Looking for Salvation at the Dairy Queen by Susan Gregg Gilmore Page A

true and all the while working in the kitchen just like my mama used to do. Gloria Jean called it divine intervention. She said maybe my granddaddy left those strawberries there for me so I could turn them into something more valuable than I could have ever imagined. She figured I could sell the jars for a dollar a piece and that Mr. Tucker, the manager at the Dollar General Store, might even let me display them on one of his shelves, if we asked him real sweet.
    “Gloria Jean,” I said, suddenly sounding deflated. Mama died before she taught me how to do much of anything in the kitchen. “I don't know how to make jam or jelly or anything like that. I helped Ida Belle pickle some cucumbers once, but I just did what she told me to do.”
    “Lord child, I know you don't know how and that's why I'm going to show you. Who do you think taught your mama? That's right,” she said, acknowledging my surprise. “But you need to pick those strawberries first and there are hundreds of ’em. You know how to do that, don't you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
    “All righty then, you start picking, and in a couple of days, I'll take you to town to buy the jars and pectin and sugar and everything else you're going to need to go into business. I'll even loan you some money, as a good-faith gesture, and you can pay me back when you sell all your jam.”
    I ran home and grabbed my blue jeans and old sneakers, explaining the whole plan to Martha Ann as I changed my clothes. I told her I'd give her fifteen cents from every jar I sold if she'd help me pick the strawberries.
    Martha Ann didn't like to get dirt on her hands any more than she liked water in her nose. She always put up a fuss when it was her turn to water the tomatoes because Daddy also made her pull any weeds that had popped up around the vines. But the idea of making money was too tempting even for Martha Ann, so she agreed to help as long as she got to wear Mama's old gardening gloves that Daddy kept in the garage hanging next to the watering can.
    We ran the whole way to the church, carrying baskets in both hands and kicking up the dirt behind us. As I put one foot in front of the other, I kept thinking that maybe, finally, the Lord was listening to me.
    When I got to the garden's edge, something inside told me to stop. Something said I was about to step on holy ground and I ought to say a little prayer or something respectful before taking my next step.
    I knew my granddaddy was watching over me. And I suspected he had left me this garden as a present that had taken me some time to appreciate, kind of like the porcelain dish Gloria Jean had given me for my tenth birthday. It had a picture of a little fairy painted on it, and she said the fairy's sweet smile reminded her of me. When I opened the box and she saw my disappointment that it wasn't that pink leather wallet I'd been admiring in the window at Mrs. Huckstep's gift shop, she promised me that someday, when I was a little older, I was going to love that dish more than any old worn-out wallet. It was a keepsake, she said, and you grow to love them more as each year passes.
    I knelt down on my knees and squished my fingers in the warm, dark brown dirt as if to introduce myself to the same piece of earth my granddaddy had tended so lovingly for so many years. I reached for a red, plump berry, and as I pulled it off the runner, I said a few words of thanksgiving. Then I dropped it into my basket. Every strawberry I picked that day felt like another little keepsake he'd left behind for me to find. Martha Ann and I picked strawberries until the sun started to fall behind the roof of the church, casting a shadow over our heads. Our baskets were overflowing and the tips of our fingers ached, but neither one of us wanted to stop.
    We sat by the garden before heading home and sucked on the berries we'd picked but couldn't fit into our baskets. We looked at each other and started to laugh. Our lips had turned as red as