in which we lived, celebrated his 80th birthday by ordering a fancy, expensive Lazy-Boy chair and placing it in front of the living room’s triple windows. He folded his heavy work pants and shirts, all green like Mr. Green-Jeans, and shoved them on the back shelf of his closet. And there he sat, in his blue Lazy-Boy, everyday all day long. He left his post by the window only to eat, sleep and take care of necessaries.

I was only 8 and sorely disappointed that Grandpa was retiring from being my idol, my very own Mr. Green Jeans. When I complained just a tiny bit, Grandpa frowned and shook his head. “Little girls should be seen and not heard. And I’ll decide what to do with the rest of my life, thank you very much. Give some respect to your 80 year old Grandpa. Now off you go.”

Grandpa turned away from me and headed to the kitchen where he asked Grandma to make him a sandwich. He never had been a “lovey-dovey” Grandpa, but we spent skads of time together and grew to be great friends. Even as a toddler, I followed him everywhere. As I grew older, I helped him do his jobs around the house. But now, in just a matter of days, Grandpa claimed he was retiring from all kinds of working. He refused to care for his apartment building which had always been a source of pride to him, and he refused to help Grandma with the toting and carrying or anything else for that matter. He became helpless and doddery overnight.

It was a mystery to me. Grandma tried to explain, although she seemed confused herself. She said, “This aberration is typical of the Woods’ men. Counting unknown generations back, the men of the family quit working when they turn 80, (if they live to be 80,) and they totally rely on the women of the house to carry on with the chores. Grandpa says it’s his due.”

I didn’t know I was an 8 year old feminist. Feminist wasn’t even in my vocabulary, yet. “Grandma, he knows how to do everything around here. He cut the grass and planted the gardens. He always made his own lunch. He collected the rents and fixed the apartments. I know so. I always helped him and we did a good job. He can’t make you do all the work; he has to do his share.”

Grandma just shook her head, laughed a sorrowful laugh. “I know, Bo. That’s the way it’s always been. But now Grandpa has it in his mind that he’s old and tired. Of course, he isn’t any more tired than he was two days ago. He’s not a full year older, just a matter of hours. And he can do almost everything he’s ever done around here. But this is the way of the men from the Woods’ family; they call it quits at 80. That’s their tradition, and Grandpa doesn’t believe in breaking traditions.”

“Well, it’s a stupid tradition, and I’m never going to marry a Woods’ boy.” I was disgusted by the whole mess. “Did Grandpa tell you about turning 80?”

Grandma shook her head sadly. “Bo, I’d heard whispers before I wedded Smulling, but I thought the cousins were trying to scare me into calling off the wedding. Actually, they were, but I was in love and refused to believe them. And I’m still in love with your Grandfather. This is his decision and I’ll do the best I can to deal with it. After all, a little hard work won’t hurt a William’s girl, even when she turns 90.”

“Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I can’t believe you’re letting him get by with this.” I turned on the stair light and trounced up, slamming the door to my family’s second floor apartment. I lived there with my parents and little sister. Grandma and Grandpa lived downstairs from us, and they were always like a second set of parents to me. But now I wasn’t so sure about Grandpa. He was acting plumb crazy.

The next day was Saturday and I wandered downstairs while my mother was occupied making pies for dinner. Dad had already gone out to the backyard and I followed him. I supposed he was planning on cutting the grass since he was fooling with the mower. “Dern thing. Can’t get the engine to start.” He gave the metal hood a kick but that didn’t help.

“Dad? Grandpa always pulls that cord. Then he turns the mower on.”

Dad shrugged his shoulders, said a few more ‘derns’ and followed my directions. The mower nearly jumped onto Dad’s foot as it started, and Dad went to cut the grass, mumbling a string of cuss words as he walked up and down the yard. I cleaned out the at the bird bath and watched a new flock of birds land in the water. I pretended not to hear my Dad.

When he was finished, he stomped into Grandma’s kitchen. Grandma was cutting carrots for a pot of vegetable stew — Grandpa’s favorite meal. “Pearl! You’ll need to hire a handyman to take care of this house. I work 60 hours a week and then I’m expected to come home to all of Smulling’s work. I can’t do it and I won’t do it. Why don’t you talk some sense into that geezer of yours.”

Grandma stared at Dad and then glanced at me. “Bo, go on upstairs for awhile. See if you can help your mom. Your Dad will be up in a few minutes.”

I climbed a couple steps, then crouched in the stairwell and listened to the conversation in the kitchen.

“Listen, Dale. He’ll be coming out of it soon. I just got a postcard from Aunt Lilly. Listen to what she wrote. “Perservere. They all get bored after a week or so. He’ll soon be out of his chair and back to his real life.” So there, Dale. I’m going to give it a few more days before I raise holy hell. How about you joining me?”

“Well, I hope you’re right, Pearl. I can’t deal with Smulling when he’s acting like this. I’ll fix the leak in your toilet, which is Smulling’s job by the way, and then I’m going upstairs to watch the baseball game. Cubbies against the Cards. Smulling can sit and look out to the street, count as many cars as he can, but I’m not missing that game.”

I scurried up the rest of the stairs and slipped inside our apartment just as Dad opened the door. No one was the wiser, except for me. Mom was feeding my baby sister while preparing lunch and Dad pfutzed with the TV picture. I had just enough time to sneak back down to my grandparents.

When I traipsed into the front room, there was Grandpa watching out his windows, viewing the street. When I walked up next to him, he had a scorecard and pencil in his hands. He was marking down the colors, brands and makers of all the passing cars. He was pretty involved with the whole act. How could I get him out of that dern chair?

But an idea sniggled into my brain and I followed my instincts. I said hello and wriggled my way onto half of Grandpa’s lap. He didn’t growl at me or chase me away, so I stayed put. I was on a mission.

“Grandpa, give me a hug. I haven’t seen you in so long.”

He squeezed my arm and continued to tick his cars on his paper. “I’m busy with other things, Bo. Don’t have the time to entertain you or run this house.” He shook his head, but I thought it was a rather sad shake. “Too big of a job. I’m 80 years old, you know.”

“Maybe you’re too old to climb a ladder and replace the gutters or fill the furnace, but you can still do almost everything else.” I was whining, but I couldn’t help it. This was important.

“Hey!” Grandpa smashed his face into a scowl. “Who’s been telling you I can’t replace the gutters or fill the coal scuttle. I’m not weak. I’m just retired.”

I pushed on, treading in deeper water. “Maybe Grandma and Dad think you can’t keep up. I’m going to miss you in the garden.”

Grandpa kept scowling. “I tell you I can work just as hard as I did when I was 79. But it’s Saturday afternoon. I always take Saturday afternoon off.”

“You remember why, Grandpa? You always come upstairs to watch the ballgame. It’s Cubs against the Cardinals today. It’s gonna start any minute.”

“Hey, the best rivalry in the National League. Tell your Dad to pop me a beer. Let me tell Pearl I’m going up to your apartment.”

I jumped off his lap, and he dropped his car charts on the floor. After he retrieved his shoes and got himself put together, he stood for awhile to stretch. “Hey, Grandpa?”

“What, Spider?” I was pleased. He called me by my secret name.

“Why were you sitting there so long? It was boring, wasn’t it?”

“Well, Spider. Let me tell you. At first I spent my days reminiscing about my childhood and my teens. Did you know that World War I broke out when I was seventeen? I was fighting overseas before I turned eighteen. There were lots of memories there, good friends and some horrible places. You don’t need to know about that, Spider, until you are much older.

“Did you remember anything else? You took so long, sitting here every day.”

“Oh, Bo. There was my marrying your Grandma and buying our first house. My first job and my children, born one after another. Three healthy, smart, beautiful kids. 80 years worth of memories. It took me awhile to track them down. Maybe someday I won’t be as good a remember-er as I am now.”

“Did you think about me, Grandpa? Did you?”

“Of course I did. I spent a lot of time thinking about my family, especially those who live so close. You all were in my memories. After I remembered as much as I could, I started counting cars. But let me tell you. Cars are awfully boring.”

“Yeah. So now you’re gonna watch the Cardinals beat the Cubs, and then get back to living. Right?”

Grandpa tousled my hair, though it couldn’t have gotten messier. Then he gave me a big grin. “Yes, I suppose I am.” Halfway across the living room, he stopped abruptly. Was he changing his mind? I held my breath.

“Bo! Watch this!” The he danced a jig in the middle of the room. We laughed so hard, Grandma came to see what the fuss was all about. Then she started laughing, too.

As Grandpa headed up the stairs to the apartment, I followed close at his heels. I wasn’t surprised to hear him talk to himself. He always did.

“Old! Ha! Doesn’t this family know everyone deserves a little break? Fools. I’ll be back to puttering on Monday.”

I couldn’t be quiet. “Hip. Hip. Hooray! Grandpa’s back to stay!” Then we reached the landing and I did a little tap dance.

“Hey,” Grandpa said. “Let’s get to that game. The whole family can dance after the Cards win.”

I nodded my head and we took our places in front of the TV. I started praying fervently for a win. After all, I wanted to see everyone dance, especially my Mom dancing with my Dad. What a hoot!

I’m Manda and I write stories about my wacky family. Sometimes they are stories I read to my whole family after dinner. Sometimes, they’re secret stories and I lock them in my diary and hide them in a shoe box under my bed.

So here’s my family.  There are four generations and we live in an apartment in the city.  The street we live on is so busy, the traffic noise never stops.  It’s not so bad though.  You hear the same noise all the time, pretty soon you don’t hear that noise at all.  It’s plenty busy on our corner and I never cross 12th Street without hangin’ tight onto an adult’s hand even though I’ve been crossing streets back in Bowler since I walked to kindergarten.

Used to be it was only my Grandmas and Grandpa living here in the city apartment.  My family – me and Jeff and Ma and Dad – lived on the other side of Illinois in the best town.  Not any longer.  We had to move to the city, so we came to live with Ma’s family for awhile.

It’s plenty busy in my neighborhood. We are surrounded by a gas station, a car wash, a restaurant, a church, a drug store, a dairy and a paint store. Plenty of places for me to walk. I can buy an ice cream cone, a movie magazine, a bottle of soda pop, candy bars galore, a Chicago style hot dog, or six newspapers from all over the world, just by jumping off the stoop of our building’s front landing and walking a bit.

Grandpa says we are dang lucky because we have a yard in back. Big enough to have room for  flowers by the building for Grandma, and a little vegetable patch for Grandpa and a maple tree for me. There’s a shaggy lawn that always needs cutting, too. Mr. Stuckey, our landlord, he hates garden stuff, so Grandpa cuts the grass.  They got some sorts of a ‘rangement.

Now that I’ve told you where I live, I’ll tell you about my family.  Remember I called them wacky? Only because they are. Each and every one of them.

My great-grandma Prudie is really, really old and Dad calls her the matriarch of the family. (I call her Big Mama.) She says she likes being a matriarch, but I’m not sure exactly what the word means.  Something about being old and in charge because she’s a woman, but women aren’t hardly ever in charge.  Maybe in some women’s club.  Prudie is my best friend. My very best friend.

My grandpa is Smulling Reese Howard . (Smulling was his mother’s last name before she got married, when she was still a maid at the King’s Regency hotel.) I think Smulling is a pretty odd first name, but Grandpa would whoop me if I told him what I thought. Everyone who doesn’t pretty well know Grandpa calls him Howard Smulling or Howard Reese. Boy, does that send steam shooting out the bulges in his brain and I can see smoke whoosh straight outta his ears.

He had his eightieth birthday a couple weeks ago, and there was a real ruckus that day.

My grandma is Pearl Lee Howard and she’s married to my Grandpa Smulling. Obviously. They had  their golden wedding anniversary last summer, and it was some big deal.  We came in from Bowler and partied all day long and all night, too.

Pearl is Prudie’s only kid. When Prudie tells family stories about my Grandma being a little girl, she always ends by saying in a kind of singing-songing voice, “and one was enough!” Ha!
My family calls Grandma “Grandma,” even Dad.  Grandpa calls her Pearl or Wife, and Prudie calls her Pearlie (Pearl Lee, get it?) My grandma is sixty-eight. Dad says she got married young and that’s why she’s so young, and Grandpa got married kind of old and that’s why he’s so old.

My dad’s name is Dale Joe Johnstone. And he’ll come straight out and tell you, “My name is Dale Joe, there ain’t never been a Dale Joseph, and if there is one, I hopes I’ll never come face-to-face with the mate.” My dad and my grandpa are pretty particular about their names.

Dad works two jobs so he isn’t around much. Hospitals are really expensive, Jeff says. When Dad is home, we’re good buddies. My dad doesn’t want me to say how old he is, so I won’t. But Dad’s got four younger brothers and my youngest uncle is 36 and they were all born once a year, so you can figure pretty close if you want.

Mom’s name is Jeannie Lee. She was born a Howard, but she married a Johnstone. She’s been married to my dad just about forever. She’s been sick forever, too,  and she stays at the hospital sometimes, but I’m not supposed to worry.

That’s the reason we moved.  So we’d be close to her hospital.  I kinda miss her lots, but my grandparents take good care of me, so I’m s’posed to act grateful.

My big brother is Jeffrey Andrew Johnstone and he’s near 14.  He hates the city and he hates the apartment.  Last night he kicked the bedroom door and screamed, “I hate my whole life.” Boy, I thought he gone and done it, but he didn’t.  My dad stood up slow like his bones were all creaky, and he said, “Come along, Son.  Let’s go for a walk.”

Boy.  Then I wished I’d a kicked the wall and screamed first.  I feel like kicking and screaming, too.  If I’d gone and gotten mad,  I’d been the one out walking with Dad,

Finally I’m at me.  My name is Manda.

My full, entire name is Amanda Suzanne Johnstone, but no one calls me that except for my school teachers. I’m ten years old and I finished fifth grade last week. I got all A’s and Grandpa gave me a half dollar.

That’s all I’m gonna tell you about my family for now.  Jeff and I, we’re gonna walk to the park and feed the ducks. I named the biggest one Peabody. He’s like my pet, ’cause there aren’t any pets in my apartment.  All my grandparents, they all claim they’re allergic. I’ve got my own take on that allergic stuff, but that’s not the sort of think I say out loud. After all, I’m just a kid and I live with 5 adults.