Scrappy Summer (2 page)

It struck her then, as it sometimes did, that when she first started out—married,
young mother, new scrapbooker—it was all about gathering things, organizing, and displaying.
Now she felt encumbered by them, weighted down. Digital design felt freeing.

“Mom, where’s my gym bag?” asked Jonathon, her youngest son, as he walked into the
kitchen.

“In your room, on your doorknob. Your lunch is on the counter. Don’t forget, because—”

“I know, I know. You won’t bring it to me at camp.” He leaned over and kissed her.
“Bye, Mom. Have a great day.”

Sheila grinned. Time for her run, now that he was out the door. He was her youngest,
and the upcoming school year would be his last in middle school. Another was in high
school, and one was in college, studying design—be still her beating heart.

Just like every other day in her life, when her shoes hit the sidewalk, Sheila’s mind
hit a blessed blank. She no longer thought about her upcoming teacher meetings at
the school, the way her scrapbooking business was slowly declining, or the fact that
she hadn’t seen her husband in a week. She managed while he was off on another trip
as a guide through the mountains. No. All of those things left her mind. She turned
on her iPod, placed her earbuds in her ears, and took off to the sound of Pink, one
of her favorites.

As she ran, she noticed how lovely Beatrice’s garden looked, how the Jenkinses really
needed to clean up that front porch, and that Sonny Majors was sneaking out of Becky
Feller’s house—out the back door. And Sheila had to wonder if Becky’s husband had
been working the night shift.

DeeAnn decided to call Darlene but prepared herself for the guilt trip that she knew
was coming.

“Well, hey, DeeAnn,” Darlene said. “Thought you dropped off the planet.”

“Well, if you were worried, you could have picked up the phone,” DeeAnn said. “You
have my number, right?”
Zing!

“I can’t afford the long distance. You know that. Now that Floyd’s almost retired,
we need to be careful. How are you doing? How’s the girls?”

DeeAnn was the mother of two daughters, both studying to be nurses. “They are fine.
How about you?”

“Ed’s getting ready for med school.” Darlene always had to try to one-up DeeAnn. She
needed to take control of the conversation, or it would turn into one of those “My
kids are better than your kids” conversations that left DeeAnn sick to her stomach.

“Hey, Darlene, I’m calling about Mom’s apple-cheddar pie recipe,” DeeAnn said, changing
the subject.

“I have it. Don’t you?”

“I do. But have you ever made it before?”

“No. I don’t eat that stuff anymore. Not after I lost all my weight.”

“Hmmm. Okay. I’m making it for a pie competition and just wondered if you had any
words of advice for me.”

“Bake it. Don’t eat it. That’s my advice.” The weight issue again. Okay, sure, DeeAnn
could stand to lose some weight. But she was pretty happy with herself—um, er, at
least until she had conversations with her sister, which left her feeling ashamed
and weak. Maybe she should try to diet again.

But how could she bake and not taste anything? She had to make sure her baked goods
passed the taste test.

The phone rang almost immediately after DeeAnn had hung up from speaking with her
sister. It was Tracy, her daughter.

“Mom, I have the best news,” she said. “I have a job waiting for me when I graduate!”

“Where?” DeeAnn’s heart was in her mouth. She hoped it wasn’t in Texas, where both
of her daughters studied. Texas, of all places. It was too far away. Now she knew
how her mom had felt all those years ago, when DeeAnn moved to Virginia from Minnesota.

“In Virginia, at the university hospital,” she said. “I’ll be working at the breast
cancer center.”

DeeAnn’s hand went to her heart, and tears stung at her eyes. She was so thrilled
that she couldn’t speak.

“Mom? Are you there?”

“Oh, honey,” DeeAnn said, sounding like a blubbering old woman, which was exactly
what she didn’t want to sound like.
Damn.
“I’m thrilled. Of course.”

DeeAnn cleared her throat.
Get a grip, woman.
“Have you decided what pie to make yet?” Tracy changed the subject.

“Your gram’s apple cheddar,” she said. Yes, she was certain she’d give that recipe
a go.

“No, Ma,” she said. “C’mon. What you really need to do is to create a new recipe that
will kick ass. Sorry for my language, Mom, but it’s about time those women got off
their high horse about pie.”

Something about that statement made DeeAnn giggle. They laughed through the rest of
their conversation.

After she hung up the phone, DeeAnn made her way to the farmer’s market, which was
in the center of town. Even though she thought a lot of these farmers asked a bit
too much for their produce, she didn’t mind paying it when she knew them, knew where
the food came from.

Stalls were lined up on either side of the square. The last of the summer’s tomatoes
looked a bit straggly to DeeAnn, but she knew they’d taste good—better than anything
you could get in the grocery store. She loaded up on them and made certain to get
some fresh greens from the Ryan family. She noted several bushels of Gala apples,
which were not good for baking. They became mealy when baked in a pie. Her eyes scanned
farther along until she found an assortment of what she sought—pippins, Jonathans,
Braeburns, and Granny Smiths. Mixing the tart with the sweet was always a rule when
baking apple pie. All of them together held up nicely when baking and didn’t turn
into some strange apple sauce kinda thing.

“I’ll take these. Do you deliver?” DeeAnn asked Hannah, who was one of Annie’s friends.
It was an odd friendship, but they genuinely seemed to like one another. Annie, all
urban and sophisticated, and Hannah, an Old Order Mennonite.

“Yes,” she replied. “Not a problem.”

DeeAnn was as happy as she could be. Everything was going so smoothly. She just knew
she would win that competition.

Later that night DeeAnn told the croppers what her daughter had said. “About time
those women got off their high horse about pie.” They shared a giggle over that and
agreed that she might be better off creating a new recipe.

“Maybe she’s right. Maybe I shouldn’t rely on an old recipe. But I think what I’ll
do is fancy it up a bit. Make a few changes,” DeeAnn said, sitting two pies on the
counter of the kitchenette in Sheila’s basement.

“One of these pies is the original recipe, and the other is a new one, one I created.
Ready to taste?” she said to the scrappers. She started to slice up the pies.

In the meantime, Paige held up her latest page, which had photos of old, translucent,
shimmery dishes. The header said “Carnival Glass.”

“Isn’t that pretty?” Annie said.

“It’s my carnival glass collection,” Paige said.

“You know, there’s a lot of talk these days about not getting attached to things and
living the simple life. But I like some of my things because of the meaning they have.
For example, some of these dishes were my great-grandmother’s. She gave them to me.
When I look at them, I think about her, and it’s comforting.”

“I’ve been reading about people scrapbooking about their things. I think it’s a fabulous
idea,” DeeAnn said. “A great record for your kids to have, if nothing else.”

“And Randy loves my dishes,” Paige said. “He knows all the stories behind them, but
I don’t want him to forget . . . or for his child to forget.”

“Are they going to adopt, then?” Sheila asked.

“I don’t know,” Paige said and sighed. “He and his partner are having problems. The
adoption talk has stopped.”

The room quieted. DeeAnn hoped it worked out for Randy and his partner. Paige and
Earl had had a difficult time accepting their son’s homosexuality. Now Paige was fine
with it, and Earl was working on it.

“I’ll take a small piece of each,” Vera said, setting down her scissors and heading
for the pie.

“I’m right in the middle of finishing this die-cut on the Cricut machine. I’ll be
right there,” Sheila said.

“What are you making?” Paige asked, sitting her page down and admiring it.

“Peace symbols on this tie-dye cardstock. It’s for my traditional entry,” Sheila said.

“You have to design a regular scrapbook and then several digital things, right? I
don’t get that. I mean, it’s for a digital design gig, right?” Paige asked. “Sounds
like a lot of work.” She took a plate from DeeAnn. Two slices. One had a crumbly topping;
the other, a gorgeous lattice crust—one of DeeAnn’s specialties.

“They want to make certain you understand traditional scrapbooks,” Sheila explained.
“You know, a lot of people think it has to be one way or the other, but it doesn’t.
You can do both, and you can do a little of each. I think one of the things they are
looking for is someone who gets that.”

“Well, you certainly do,” Vera said. “I’m sure you’re going to win. Now I want to
figure out a way to do some secret journaling on this page. Any ideas?”

“What are you trying to do?” Paige asked, setting down her glass of wine.

“I’m just making a page for Elizabeth, ten reasons why I love you. But I want her
to find the reasons,” Vera said. “I thought it might be fun for her.”

“You can do something as simple as tucking tags into pockets, or use little envelopes,”
Sheila said.

“I think I’ll use both. I have these lovely little pink vellum envelopes. But I’m
looking for other ideas. More creative,” Vera said.

“You can hide journaling behind a hinged picture,” Annie said. “That worked for me
in Ben’s soccer book.”

“Oh, you have a lot of tags,” Paige said, fingering the colorful pieces. “You can
do the same kind of hinge with the tags, and when you lift it, there’s the journaling.”

“You know, once I created an envelope shaped like a mailbox and placed some writing
inside of that,” Sheila said.

“Too complicated,” Vera said.

“Have you ever seen those mini folders for scrapbooking? I bet that would work,” Annie
said. “You could hide a lot in one of those.”

“How about using a gatefold with what you already have?” Sheila said.

“A what?” Vera said.

“You know, a gatefold design is when two flaps fold to meet in the center. And you
can place your note inside,” Sheila said. “It’s easy to make. Look,” she said and
held up a piece of cardstock and folded and scored a line one-quarter of the way from
each side. “You see, you can embellish it now, hide something in the center, whatever
you want.”

“I love that,” Vera said. “How simple. It can also work with one fold like a card.”

“Or with an accordion fold,” Sheila said, her attention back on the die-cut machine.
Then she said, “Now, where’s that pie we’re supposed to be tasting?”

“I have my piece and wow,” Annie said. “This is really good pie. I love the cheese
in it. Gives it an interesting texture.”

“Let me see,” Paige said, then scooped a bit into her mouth. “Fantastic,” she said
after swallowing.

“I see what you meant about the apples the other day. I mean, these are just perfect.
The texture. I was going to say I’ve had some bad apple pie, but that’s not true.
It’s that none of it has been as good as this,” Annie said, then finished her first
piece of pie and moved on to the next.

“There,” Sheila said. “I think I’m done.” She moved her book to the other side of
the table and reached for the pie.

“Oh my Gawd,” Paige said. “What have you done, DeeAnn? This pie is incredible!”

“The second piece?” DeeAnn said.

“Yes!” Annie replied. “Out of this world. It’s like my taste buds all sat up and said
hello!”

DeeAnn smiled. “It’s an apple–green chili pie with cheddar and walnut crust. Is it
a winner?” She clapped her hands together.

“I think you’d win with either one, honestly, but this is amazing. Why not show off,
DeeAnn? You created it yourself !” Paige said.

“I agree,” Annie said. “And I’ll take another slice.”

DeeAnn beamed. This year she’d finally be the pie champion. She felt it in her bones.

On Monday, two days after the crop, Sheila went to the opening day of the fair. She
made her way into the craft hall, housed in an old barn, next to the fire hall, where
the main fair activities were held. She’d been trying for years to get a scrapbooking
competition going locally. But nobody seemed interested. Quilts were lined up in rows.
Some quilts were gorgeous works of art; others, Sheila wouldn’t let her dog lie on.
Honestly, what were some people thinking?

She walked around the barn until her eyes couldn’t stand it anymore. It was sensory
overload. The crocheted afghans almost did her in with their extreme tackiness this
year. Unattractive colors. Overused patterns.

As she stepped out of the barn, she heard tractor engines roaring. They were getting
ready for the yearly tractor-pull event, which Sheila had never really cared for,
but her husband and his buddies had already scouted their spots, pulled up their trucks
and lawn chairs, and were taking bets on which tractor could pull the heaviest loads
and for how long. The scent of the tractors’ engines mingling with the scent of horse
and cow manure, Sheila turned and walked the other way, back toward the baking hall.
It was almost time for the judges to convene and taste.

She walked past the Ferris wheel and the merry-go-round, knowing her kids were not
anywhere around, now way too old for these rides, but she still couldn’t resist stopping
and watching as young mothers held on to their little ones as they perched on a big,
colorful horse. Dads were vying for space to take pictures.
If I become a real scrapbook designer, I might just design a carnival line, inspired
by the colors and textures of this very merry-go-round.

“Hey, Sheila, where’s the family?” Bobby-Jo Sanders walked up to her.