A Year on Ladybug Farm #1 (15 page)

“Who is it?”

“Will Peterson. Bear Gap Road.”

As she so often did after successfully finishing a conversation with Farley, Cici sighed. “Thank you.” She pulled a ten dollar bill out of her pocket and he took it silently.

“Won’t do you no good.” Farley tucked the bill into his wallet.

Again, a sense of dread crept upon her. “Why not?”

“Gone to Baltimore.”

“Oh. When will he be back?”

He looked at her for a moment as though the stupidity of the question surpassed understanding. “Ain’t no telling. Sometimes a week, sometimes two.”

“Isn’t there anyone else?”

He said, “Nope.” He climbed aboard the tractor. “Ya’ll coming to the pig-pickin’?”

Now it was her turn to stare blankly. “The what?”

“Fourth of Ju-ly.” He pronounced it with the accent on the first syllable of July. “Parade and pig-pickin’, downtown. Starts at one o’clock. Maggie said I was to ask you special. Ain’t got no fireworks,” he added, somewhat morosely, Cici thought.

“Oh. Well, yes, of course we’ll come. Thank you.” She felt compelled to add, “I’m sure it will be wonderful, even without fireworks.”

She wanted to ask him about wiring the house for a heat pump, but he started the engine of the tractor and puttered down the driveway without another word.

All things considered, it was probably just as well.

“What do you suppose a pig-picking is?” Bridget asked

Lindsay tossed her a look of mock disdain. “Where are you from, anyway? The big city? Everyone knows a pig-picking is where they turn a little pig loose in a maze and a bunch of boys try to catch it.”

“I think that’s a greased pig chase,” Cici said.

“Well, it’s something like that.”

Cici pulled into one of the few remaining parking places on Main Street, half a block away from the Dollar Store. “Remember,” she cautioned, “we can’t stay long. I want to try to get the front porch floor painted this afternoon.”

“You sure know how to celebrate a holiday,” Bridget said.

“It’s way too hot to paint,” agreed Lindsay. “What I want to do is find someone, anyone, who will sell me a window air conditioner.”

“You try to plug in an air conditioner and you’ll blow every fuse in that house.”

“Come on, girls,” Bridget said, opening the car door, “let’s try to forget about the heat for a while and enjoy the parade.”

“No fireworks,” Cici reminded them with a fair imitation of Farley’s glum expression, and they all grinned as they got out of the car.

The smell of charcoal and hickory smoke greeted them, causing them each to suppress a groan of anticipatory pleasure. The sidewalks were lined with booths decked in red, white, and blue bunting, selling everything from crocheted teapot cozies to memberships in the Women’s Club. The Lions Club had the most popular booth, featuring homemade ice cream scooped from churns packed in dry ice. The ladies joined the line of men, women, and children dressed in cotton shorts and colorful shirts and found themselves sharing some of the restless anxiety as, in the distance, they heard the drumming of the marching band beginning its warm-up. No one wanted to miss the opening of a parade.

They purchased dripping sugar cones—peach, strawberry, and black walnut—and followed the hurrying crowd to the roped-off intersection of Main, Harrison, and Riker Streets. Veteran parade-goers had arrived early and set up lawn chairs and coolers on the curb. Now they sat with paper plates filled with barbecue and sticky-faced children bouncing up and down with excitement, proud owners of the best seats in the house. Others had camped out on the grassy lawns of the two churches with checkered tablecloths spread out for picnics and games of dodgeball and blindman’s bluff going on to pass the time until the parade started. There were tables and booths everywhere one looked, most of them selling food, and from the lawn of the Baptist church came a slow coil of smoke and the enticing aroma of savory cooked pork.

“Wow,” said Cici, looking around as she licked melted ice cream from the bottom of her cone. “It’s like a scaled-down version of Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.”

“Or maybe a miniature Rose Bowl,” offered Lindsay, catching drips from the piled-high scoop of strawberry ice cream with her tongue. “This is heaven in a cone.”

“We are not going home without some of that barbecue I smell,” Bridget said.

With a drumroll and a slightly flat blare of trumpets, the nattily dressed marching band opened the parade with their own rendition of “Stars and Stripes Forever.” There were high-stepping girls with flaming batons, and no one seemed in the least alarmed when one of the batons, having sailed to the heavens and executed three midair turns, landed in the middle of the crowd somewhere. There was a little excitement while the flames were stamped out and the baton was returned to its rightful owner, but the marching band never missed a beat.

The riding club was represented by riders in turquoise Stetsons atop white horses in jingling harness, and Miss Blue Valley made her entrance riding on the back of a Mustang convertible, wearing a blue satin gown, evening gloves, and what appeared to be a fox stole around her shoulders. Sweat stains had damaged the blue satin beyond all hope of repair.

There was a vintage fire engine and a contingent of Army Reservists in full uniform, which elicited wild cheers and applause from the crowd as they passed by, followed by a World War II cannon pulled by a pickup truck. There were representatives of various clubs and civic organizations carrying banners, and mascots wearing chicken suits and pig suits and dog suits, waving to the crowd. The whole thing ended with Shriners in tiny cars, and it was impossible not to laugh and cheer with the rest of the crowd when the last of them passed by.

They stopped by a booth selling fried pies and homemade pound cakes, and received an invitation to join the Women’s Literary Society. Bridget bought a folk-art painted birdhouse and received advice on organic pest control for the garden, as well as a great many helpful—although not necessarily relevant—thoughts on what kind of mole, rabbit, deer, or goat might be devouring her sprouts. Cici bought a vintage marcasite ring that that she thought Lori might like for her upcoming birthday, from a booth that was raising funds for new computers for the elementary school; it was there that she met the mayor and his wife. Lindsay saw Jonesie selling his wife’s lemon cakes to raise money for new band uniforms, and promptly placed an order for electric fans, which he promised to deliver the first thing in the morning.

But by far their most lucrative find was when they crossed the street to the Baptist lawn and discovered a pig, roasting in a pit under a bed of glowing wood coals while a bluegrass band played and men in overalls served parts of that pig, with your choice of red (sweet) or vinegar (sour) barbecue sauce, complete with baked beans, potato salad, and a side of slaw, for five dollars a plate.

“And now we know,” announced Cici as they stepped into line, “what pig-picking is.”

Maggie was behind one of the tables, pouring lemonade, and she happily introduced her husband Lee as the overalled barbecue chef by her side. When they inquired about the pig, Lee was pleased to explain how it had been roasting in a closed pit all night, supervised by the men of the Rotary Club, who kept each other awake with tall tales and, he added with a wink and a nod toward his wife, maybe a six-pack or two. It was an annual event, and the money they raised was divided equally between the mission funds of the two churches.

“What’s the deal with the fireworks?” Cici wanted to know. “Farley seemed awfully disappointed.”

Lee gave a snort that was half derision, half amusement. “Guess he should’ve planned better, then.”

“Farley usually drives down to this little place in South Carolina to get a special deal on the fireworks,” Maggie explained. “It’s not that we have a big display, just a few little things for the children, you know. But this year he waited too late to go and they were all out of the good stuff.”

“Got plenty of sparklers though,” chuckled Lee, ladling up baked beans. “Ya’ll be sure to stay for that.”

“They told him they’d have a new shipment in by the middle of next week,” added Maggie.

Lee just shook his head, still chuckling.

Maggie wanted to know how they were settling in, and they regaled her with stories of their house-restoration efforts while she helped fill their plates.

“So now we have a forced-air furnace sitting in our cellar and no air conditioner, and I don’t think we’ll ever see that electrician again,” Lindsay said.

“Not to mention we’re going to have to have some serious septic tank work done,” Cici said. “Farley gave me the name of a fellow, Will Peterson, but said he was in Baltimore for a couple of weeks.”

Maggie frowned a little as she filled three paper cups with lemonade. “Baltimore? Will Peterson can’t even afford to go to Stony Gap.” And then her face cleared. “Oh! He must have said ‘gone to Baltimore.’ As in . . .” She lifted one shoulder and looked at them meaningfully. “You know.”

Cici looked at Bridget and Bridget looked at Lindsay. They all looked back at Maggie.

Maggie glanced at Lee, who just shrugged and wedged a huge piece of Texas toast onto the plate he was preparing. She lowered her voice and leaned toward them confidentially. “You
know.
He drinks. Sometimes for weeks at a time. Most of the year, he’s just as fine a fellow as you could meet, but if you happen to be in the middle of a job when he goes off on a bender, Lord help you. No, no, you don’t want Will, do they, sweetie?” She poured herself a glass of lemonade, looking thoughtful. “Why don’t you girls put in your own circuit box?” she suggested. “Nothing to it, really, just make sure you turn off the main breaker for the house before you get started.”

“Easy as pie,” Lee assured them, mounding coleslaw onto the plate. “Ya’ll want sweet or sour?”

Lindsay said, “Sweet for me,” and Lee ladled red sauce over the shredded pork on her plate.

Cici said, “Don’t you have to have a licensed electrician do something like that to pass code?”

Maggie gave a dismissing wave of her hand. “What code? Around here, we figure it’s your property and you can do what you want with it. Farley can take care of your electric work,” she added, growing thoughtful again, “but you’re really going to need a heating-and-air contractor, not to mention a new septic tank. What you need to do,” she advised, “is go to church.”

Lindsay accepted a heaping plate of hot barbecue pork. “Church?”

Maggie nodded. “The Baptists have the carpenters, the Methodists have the plumbers. Baptists have a good heat-and-air man, Methodists have the best stonemason. And for your grading and septic work, it’s Methodist all the way.”

“But I’m Presbyterian,” Lindsay said.

“And I’m Lutheran,” said Bridget, looking concerned.

“Unitarian,” Cici admitted with an apologetic shrug.

Maggie gave them a sympathetic smile as she produced the last overflowing plate. “Well, now,” she assured them gently, “I’m sure you’ll do just fine.” She held out her hand. “That’ll be fifteen dollars.”

 

 

So, on Sunday, Bridget and Lindsay went to the Methodist church and Cici went to the Baptist church. They wore their most conservative suits—Bridget’s navy blue with a white blouse and ruffled collar; Lindsay’s a camel color with a short jacket and pleated skirt; and Cici in smoke gray and a black blouse. Their hair was pulled back, their jewelry modest, and their expressions determined. They looked like members of a law firm setting off for a power lunch.

Lindsay volunteered to stuff envelopes for the March of Dimes in the spring, and Bridget agreed to serve on the Food Committee for the Mission Society’s annual banquet in the fall. They were introduced to two contractors, a high school guidance counselor, the librarian, and Deke Sanders, who owned Sanders Grading, Hauling, and Septic Repair.

Cici sang “Amazing Grace,” listened to a sermon on the evils of moral complacency and video gaming, and was heartily embraced by Maggie—as well as by several other people she didn’t know—who swept her off to the Fellowship Hall to drink Kool-Aid and munch lemon cookies. There she wrote a check to the Building Fund, and was introduced to the pastor and his wife, several councilmen, the church pianist, and Sam Renfro, of Sam’s Heating and Air.

“You know,” decided Lindsay as they kicked off their high heels and peeled out of their hoisery at home, “it’s not such a bad thing to go to church every now and then. In case of emergency, you know.”

Cici said, “You don’t call having no air-conditioning and a backed-up septic system an emergency?”

“I know what she means,” Bridget said. “You know, in case you get sick or something.” The last time they had been together in a church, had been for Jim’s funeral.

Cici took off her jacket and tugged her blouse out of her skirt as she started upstairs. “I suppose,” she agreed, a little reluctantly, “at our age you have to think about things like that. Besides, it’s a good way to get to know the new community.”

“One thing,” Lindsay cautioned, following her up the stairs. “I think the pastor was a little annoyed that you didn’t come with us to the Methodist church.”

Cici admitted, “Maggie
did
ask where you two were.”

The three of them stood on the stairs and puzzled over this for a moment.

“I don’t see how all of us can be at both churches at the same time,” Cici said.

“A house divided against itself cannot stand,” Bridget pronounced solemnly.

“On the other hand,” ventured Lindsay, “the Methodist church does have an eight o’clock service.”

“And the Baptist church has one at nine thirty.”

“Do you mean,” Bridget queried, only slightly incredulous, “we should go to
both
churches?”