Dear Diary,

I am mad at my Mom, but I can’t tell anyone cause they get mad at me. When I talk to my Dad he just shakes his head and tells me everything will be all right, but when I talk to God I don’t get any answer like that. I can’t talk to my Grandma cause tears get in her eyes and I’m afraid she’s going to cry and if she cries then I will cry too. My grandpa won’t listen cause he says he can’t hear me when I ask questions, but he can hear baseball games on the radio, so why can’t he hear me? No one will talk to me about my Mom.

That’s not all true. No one will talk to me about my Mom except my Grandma Prudie. She says in 85 years of living she’s seen and heard everything, so if I want to talk about my Mom she’ll listen. Even if I cry. Even if I scream. Even if I go sulk under the Bridal Wreath Bush for three days. She’ll be there when I want to talk again. She listens to every word I say and never tells me go away or I’m busy. Maybe when you’re that old, you don’t have anything to be busy with.

Now, Diary. You know my problem cause I’ve written about it before. Sometimes it helps to write and grind my pencil into my paper and let tears slide down my face and onto the lines so they get all blurry. And here’s I write again, and about the same old thing. My Mom is sick.

She’s been sick since the middle of third grade when she went into the hospital and now it’s June and she hasn’t come home yet. Sometimes I think she died and no one tells me cause I would be more sad and I would cry more than I do. Maybe I would and maybe I wouldn’t, but a kid my age ought to know what’s going on.

Grandma Prudie says it might not be so bad. That there just might be a happy ending. But when I ask her what the happy ending is, my Grandma shakes her head and says she can’t tell me. She promised my Dad. And even though Prudie thinks I’m old enough to know she says my Dad should be the one to tell me and not her.

But my Dad won’t. Even if I ask and beg and lock myself in the bathroom.

So that’s why I’m mad at my Mom and my Dad and everybody else, even Prudie because she knows and she won’t tell.

This is my secret diary and it belongs to Bo and no one can read it but me.

July 1, 1962
Dear Diary,

I am the happiest girl in the world. My Grandma and Grandpa and Prudie and I all sat in the living room like my Dad told us. He said he’s be home early. He was visiting my Mom in the hospital.

Then Dad came home and he was smiling big and he had something behind his back, but he wouldn’t let me see it. He said I have a nice surprise for you. Mom is feeling better and she sent me a Polaroid especially for you. And Dad gave me a brown envelope and told me to open it. Inside was a picture of my Mom and her hair was curly like she’d gone to the beauty shop and she had a gigantic smile and lipstick, too.

And then I looked at her nightgown to see if it was the pink one I had picked out for her when I went shopping with Dad. And she had on my nightgown, but something looked wrong. Her belly was all fat and I was afraid she had some sickness in there. Then my Dad said do you see that, Bo? Do you see Mom’s big belly? She’s growing a baby in there. She’s having a baby sister or brother for you. Isn’t that great? That’s exactly what he said.

But then I felt mad again and said they should have told me. Dad said that Mom and the baby had to rest and the baby had to get big and strong before she could be born. They didn’t tell me in case there was another problem cause she nearly died, but now every thing’s okay now. I want a sister. I hope Mom and Dad let me name her. I’ll name her Elizabeth Rose. Elizabeth because I could call her Betsy like my Betsy McCall paper doll and we’d be sisters named Bo and Betsy and then I’ll put in Rose because Mom’s favorite flower is a Rose.

I’m so happy I could jump up and down on the bed and sing and dance. I am a tiny bit sad because Mom has to wait for the baby to be born before she comes home and that might take awhile yet.

A baby sister. I can’t believe it. Elizabeth Rose.

This is my diary and if you want to read this story you can because it is a very happy story. It will make you happy.

Bo

ps. Dad read my diary tonight and he says I have to be happy with a brother even though I want a sister. But I get to name him. Dad said so for sure. I just might name him Bowser or maybe Buster. Ha! Ha!

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.”

I dance, struggling to make up a fancy-dancy tap step with the polished toes of my church shoes. I hold my precious transistor tightly against my ear and sing along. Tippity-tapping on the hallway floor, on nice and shiny, just-polished wood. The echoes from the wood make great echoes and I make a good deal of noise with only a little effort.

Grandpa hears my tapping and singing. He’s trying to read the thick Sunday paper, but he can’t think straight. He yells up the stairway, making a good deal of noise himself. “Bo, what in blue blazes are you doin’ up there? The ceiling’s ’bout to fall on my head.”

“Sorry, Grandpa. I was just dancing. There’s cool music on my transistor.” The music keeps spinning in my head, begging my feet to keep dancing. I sit down on the floor and yank my shoes off, quick! Then I go right on dancing. But in between a right skip and a left hop, my foot slides out from underneath me and I lose my balance. I stop falling only when my head crashes into the wall. I wait, holding my breath. Maybe Grandpa didn’t hear me this time.

He heard. “Bo, get yourself down here in two shakes of a dog’s tail. If I had your grandmother’s yardstick, you’d be in for it.”

I sit, still huddled against the wall, and my head begins to pound. Maybe if I sit quiet-like, Grandpa will forget me. After all, Grandma says he’s always forgetting stuff.

Not my luck. My luck stinks, if you ask me. “If you aren’t standing in this kitchen by the time I count 3, Barbara Ann, then I’m gonna throw that transistor of yours in that ol’ sink of dishwater.”

I fly down the stairs. “Grandpa! Noooo! Not my transistor. I’ll mind you. Really I will.” I stand at attention in front of his chair with my transistor hidden behind my back.

“I have no idea why you are smashing into my walls, but it wasn’t a good idea. Until you learn to mind me, you can hand over that transistor. You be good all week, and I’ll give it back after church next Sunday.”

“Next Sunday! That’s a whole week!”

“Yes, in-deedy. A whole week by my calculating, too.”

So now I’m mad. Really, really, really mad. But I can’t get mad anywhere, because I know my Grandpa and he really would throw my transistor in the sink if I’m foot-stomping mad. I might be good at getting mad, but Grandpa’s better at getting madder.

I roam outside and sulk, lying on my belly under the Bridal Wreath Bush, dreaming of music beating in my head. Slamming car doors jog me back into the real world. “Hey, Grandma. Grandpa. The cousins are here,” I shout, as all three kids tumble from the car.

Aunt Luisa and Uncle Jesse sit in their car as my grandparents and parents walk over for a look. The car is brand new, although I don’t know what kind, and I don’t care either. Bits of adult talk like “Congratulations” and “She’s a Beauty” fill the front yard. My cousins and I sneak into the back of our lot, way out by the junk pile. Calista is older than me and D.C. is my age. Kirkie is the youngest and he’s nearly old enough to go to school, but he still cries when Aunt Luisa leaves him with a babysitter. Actually, he still cries about lots of things.

“Hey, Bo! Hey, Bo! Hey, Bo!” chatters D.C. as he sticks a transistor in my face. Calista looks irritated, but in an interested kind of way.

D.C. pesters me some, but he’s my favorite cousin so I pester him, too. “Hey back to you, D.C. What’s new with you?”

“Look, I got my birthday present.” He makes a kissy-face to his radio, even though that’s sissy. “A transistor! Just like yours.”

I look at his stupid transistor, just to be nice. “It got batteries inside?”

“Yeah, sure. What ya’ think? A new transistor without no batteries.” D.C. googles at his radio. Calista pinches Kirkie to make him cry and Kirkie pulls my hair. D.C. holds his transistor up to his ear so I can’t hear the music and croons into the little speaker. I throw myself back on the grass and scream. Then, even though I know better, I’m feeling meaner than mean. I snatch D.C.’s transistor out of his hand and throw it into the junk pile. Calista and D.C. and Kirkie all start screaming, yelling for their ‘Mommy’ and ‘Daddy.’ I close my eyes and sing in my head.

Grandpa, who is fast for a grandpa, comes around the house first and makes a bee line straight for his screaming grandchildren. His voice makes more noise than all four of us kids. “What is going on back here? Can’t take my eyes off you for one second without a racket breaking loose. Calista, stop sniveling and tell me what’s going on.”

Calista is a tattle-tale, even though she is eleven years old, so she gives the adults the story, detail by detail. For her finale, she bursts into tears. “Bo threw D.C.’s transistor in the junk pile. She ruined poor D.C.’s birthday.”

Grandpa studies the situation for about ten seconds. He sees the shiny, black radio nestled in the pile of splintered boards and rusty nails and cases of soda bottles. It’s easily visible. Dad was planning to take that stuff to the junk yard, but he hadn’t borrowed a truck yet. “Don’t any of you reach in for that transistor. That junk is all rusted and sharp. You’ll get lockjaw.”

He pulls me off the lawn by my arm, though rather gently, and brushes the grass stains from the seat of my pants. “Bo, you’re coming with me. You other kids stay out here and be quiet. We’ll be right back.” He mutters in my ear as we head to the house. “Had five kids and they never howled like all you kids. Just like a zoo around here.”

Grandpa was mad at all of us, but he was mad at me the most. “Don’t you have any common sense, girl? Now get in the kitchen and fetch your transistor. It’s in my desk drawer.”

“Grandpa, don’t! Please don’t throw my transistor in the dish water. It’s my most special possession.”

“Dish water? Whatever are you mumbling about, Bo? You’re gonna give D.C. your transistor and tell ‘em all you’re sorry to boot. Then we’re gonna have birthday cake and you’re gonna sing ‘Happy Birthday.’”

Grandpa’s words are law. I find my transistor and take it outdoors. My cousins aren’t crying, but they’re all still pouting. Mom and Aunt Luisa stand over them, their arms crossed tightly. They warily eye me as I join everyone, and my mom shakes her head at me. Before everyone can re-hash the fight, I offer my transistor to D.C.

“I’m sorry I threw your transistor in the junk. You can have mine.”

D.C. grins and reaches out for my transistor, but Aunt Luisa grabs hold of it first. “Why, this ain’t no new transistor. I bought D.C.’s brand new last Friday. This one’s all scuffed up and there’s a crack in the bottom. D.C. don’t want this trash.”

“Ma,” whines my cousin. “It’s fine. It’s Bo’s transistor and I want that one.”

“Shush, D.C. You don’t know what you want. Throw that piece of junk away and I’ll get you a bigger and better one tomorrow.” Then Aunt Luisa makes HER mistake. She flings my transistor into the junk pile, right next to D.C.’s shiny, new one.

Everyone eyes the two transistors, laying side by side in the junk. No one moves as Grandpa’s face turns redder than when he gets his summer sunburn. “Why don’t you throw the baby out with the bathtub, Luisa?” he growls under his breath. He turns to the rest of us. “I think this party is done. I’m goin’ inside.”

And since Grandpa’s word is law, the party breaks up.

Part 2

Grandpa stomps off, but the conversations continue…

Aunt Luisa to her sister-in-law (my Mom): “You better get that child’s temper under control. You don’t see my kids acting up.”

My Mom to Aunt Luisa: “At least Bo would appreciates a gift given in good faith.”

Grandma to my three cousins: “Let’s get your stuff packed up quick. You don’t want your parents to drive off and leave you.”

Grandpa to Grandma: “Hurry them up. Luisa and Jesse are in the car. I’ve had enough fighting for one day.”

Grandpa to me: “Say, Bo. Sorry ’bout your transistor and makin’ you stop dancin’ and all that.”

Grandma to me: “I’ll let you borry my little transistor until you can save for another.”

Mom to Dad: “Why didn’t you haul away that junk when you promised? Then none of this woulda happened.”

Dad to Uncle Jesse: “Meet you on the first tee tomorrow. 7:15.”

Aunt Luisa to Mom: “Love ya’, Sis. See you next week.”

Mom to Aunt Luisa and her family: “Had a real nice visit. Love you, too.”

Grandpa to Grandma: “I cherish my family, I do. But do they have to visit every week?”

Grandma to Grandpa: “Hush. Someone will hear you.”

Grandpa to Grandma: “Bah! No one ever listens to me.”

Bo to no one in particular: “I listen to Grandpa.”

Grandpa, hiding a grin, to Bo: “Get along, Bo. Why don’t you take Grandma’s transistor and do a little tap dancing?”

Bo, hugging her Grandparents: “Sure do love you both.”

Grandma to Grandpa, in a whisper: “What a spitfire she is! Just like you.”

Grandpa: “If I remember correctly, you were a spitfire, too.”

Grandma: “Sure enough was. And I still love a good spitfire.”

Grandpa: “Especially when she loves us so fierce.”

Aunt Luisa and her family drive away ’til next Sunday. Dad borrows a truck and hauls the junk away. Mom rescues the transistors, gets them to play, then puts them away for a few days. I dance in the hallway in my tennis shoes, a pretend transistor thumping in my ear. And Grandma and Grandpa hug each other, and head outside to stroll in the garden.

Last night Prudie started talking candy-making. We’d watched The Lawrence Welk Show: Prudie, Grandma, Grandpa, Dad and me. Even Mom watched the program, ‘though she watched it from her hospital bed and not with us. After the show, Prudie looked at me with a pixie grin hidden in her wrinkly face, her eyes all squinty with glee.

“Bo, let’s go in the kitchen and check out the pantry. Maybe we’ll do some cooking tomorrow.” I’m always game when Prudie wants to cook. She doesn’t mess in the kitchen much anymore, unless she’s got a hankerin’ in her sweet tooth. And my sweet tooth is as sweet as hers. Prudie doesn’t like to cook by herself, but she likes to cook with me.

In case you don’t know, I’d better explain about my wacky family. Prudie is my Grandma Pearl’s mom. Remember? She lives in our apartment with Grandpa and Grandma (who is my Mom’s mom) and my parents and me. (Yes, indeedy. I live in a five adult/one child family!) Five people always telling me what I should do. Boy oh boy.

Now, Prudie is nearly eighty five years old, and she’s brim full of stories about her long life. Mom and Grandma usually forbid me to listen to most of her tales, but Prudie thinks children should be raised differently than do my other adult relatives. She believes in letting children know about real life, even when real life isn’t a princess story. When Mom and Grandma aren’t around, Prudie always thinks of a new story to tell me.

Last week she told me about all her marrying which has been a family secret for years. When Prudie was only eighteen, she married a railroad man named Frank. I can’t imagine marrying anyone when you’re 18, but Prudie said it was common enough back then. After all, it was 1900. My Grandma Pearl was born a year later. Then one autumn day, when Pearl was a week shy of her first birthday, Prudie packed Frank’s overnight bag. He had been assigned to the St. Louis, Missouri to Denver, Colorado train route. Frank worked shoveling coal to keep the train’s steam engines running. Frank said he’d be gone a fortnight and Pearl cried something fierce when her Papa got on the train. She loved her Papa.

Prudie told me the whole story one summer’s night when she was in the mood to talk. “Shoveling coal is a dirty job and plain hard work. Frank hated it and kept threatening to quit. I suppose he hated more than just his wretched job, though. You see, Frank never came home from his trip. Just sent me a postcard from St. Louis saying he had some affairs to take care of and wouldn’t be coming home again. None of us ever heard from Frank again. Him leavin’ didn’t bother me too much, but I did feel badly for Pearl having no father. She called for her papa for months.”

No one knows Prudie tells me all her family. Grandma would claim Prudie was putting strange ideas in a my head and maybe Grandma is right about that. Hearing about people who divorced in 1903 seems a mighty strange notion to me. Divorce wasn’t done much back then.

After Frank didn’t return, Prudie and Pearl moved in with family while my great grandma took a nurse’s course by mail. Can you imagine! She learned to be a nurse and she never once went to nursing school. Instead she memorized two medical books. She still keeps them in her bedside table. Occasionally Prudie lets me take a look at the pages. She used to cover up the drawings of the man’s anatomy until I accidently saw them. She doesn’t bother any longer. “A child’s curiosity is a good thing,” she says to me. “Children should be exposed to ideas, even ideas that seem strange. Life is strange.”

“I practiced nursing until Pearl turned eighteen and got married to your Grandpa Smulling. As soon as Pearl and Smulling were settled, I married Charles. In no time at all we moved to Chicago and we lived there nearly thirty years. Then something unusual happened ‘tween Charles and me. I started missing my family something fierce so I moved back home and I’ve lived in this apartment ever since.”

But the real kicker? Prudie told me that she and Charles are still married. Prudie does marrying different than anyone else I know. “I prefer to live my life as peacefully as I can,” says Prudie. “Why should I be miserable for no reason? I choose to live with my daughter and her family, and Charles prefers living near his sons. Our situation suits us fine.”

I could barely believe they were still married. “Do you love Charles, Prudie? Do you miss him?”

“Well, Bo. It’s like this. We think fondly of each other, but we’d prefer not to live in the same house. I think we became bored with each other. Not to say marriage isn’t a good thing. It is, but it’s not for everyone.”

Wow! If Mom found out that I knew about Prudie’s marrying habits, I’d get tanned for sure. I never did tell anyone Prudie’s secrets. Not even my favorite cousins nor my best friend.

I figure that Prudie and Charles miss each other some of the time. Prudie writes to Charles every Sunday afternoon and she covers her writing whenever I walk by. And she gets a letter from him every Wednesday. Sometimes she gets little packages when it’s near her birthday or Christmas. Prudie always lets me open them. Inside there’s always a little Bible wrapped in white tissue paper and Charles always signs the bookplate “to Prudence from Charles (your husband.)” Prudie has a stack of Bibles from Charles in her bookcase, but the only Bible I see her study is her Confirmation Bible.

I turn all this over in my mind as I wait for Prudie to get out of bed. Prudie makes my mornings awfully long ’cause I’m always waiting for her. She usually doesn’t get out of bed until near eleven and then she does her primping. She always brushes her hair and crimps it with her hair iron before she leaves her room. Prudie’s hair goes long past her waist and she takes her time, so she always looks beautiful when she comes to the breakfast table. And she always wears a flower print dress, belted at the waist. Nothing sloppy ’bout my great-grandma.

Just one more thing about Prudie before we make taffy. She pretty much does what she wants, and she being so old, everyone goes along. Grandma Pearl says it’s her mother’s due after all the grief she’s suffered and Grandpa shakes his head at Prudie’s shenanigans, but they seldom complain about her.

I hear Prudie’s tap-tap cane in the upstairs hallway. “Yoo-hoo. Bo, you ready?” Prudie flicks on the stairway light and hobbles down the stairs. It’s 11:30 by now, and Grandma is nearly finished making the noon meal. Today we’re having chicken and dumplings and stewed rhubarb, one of my favorites. As much as I love Prudie, I hate eating with her. Prudie makes eating weird for the whole family. Remember, she does things her own way. She does that about eatin’ too. Prudie eats her breakfast while everyone else eats dinner. Today, because Prudie is feeling good, she chooses not to wait for Grandma to fix her bacon and eggs. Prudie tries to do it herself. When she starts fooling with the stove, we all get a little peevish. We try to talk politely and chew with our mouths closed while Prudie drops eggs on the floor and bangs the pans. When she’s finally ready to eat her breakfast, everyone else is done with dinner and yet we all have to wait for her finish before we eat dessert.

We all sit at the table while Prudie eats her breakfast. “Out of respect,” Grandpa says. “It’s the right thing to do.” Prudie believes in chewing each mouthful of food a hundred times, so she’s awfully slow. “Oh, Pearl,” she finally says, surveying her plate. “Wrap up some of that chicken and I’ll eat it for my supper. And put a dish of that rhubarb in the ice box, too. Now, what’s for dessert?”

Prudie is lucky some of the time. She gets to go straight from breakfast to dessert, lickety split. No vegetables or fruit cocktail jello for her. I eat two helpings of dessert because there’s still plenty of waiting for me to do. Grandma cleans up the kitchen and washes the dishes. She usually scrubs the floor after dinner except for today. Since I’m hanging around the kitchen, Grandma gives me the nod. “Bo, you get the bucket and scrub that floor good. That achy arthritis is in my knees today.” Some days I wish I had arthritis in my knees, but Grandma and Grandpa always say, “No you don’t,” and they usually know more than I do.

Finally Grandma goes off to her sewing and Grandpa turns the baseball game on the radio. And finally Prudie is ready. She opens the cupboards and gets out the sugar and the corn syrup. She fetches butter and vanilla and we start mixing. Prudie won’t let me help with the boiling part. She uses a candy thermometer and it has to read 160 degrees before the taffy is cooked. She’s afraid I’ll get burned, but I fear she’ll get burned too. Instead, Prudie gives me the messiest jobs. “Bo, spread that butter all over the counter. Don’t miss a spot. Good and greasy or the taffy will stick.”

It takes a long time to make taffy, and I mostly watch. When the taffy is cool enough to touch, Prudie and I slap it down on the counter. We take turns pulling. It’s hard work and it takes both of us to get the job done. I pull until my wrists hurt and my arms are about to pull out of my sockets, but Prudie’s arms are stronger than mine. Go figure that!

“See how shiny that candy is,” boasts Prudie. “Butter up those scissors and I’ll cut up the candy. Get the waxed paper and wrap the pieces. And be sure to twist those ends tight. I can’t chew hard taffy.”

“But Prudie,” I coax. “Can’t we eat a few pieces now?” The taffy is warm and soft, and I beg for the go ahead to snarf down a handful of sweet candy.

“No. It’s time for my lunch and I don’t want to ruin my appetite. We’ll surprise everyone with a treat after supper.” Then she hands me the full tray. “Set that on the table so I can cut up those pieces.”

I reach for the tray full of taffy, but my hands are buttery and the tray slips from my fingers. It clatters to the floor. The taffy flips over and lands flat.

I cry right then and there. “Prudie, the taffy’s full of germs now. We can’t eat it.”

Prudie looks at me like I’m crazy. “Full of germs? Hogwash! Didn’t you scrub that floor not an hour ago? Pick that taffy up and slide it back onto the tray. No germs caught on that candy and those germs would slide right off if ever they did jump on that taffy.”

My mom’s taught me lots about germs and I’m not sure germs slide off food all that easy. Prudie’s germs behave a lot differently than Mom’s germs do. But I don’t want to throw all that taffy away, so I choose to listen to Prudie’s advice.

“Prudie, you’re the nurse in this apartment. I suppose you know more about germs than the rest of us put together.”

“You’re dern tootin’, Bo.” Prudie nearly giggles out loud, like a schoolgirl, as she hands me a piece of taffy. “You’re dern tootin’ right.”

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.”

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 traipse through the kitchen door, carrying the soil-streaked rhubarb. Grandma looks up from the rocker where she’s smocking a church dress for me. Just one glance at my mess and she lets out a whoop.

“Bo! Don’t track that mud into my kitchen. What’s got into you? I scrubbed that floor not an hour ago. You march right outside and clean that ‘barb at the spigot.”

I look out the screen door as the raindrops grow larger and heavier, hiding the sidewalk’s rainy polka dots with a sudden deluge. “But Grandma, it’s raining and I’ll get wet.”

“Bo, do what I say! You’re already wet, and soon to be wetter. Rinse off that rhubarb. Then go up and take a quick bath. Your pa will be home from work soon and he don’t want to see you covered with mud.”

I know that isn’t exactly true. Pa never cares if I’m covered with mud. After all, he pumps gas and checks oil all day Saturday. He gets filthy when he works, all covered with grease and oil, and he doesn’t mind. Grandma’s the one who cares ’cause she’s been cleanin’ the house since breakfast and so I do as I am told. Grandma calls after me. “Remember, only a couple inches of hot water. The water bill was sky high last month.”

“Yes ‘m,” I mumble. How can I clean away this pasty garden mud with that speck of water? I turn on the faucet to get the hot water running and fill the tub with enough water to barely cover my feet. I turn on my transistor, setting the dial to ‘The Hundred Top Pops’ on AM 690. As the tunes fill the bathroom, I climb into the water, and splash back and forth against the cold porcelain tub. Once I’m mostly clean, I dry off and spread my towel on the bathroom floor. I can stretch out on top of it. The bathroom is one of the few places in the apartment I can laze around without an adult interrupting me. Every once in awhile, I swish the bath water, making it sound like I’m scrubbin’ my skin off. I never know when Grandma might stand outside the door, listening to me. (She’s sneaky, but so am I.)

The music from my transistor makes me happy. Bobby Vinton croons ‘Blue Velvet’ across the airwaves and I sing along with the tear-jerky love ballad. Suddenly a surge of commercials comes whizzing through the air and makes me sit up and take note. Hillbilly music springs from the transistor with a foot-stompin’ “Ya-hoo! Drink Mountain Dew. It’ll tickle yer innards.” I listen to the commercial’s ditty. I’ve never heard of Mountain Dew. Somethin’ brand new, I suppose.

“Bo, aren’t you out of that bath yet? Clean that tub and get ready for dinner,” Grandma calls from downstairs. “One of your favorites. Ham and beans.”

Ham and beans? One of my favorites? Who is she kidding? Nonetheless, I make myself presentable and approach the kitchen table, doing a little tap dance. Grandma looks me up and down.

“Bo, stop dancing in the apartment and pour yourself a glass of milk.” She’s always telling me to stop jiggling around, but Pa claims I got my natural dancing feet from him. “Leave her go a bit, Pearl,” my pa always says to Grandma. “Let her be happy for awhile. She’s just a child, you know.”

I sit at the table, and after Grandpa blesses the food, I start in with my questions. “Grandpa, what is Mountain Dew?”

Grandpa gives me an odd look, a kind of squint-y look, and stares hard at Grandma. “It’s a drink, Bo. Now eat.”

“But Grandpa, the hillbillies say it’ll tickle my innards. What does that mean? My transistor played a commercial for it. Can I buy a bottle and give it a try?”

Grandpa and Grandma frown into their ham and beans. “You say the transistor has a commercial for Mountain Dew?” Grandpa asks, enunciating each word slowly. He struggles to make sense of this conversation. Then aside to Grandma, he whispers. “Moonshine? She talkin’ ’bout moonshine?” Grandma shakes her head in bafflement and puts her finger to her mouth. “Shush, Smulling. She’ll hear.”

And I do. I hear every word, ’cause Grandpa’s part deaf and speaks loudly. I can hear his whispers a yard away. “Is Mountain Dew moonshine, Grandpa? What’s moonshine?”

“Bo, tell me the truth on a stack of Bibles. You say there’s a commercial on the transistor for moonshine?”

“Guess so. It said to drink Mountain Dew.”

“Eat your food, Bo. We’ll talk about this when your Pa gets home.”

I eat my ham, then shovel my beans into my napkin when no one is paying attention. I offer to clean up the table for Grandma so I can throw my beans away. I don’t want to hurt Grandma’s feelings, but beans are gross and I can’t swallow them.

Finally I hear Pa slam the front door. Grandpa folds his newspaper and peers down the hallway. “That you, Dale? We’re in the kitchen.” Pa lumbers down the hall and leans towards me, plunking a big kiss on my forehead. Then he gives Grandma a peck on her cheek. (Even though she’s his mother-in-law, they like each other a lot.)

“Hey, Smulling. Pearl. How’d your day go?”

Pa works in a filling station on Saturdays to earn extra money. Since Ma took sick, there are lots of doctor bills and Pa says he’s not about to get behind. To keep Grandma’s apartment clean, he showers and changes his clothes at the station, and shoves his work shirt and bibs in a crumply paper bag.

Grandma gives that greasy sack a nasty look. “Dale, give me those clothes and I’ll set the wringer to working.” Grandma heads into the basement while Pa gets his ham and beans from the warming oven. He’s hungry and cleans his plate before I can offer him a napkin for those beans. I wait for him to get some coffee and then I begin my interrogation.

“Pa, what’s Mountain Dew? Is it moonshine? Do you drink moonshine?”

Dad gives Grandpa a quizzical look and Grandpa shrugs his shoulders as he mutters into his newspaper. “The girl gone listened to some trash on the transistor. Now she’s asking lots of questions.”

“Whoa! Everyone slow down a second. You heard about moonshine, Bo? On your radio?”

“I don’t know, Pa. No one will tell me if I did or I didn’t. The hillbilly on the transistor said ‘Drink Mountain Dew. It’ll tickle your innards.’ I want to know what Mountain Dew tastes like.”

Pa sputters into his coffee cup and splashes his clean shirt. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and I see him wipe a silly grin off his face, too. “Smulling, you need to keep on top of these new fangled things,” he teases Grandpa. While Dad chuckles, I get impatient. He knows and he’s not telling me.

“Pa…”

“Sorry, Bo. Mountain Dew’s a new soda pop. I’ve seen the boys drink it at the station, though can’t say I’ve ever tasted the stuff. Looks green. Seems popular enough.”

Grandpa still frowns behind his paper. “What’s with the hillbillies, then? I thought Bo was asking about moonshine.”

“Smulling, I do believe moonshine and hillbillies were a part of your generation, not Bo’s. My girl wants some green soda water and it doesn’t take hillbillies to brew that. It’s just a foolish commercial she’s listened to.”

Grandpa won’t give up. “Well, if it’s for green soda water, can’t be good for her. She should drink milk, just like I did when I was her age.”

I can tell Dad thinks this is funny, but he keeps a straight face.

“No moonshine, Smulling?” Grandpa turns red, but refuses to answer.

Grandma is upstairs by now, huffing from climbing the stairs. “I’ve heard enough about moonshine. You all, hush.” Grandma sits down heavy in her chair. “Dale, those clothes are filthy. I’ve got them soaking in lye.”

“Pearl, I could do that washing. Draggin’ my clothes down those steps isn’t good for you.” Pa doesn’t like to be beholdin’ to my grandparents, but for now he hasn’t much choice.

“Ha! A man launderin’ his own clothes! Anyways, you got enough to do working two jobs and keeping your eye on Bo.”

“Say, thanks for watching her, Pearl, and thanks for dinner, too. Good enough to eat.”

“Pa! You call that good food? You and me, we hate beans.”

“Shush, Bo. You talk way too much. The rain’s let up. Go comb your hair and we’ll go for a drive. I’ve got an errand to run.”

I’m always willing to ride in the car. It’s only a couple years old, and it’s a pink and white Sportman DeSoto, and it’s got long chrome fins in the back. It’s absolutely the most beautiful car in the whole world, and Pa and Grandpa agree with me. I grab my transistor and hop into in the front seat.

“Where we going, Pa? Someplace fun? Can we maybe go to the junk yard?” I love visiting the junk yard with Pa.

“No junk yard today, Bo. Have to go back to the station. I plumb forgot something.” Pa drives down State Street and pulls the DeSoto to the side lot of ‘Ned’s Gas’. Pa and Ned are real good friends. Ned gave Pa a job when he needed extra money. “I need a word with Ned,” says Pa. “Hey Bo, I got a spare nickel in my pocket. You go check out the soda cooler.”

Soda? I never get soda. Most of my relatives say it’s bad for me, although Pa doesn’t ever give me his thought on the matter. The steel cooler full of bottles is chained around a tree, the case standing in the shade to keep the soda cool. I open the lid and check out the choices. Root beer. Cream soda. Orange Crush. Gee whillickers! There’s Mountain Dew in here! Dropping my nickel into the slot, I slide the Mountain Dew bottle out from its rack. I take a little sip. It’s spritzy and bubbly and, gosh, it does tickle my innards. I start giggling and can’t stop.

“Who’s pulling your funny bone?” Pa laughs as he sees me. Pa’s business is finished. He crouches on a grassy patch near the cooler, pulls a long blade from the ground, and whistles through it. “What’d you get to drink, Bo? Anything good?”

“Pa, it’s Mountain Dew. Look. It really is green and it tickles, too.”

Pa takes the bottle and looks it over. Sniffs the top. “Guess I’ll take a pull. See what all this ruckus is about. Maybe those hillbillies are on to something!”

He takes a gulp, then I take one. We take turns, finishing the soda pop faster than a panting dog slurps cold water. “Hey, Pa, it really does tickle my innards.” We find this immensely funny and laugh so hard we have to hold our bellies to stop.

“Bo, I think you’re right. It tickles my innards, too. Now we best get you back to the apartment. I need to visit your mom tonight. And don’t make a fuss to your Grandpa ’bout drinking Mountain Dew. I don’t think he rightly approves.”

“You’re right there, Pa. Grandpa would never approve of green soda.”

“I bet Grandpa doesn’t approve of anything that might give his favorite girl’s innards a good tickle. He must think tickling you is his job.” I nod seriously. I can understand Grandpa’s way of thinking.

“I’ll let him tickle my outsides and Mountain Dew can tickle my insides.” I start twirling on my tip-toes. “Pa? Thanks for getting me a Mountain Dew.”

“My pleasure, Bo. All my pleasure. Once in awhile, a gal’s just gotta have fun.” And he takes me by the hand and spins me towards the DeSoto.

I feel like I’m Cinderella, approaching my golden coach, and ready for a night of excitement. I just finished third grade and I’m way too old for fairy tales, but Pa still makes me feel like a princess in a golden coach.

“I love Mountain Dew, and I love you, Pa.”

“Well, what a coincidence, Bo. It happens that I love you, too.”

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.

Life is as confusing and convoluted as that very first sentence.