jawbreakers and Hershey’s kisses at Dinky’s Discount and sell the little packages in the lunchroom for a lot more than they cost.
Priscilla and Ginny are both running for princess, along with five of the popular girls. They all sit together in the cafeteria at lunchtime. Since kindergarten we’ve had lunch together every day, but now I sit alone. Their table, the first one inside the door, is just for princess candidates. This is not a real rule, just Melody Reece’s rule. I’ll be glad when May Day is over.
I bring my lunch and enough money to buy milk. That’s it. Every day Ginny and Priscilla ask if I’ve put money in their jars. I’m saving, I say. Maybe tomorrow. But it’s a waste of money to “vote,” which is what they call contributing money, for anyone except Melody Reece. Her daddy is the manager of the Piggly Wiggly store and he’s put jars at every register with a picture of Melody wearing a crown that looks an awful lot like the May Day princess crown. Brock’s store put up jars for Priscilla and Ginny, but the Piggly Wiggly gets a lot more customers, especially ones who actually buy stuff. Most of the people at Brock’s are there to play dominoes. Anyway, they’re old men who don’t have money to waste.
I see Zeno stuffing his lunch money in Melody’s jar every day, thinking he’s going to be the next prince. The girls get to choose their escorts and every single one of them is crazy about Zeno, even though he’s the most annoying human being alive.
Myra was the May Day queen when she was in high school. She wore a long white gown and rode on the back of a red convertible in the May Day parade. Momma has her picture sitting on the mantel above the fireplace.
I tell this to Willie Bright at the bus stop and he says: “If you were running, I’d put all my money in your jar.”
“You don’t have any money,” I say.
“If I did have money and if you were running …”
“That’s a lot of
ifs,”
I say. “Besides, I’m not the princess type.”
M oments …
I’m helping Momma clean Uncle Lu’s room while he’s out fishing. It’s a mess. Dirty clothes piled up in one corner waiting to be toted downstairs to the washing machine, opened pouches of Prince Albert tobacco lying around half-full, shoe boxes full of dried, muddy roots. Uncle Lu searches the mountains for all kinds of wild roots and seeds and flowers to make herbal remedies.
“Don’t ever eat or drink any of Lu’s mixes,” Momma says.
“I’m not stupid.”
“Chileda, I didn’t say that. I simply—”
“I know, Momma.”
She scoots the shoe boxes under the bed.
“I don’t see how he sleeps with the heat up here,” she says. “Why don’t you go downstairs and bring up a fan.”
I grab an armful of Uncle Lu’s dirty clothes, head down to the kitchen, and drop the shirts and pants and holey socks on the floor in front of the washer. We don’t have a dryer, so Momma has to hang everything on the clothesline out back. It’s not too bad in the summer, but in the wintertime the clothes freeze and take forever to dry. Sometimes, when a whole week is wet and cold, we have clothes hanging inside all over the house. If Myra and Uncle Lu stay until next winter, we won’t have enough room to move around on laundry day.
I bring up the fan and Momma makes a place for it on Uncle Lu’s dresser. It feels cool as long as you follow the blowing air from side to side.
“How big was Grandma Sudie’s house?” I ask. My great-great-grandmother died a long time before I was born and there’s nothing much left of the family house on Mercy Hill.
“I thought it was a castle back then,” Momma says. She’s stripped Uncle Lu’s bed and is putting on a freshwhite fitted sheet. I get on the opposite side and stretch the ends around the mattress corners.
“It must have been huge!” I try to picture the old house from the tales she’s told of kids running through the rooms and up and down the staircase. She
Priscilla and Ginny are both running for princess, along with five of the popular girls. They all sit together in the cafeteria at lunchtime. Since kindergarten we’ve had lunch together every day, but now I sit alone. Their table, the first one inside the door, is just for princess candidates. This is not a real rule, just Melody Reece’s rule. I’ll be glad when May Day is over.
I bring my lunch and enough money to buy milk. That’s it. Every day Ginny and Priscilla ask if I’ve put money in their jars. I’m saving, I say. Maybe tomorrow. But it’s a waste of money to “vote,” which is what they call contributing money, for anyone except Melody Reece. Her daddy is the manager of the Piggly Wiggly store and he’s put jars at every register with a picture of Melody wearing a crown that looks an awful lot like the May Day princess crown. Brock’s store put up jars for Priscilla and Ginny, but the Piggly Wiggly gets a lot more customers, especially ones who actually buy stuff. Most of the people at Brock’s are there to play dominoes. Anyway, they’re old men who don’t have money to waste.
I see Zeno stuffing his lunch money in Melody’s jar every day, thinking he’s going to be the next prince. The girls get to choose their escorts and every single one of them is crazy about Zeno, even though he’s the most annoying human being alive.
Myra was the May Day queen when she was in high school. She wore a long white gown and rode on the back of a red convertible in the May Day parade. Momma has her picture sitting on the mantel above the fireplace.
I tell this to Willie Bright at the bus stop and he says: “If you were running, I’d put all my money in your jar.”
“You don’t have any money,” I say.
“If I did have money and if you were running …”
“That’s a lot of
ifs,”
I say. “Besides, I’m not the princess type.”
M oments …
I’m helping Momma clean Uncle Lu’s room while he’s out fishing. It’s a mess. Dirty clothes piled up in one corner waiting to be toted downstairs to the washing machine, opened pouches of Prince Albert tobacco lying around half-full, shoe boxes full of dried, muddy roots. Uncle Lu searches the mountains for all kinds of wild roots and seeds and flowers to make herbal remedies.
“Don’t ever eat or drink any of Lu’s mixes,” Momma says.
“I’m not stupid.”
“Chileda, I didn’t say that. I simply—”
“I know, Momma.”
She scoots the shoe boxes under the bed.
“I don’t see how he sleeps with the heat up here,” she says. “Why don’t you go downstairs and bring up a fan.”
I grab an armful of Uncle Lu’s dirty clothes, head down to the kitchen, and drop the shirts and pants and holey socks on the floor in front of the washer. We don’t have a dryer, so Momma has to hang everything on the clothesline out back. It’s not too bad in the summer, but in the wintertime the clothes freeze and take forever to dry. Sometimes, when a whole week is wet and cold, we have clothes hanging inside all over the house. If Myra and Uncle Lu stay until next winter, we won’t have enough room to move around on laundry day.
I bring up the fan and Momma makes a place for it on Uncle Lu’s dresser. It feels cool as long as you follow the blowing air from side to side.
“How big was Grandma Sudie’s house?” I ask. My great-great-grandmother died a long time before I was born and there’s nothing much left of the family house on Mercy Hill.
“I thought it was a castle back then,” Momma says. She’s stripped Uncle Lu’s bed and is putting on a freshwhite fitted sheet. I get on the opposite side and stretch the ends around the mattress corners.
“It must have been huge!” I try to picture the old house from the tales she’s told of kids running through the rooms and up and down the staircase. She
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