A Long Way From Chicago by Richard Peck Page B

for me,” Grandma recalled.
    “And quite unfairly,” Mrs. Weidenbach said, “people blame the bankers.”
    “My stars,” Grandma said. “The bank forecloses on people’s farms and throws them off their land, and they don’t even appreciate it.”
    “Now, Mrs. Dowdel, don’t be like that.” Mrs. Weidenbach reached down the front of her dress and plucked up a lace handkerchief. She dabbed all around her mouth. “Mr. Weidenbach has asked me not to enter my bread-and-butter pickles into competition at the fair this year.”
    “Keep your head down till the depression blows over?”
    “Something like that,” Mrs. Weidenbach murmured. “So I naturally thought of you. After all, we’ve been neighbors these many years.”
    The Weidenbachs lived at the far end of town in the only brick house.
    “I said to my husband, Mr. Weidenbach, somebody must carry home a blue ribbon to keep our town’s name in front of the public. Otherwise, those county seat women will sweep the field. As you know, Mrs. Cowgill’s decorative butter pats never do better than Honorable Mention.”
    If Grandma knew who won what at the county fair, she showed no sign.
    “But there is nobody to touch you for baking with gooseberries. Even those of us who’ve never had a taste have heard. Word gets around.”
    “Try as a person will to keep it quiet,” Grandma said.
    “Gooseberries are tricky things,” Mrs. Weidenbach went on. “Now, you take Mrs. Vottsmeier over at Bement. She wouldn’t take on a gooseberry, but she’ll pull down a blue ribbon in the Fruit Pies and Cobblers division with her individual cherry tarts if somebody doesn’t put a stop to her.”
    Quiet followed as we listened to Grandma’s wooden spoon scraping the sides of the stew pan. At length, she said, “I cook to eat, not to show off.”
    Mrs. Weidenbach sighed. “Mrs. Dowdel, these are desperate times. Don’t hide your light under a bushel. It is up to you to hold high the banner for our town.”
    Grandma putting herself out for the fame of the town? I thought Mrs. Weidenbach was on the wrong track. On the other hand, Grandma liked to win.
    Growing frantic, Mrs. Weidenbach let her gaze skim over Mary Alice and me. “And a day at the fair would be a nice outing for your grandkiddies.”
    “Wouldn’t cut any ice with them,” Grandma said. “They’re from Chicago, so they’ve seen everything.”
    Instantly, an expression of great boredom fell over Mary Alice’s face. I thought she might yawn. She was playing along with Grandma. I’d been thinking a day at the fair would be a welcome change, but I just shrugged and went on stemming gooseberries.
    Grandma turned slightly from the stove. “Wouldn’t have any way to get there if I wanted to go.”
    Mrs. Weidenbach brightened. “I will personally conduct you to the fair on prize day in my Hupmobile.” She waved a hand in benediction over us. “And there’ll be plenty of room for your grandkiddies.”
    “Oh well,” Grandma said, “if I have an extra pie and it’s not raining that day . . .”
    “Mrs. Dowdel, I knew you would stand and deliver!” Mrs. Weidenbach clasped her hands. “And remember, even the red ribbon for second prize will be better than nothing.”
    Grandma gazed past her, seeming to count the corpses on the flypaper strip. Mrs. Weidenbach was dismissed and soon left. We all listened to the powerful roar as she ground her Hupmobile into gear.
    Grandma’s sleeves were already turned back, or she’d be turning them back now. She pointed at me. “Scoot uptown and bring me a twenty-five-pound sack of sugar. Tell them to stick it on my bill. After that I want every gooseberry off them bushes out back.” She turned on Mary Alice. “And you’re going to learn a thing or two about pie crust.”
    There followed three of the busiest days of my young life. Wrestling twenty-five pounds of sugar back from Moore’s Store was nothing to picking all the gooseberry bushes clean. As Mrs.