by Jaime Berry
Hope Springs was going to be my perfect place; I just knew it. I wasn’t about to let Momma ruin my good mood. Packing always took my mind off things. So, I hopped up and got to work.
I didn’t have much to take. Relocation Rule Number 4: It’s easier to say goodbye if there’s not much to say goodbye to. We didn’t need extra things. But each month, that stupid box of pink letters from Momma got fuller, and each time we moved, I thought about leaving it behind. Maybe leaving things behind ran in my family.
When I’d wait for the school bus in the mornings, Mr. Taft and I fed the squirrels together. Starting next week, Mr. Taft would be feeding the squirrels on his own. Another person we’d leave behind, and I knew he’d miss us. He seemed even more alone than Nan and me.
I grabbed two thick sheets of card stock. My Caring Critter Card would do the trick. It was my staple thank-you, get well soon, any holiday, and most often goodbye card and could be modified to almost any animal. I made an owl for Ms. Landry, my fourth-grade teacher. After I told her I only had two more days before we moved, she cried a flood. The owl held a heart, and on it I wrote, “You’re a hoot” in my neatest cursive, but really, she wasn’t all that funny. In fact, she cried a lot.
As I took out the other crafting supplies I’d need, I could hear Arletta’s voice in my head. “Nothing says you care like a handmade gift.” I set everything out, nice and neat and ready for a close-up, just like Arletta always did. After going over the supplies, she’d say, “Now, let me talk you through it.” I started on the card and let Arletta’s voice and the act of making something soothe my feelings.
I made Mr. Taft’s card into a squirrel, and when I finished, I wrote “I’m nuts about you” on the heart, though that wasn’t all that true either.
MR. TAFT’S CARING CRITTER CARD
Level: Beginner
Supplies:
2 5-inch by 7-inch pieces of card stock or construction paper cut to the right size would also do in a pinch
2 googly eyes (though I think handmade eyes from nice paper look a bit more mature)
Red construction paper
Tools:
Scissors
Glue stick
Black marker
Directions:
1. Cut the corners off one of the 5-inch sides of the card and fold that end a quarter of the way down, making the face of the squirrel.
2. Stick on googly or handmade eyes. Draw a mouth and nose using the marker.
3. Use the other card to cut out a tail, ears, and two paws (or any other features the critter of your choosing might have).
4. Glue the tail on the back so it sticks out to the side or up behind the head.
5. Using the red paper, cut out a small heart about three inches across. Glue the heart on the squirrel’s stomach and then glue the two paws on the sides.
6. Be sure to write a critter-themed message on the heart (sincerity isn’t necessary, but a hint of the truth sure can go a long way).
Best Not to Make Best Friends
School ended on a Wednesday. We packed all our worldly belongings into Nan’s old hatchback on Thursday and were on the road first thing Friday morning. After four hours of driving, sandwiched by yellowed cow pastures on each side, we were almost there.
“In six miles, exit left,” Nan’s GPS interrupted during her rotation of Willie Nelson and Dolly Parton songs. She may not rely on modern technology to find our new towns, but she sure did to drive there.
The little dot labeled Hope Springs crept closer and closer. I smoothed my twice-ironed skirt. Try as I might, I wasn’t able to smooth out my nerves or squish down my high expectations.
As we drove past an acre of flattened land and the makings of a huge building, my breath caught. It was all I could do to gasp and point. A billboard plastered with Arletta Paisley’s face smiled down like a Texan angel sent from above just for me. Under her face were the words SMARTMART SUPERSTORE OPENING SOON. Already, I had a good feeling about Hope Springs, and that billboard was like Arletta Paisley herself saying, “Jubilee, darlin’, I’m so glad you came.”
Nan laughed. “Looks like you’ve got your own personal meet-and-greet committee.”
Arletta Paisley had recently become the national spokesperson for SmartMart, and with both of them greeting me at the city limits, I felt double welcomed. SmartMart was the same in every town. I always knew where to find exactly what I wanted, and what I wanted was normally in the back of the store, where Arletta Paisley’s housewares lined the shelves. Overstuffed pillows, fluffy bath mats, floral-print shower curtains, pastel comforter sets, four-hundred-thread-count cotton sheets, and dishes, all in the calm shades of baby nurseries. Walking the aisles, I almost felt embraced.
Nan and I always did a drive-through in a new town, but our Hope Springs exploration didn’t last long because there wasn’t much to drive through. There was only one middle school, one high school, one biggish grocery store, and one run-down city pool, but about one million beauty parlors and churches. The library was the smallest one I’d ever seen, and the community center wasn’t much bigger. Another surprise was that Hope Springs, on first inspection, didn’t have any sign, statue, or other significant marker dedicated to Arletta Paisley. I didn’t even see anyone carrying one of her signature handbags or wearing a Queen of Neat T-shirt like the one I had folded up tight and tidy in my suitcase.
“Well, let’s see what we’ve got,” Nan said as we parked in front of City Hall. Our first day of a new move always started at City Hall. Nan said it was the fastest way to get settled into a new town. She never worried about getting a job. As a certified nursing assistant, or a CNA for short, she figured there’d never be a shortage of sick folks needing assistance.
Downtown consisted of two intersecting streets, Main Street and High Street, separated by a single flashing stoplight and no traffic. Not a single moving car.
Hope Springs’s City Hall was a two-story brick building with tall white columns and pairs of paint-peeled shutters on every window. In front, there was a stone well with a commemorative plaque. Finally, I thought and walked up to it, wondering what the heck a well had to do with Arletta Paisley.
The plaque read:
THIS WELL IS DEDICATED TO THE COURAGEOUS PIONEERS WHO SETTLED THIS TOWN IN THE YEAR 1836. DESPITE SEEMINGLY INSURMOUNTABLE HARDSHIP, INCLUDING THE DEVASTATING DROUGHT OF 1840, THESE BRAVE INDIVIDUALS RISKED THEIR LIVES TO LAY THE FOUNDATION FOR THE COMMUNITY THAT EXISTS TODAY. THEIR TIRELESS EFFORTS IN THE FACE OF ADVERSITY HAVE GIVEN US ALL A TREASURE WORTH MORE THAN GOLD—A HOME. WHILE THE SPRING IS NO MORE, LET THIS WELL BE A REMINDER THAT HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL.
Nan came and stood behind me, reading over my shoulder. “I’ll be,” she mumbled. “Guess that means there’s no spring in Hope Springs.” She chuckled all the way to the foot of the steps. “You coming?”
I didn’t think too much of fate or fortunes, but a dried-up spring sure didn’t seem like a great start. I closed my eyes and took deep gulps of air, trying to breathe in the place. No tingling, no goose bumps, not even a hint of perfection whatsoever. The only thing I felt was a strong urge to sweep the steps.
With my eyes still closed, I tried to picture that billboard again. I tried to reclaim that hopeful feeling I’d had just minutes before. I tried to ignore the fact that so far Hope Springs was falling a little short of what I’d hoped for.
“Nan, you mind if I wait here?” I sighed and plopped down on the first step, worried we’d made our way into another dead-end, boring, waste of time, dusty mudhole of a town, with another move not too far off.
“Sure, hon. But don’t wander.” She took the steps two at a time, her wooden wedges making a dull clomp to match my mood.
Nan turned and gave me a silly two-thumbs-up before going in. I prayed she found somewhere decent for us to live. She tended to trust her gut when it came to our rentals, and history had proven her gut wasn’t to be trusted.
As I sat staring down the empty Main Street, the heat pressed
on me until sweat trickled down my back. The stoplight creaked and swung in the slight breeze. I stood, stomped back over to the well, and dug around in my bag for a penny. Surely, that billboard meant something. I held my coin out, ready to wish that this place would be it, would be the perfect place we’d been searching for. With that penny balanced on my nail, waiting for a flip, I thought too long on all the things I might wish for and froze.
Nan was my father’s mother. He’d died in a motorcycle accident when I was four. I only had two clear memories of him. One was of a Big Bird birthday cake and my dad singing loud, Nan and Momma laughing and covering their ears. The other was of his short black hair and how it felt rough and soft at the same time, like crushed velvet. All I knew of him was from Nan’s stories. Sometimes, I thought losing him was harder for her because she remembered so much more, and because the motorcycle had been a hand-me-down present from her.
Nan hadn’t been on a motorcycle since Daddy died, but she sure hadn’t settled down any either. Other grandmothers with their sensible shoes, poufs of white hair, and flowery smells were nothing like Nan. She kept her hair cropped short and dyed jet black and smelled sharp and clean like cut grass. Though Nan’s biker days were behind her, the look stuck. She had a flair for fashion and makeup that was best left untapped.
I looked up to see a boy in a Texas Rangers hat watching me from across the street. He gave me a little wave, turned, and took off down Main Street before I had a chance to wave back. With the coin still waiting on my finger, I looked down into that empty well and thought about that kid I’d just seen, and how many new kids I’d met and then left behind. I wanted Nan and me to find a home, but really, the one thing I truly wanted was to wish that motorcycle out of existence. But the idea of my wish getting mixed up with hundreds and hundreds of strangers’ hopes made me drop the penny back into my purse.
“Hey, don’t fall in. There’s no water down there.” A girl my age came bouncing down the steps. Her knees were speckled with scabs, and her hair was a jumble of short dark curls thick enough to hide Easter eggs. “I’m Abby,” she said. “Abby Standridge. My mom’s the mayor. I’m not bragging. Just telling you before you hear it from someone else. Small town—everybody talks.”
Abby’s shorts were spattered with paint stains, and the pocket of her T-shirt was half torn off. She didn’t look a bit like the perfectly pressed, ready-for-Sunday-school politicians’ kids I’d seen on TV.
“I’m Jubilee. Nan and I just moved here.” I flicked a tattered leaf off my skirt.
“I know. I met your grandma inside at Housing and Development. Which is what my mom calls Mrs. Fisher, the receptionist. They were talking about Mrs. Burgess’s old house. It’s nice. There’s a pond nearby that’s full of catfish.” She looked at me like she expected an invitation. Fishing was not my idea of a good time, or even a halfway decent time. Besides that, it sounded like a best friends’ activity.
All last year, I’d held strongly to Relocation Rule Number 6: It’s best not to make best friends. I’d made that mistake once before, and I wasn’t about to do it again.
“I don’t think we brought my fishing pole.” I’d never in my life laid eyes on a real fishing pole, but I’d learned from Nan that, when it came to strangers, less truth meant less trouble.
“I live right down the road from the old Burgess place. You can’t miss my house; it’s big, old, and bright yellow. If you want, you could ride your bike over. Maybe I can even find an extra rod,” she offered. Before I could answer, she waved and ran back up the steps.
“I don’t think we brought my bike either!” I yelled after her.
While Abby seemed nice enough, it turned out we had different taste in extracurricular activities, and houses too. The Burgess place was anything but nice. The building sat at the end of a dirt driveway that erupted in plumes of dust at the sight of a car tire. One set of shutters was missing and the other hung lopsided, like the whole house had been smacked catawampus.
Out in a field, I could see the glassy top of a large pond of murky green water. The banks rose up thick with weeds, and the water seemed to suck in the sun rather than reflect it. If it was full of anything, it’d be snakes and maybe a swamp monster or two.
Nan killed the engine. We sat while the dust settled and stared for a minute.
“Well, it’s a step up from the apartment complex,” she said. “I thought a house would be nice for a change. It’s furnished too. Had to give a deposit, plus first and last months’ rent for the year. But we’ll make do.” That was code for she’d spent all or most of our money. “Why not start off with the best?”
I studied the house. If this was the best, I needed to adjust my expectations. The perfect place didn’t necessarily mean the place we lived in. So, I opened my car door and tried to be open-minded.
Nan must have sensed my skepticism. “We’ll make it work. ‘Creativity takes courage.’ Henri Matisse.” She walked over to my side of the car, grabbed my hand, and pulled me forward.
The walk to the porch coated my new white canvas slip-ons in a thin layer of orange dirt. While Nan fiddled with the keys, the wind kicked up and, just as she unlocked the door, a sand-filled gust blew right in our faces. We stepped inside. Nan gasped and dropped the bags in the middle of the living room.
“Holy horseradish,” she whispered. She turned in a slow circle, her mouth hanging open as she took it all in. Every single piece of furniture was covered in pink fabric—the kitchen cabinets were painted pink, the wood floors were covered in pink patterned rugs, and the couch was worn pink velvet. “Jubilee, am I dreaming?” It took every inch of my self-control to keep from laughing, but then Nan looked at me all wide-eyed, and we busted into a fit of giggles.
I grabbed her hand. One thing I’d learned from Arletta was that a true crafter didn’t just see what was in front of them; they saw possibilities. I wasn’t ready to give up on Hope Springs, and I wouldn’t let Nan do it either. “Don’t worry. Like you said, with a bit of courage, creativity and fifteen”—I eyed the pink and mauve striped drapes in the living room—“thirty-five yards of upholstery fabric, anything is possible.” A couch cover wasn’t an easy thing to whip up, but sometimes the glamorganizing way of life wasn’t for the faint of heart.
Wiggle Room
Nan and I left our bags where they landed and headed back to town. We stopped at the lonesome traffic light and scanned Main Street. Next to the post office stood a store called the Fabric Barn.
We parked and I peered through the dusty store window. “Well, it looks like this is it. We might as well go in,” I said.
Inside, the store was about as tidy as an actual barn and didn’t smell much better. Bolts of fabric lined aisles in no apparent order, and some weren’t even on a rack but propped up against the wall. Knitting supplies were mixed with quilting supplies, a scissors display was smack in the middle of a rack of corduroy, and the aisles turned and twisted rather than running in straight lines.
There was a cutting table marked up with scratches and gouges next to a register, though getting there was like navigating a Halloween corn maze. Behind the counter sat a lady with a long braid of white hair trailing over one shoulder. Her face was buried in a romance novel titled My General Forever, and a large snoring bulldog lay curled in a pile of wrinkled skin at her feet.
Nan cleared her throat, and instead of looking up, the woman raised her index finger and turned the page. When she finished, she clutched the book to her chest and said, “That General Maldonado is a real scoundrel. I personally can’t get enough of him.” She held out her hand to Nan. “Holly Paine. Nice to meet you both.”
Nan shook her hand and said, “I’m Nannette Johnson and this is my granddaughter, Jubilee.”
Holly nodded and removed her reading glasses. “Old Mrs. Burgess was a real fan of pink. She singlehandedly kept me in business my first year.” She laughed at our dumbfounded expressions. “Don’t look so shocked. News travels fast in Hope Springs.” The bulldo
g shook his face, curled up again with his back facing us, and then a horrible smell wafted up.
“Oh my,” Nan said and fanned the air. I fought the urge to hold my nose.
“Sorry about that. It’s Rayburn. He’s got a touch of gas,” Holly whispered and pointed to the bulldog as though he might be offended if he overheard. She looked me up and down. “Well, aren’t you neat as a box pleat. Got any fabrics in mind today?” she asked.
I felt myself blush at the compliment and asked, “Where’s your cotton canvas?”
“Some along the back wall and scattered in aisles three, four, and six,” Holly answered with a wave of her hand. “In other words, all over. Might be easier if I just showed you.” She came out from behind the register and led me to the fabric bolts, stacks of solids mixed with prints, cottons with satins, and linen with corduroys. I couldn’t figure how she found anything but the bulldog. Finding him only required a sense of smell.
“What about this gray for the sofa cover and some prints in yellow for the curtains and the pillows?” I asked Nan.
But it was Holly who nodded and said, “That’d look real nice.”
“Maybe something in a vintage-looking print for the kitchen chairs and the window over the sink?” I added.
Again, Holly Paine was right beside me, nodding like a bobblehead. “I know just the one,” she said, and next thing I knew, she had me by the hand, dragging me up one aisle and down the other. She yelled over her shoulder to Nan, “This girl knows fabric!”
“She knows more than fabric. She’s the most creative person I’ve ever met. Jubilee can make something beautiful out of an empty bottle and an old toothbrush,” Nan said.
Holly chuckled and pulled out a dusty bolt of fabric printed with bright yellow chrysanthemums. “What about this? It isn’t a reproduction. This is the real deal, circa 1975. Still here after all these years and not faded a bit.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Kind of like me.”
