by Jaime Berry
Nan looked at her and said, “‘Youth has no age.’ Pablo Picasso.”
“Oh, I like that,” Holly said.
“And I love that fabric,” Nan said.
“Me too,” I agreed. “Vintage fabrics are my favorite.”
“Well, you’ll find plenty of vintage in here.” Holly laughed. “I think some of these patterns are as old as I am.”
She motioned to a large shelf in the middle of the store. It was more like a stack of shelves stuffed full of pattern envelopes, some so old they’d yellowed along the edges. I walked over and pulled one out. I loved looking at patterns; each one with alteration ideas was a solid set of instructions packed with possibilities.
Nan picked up one advertising “10 great looks with one easy pattern!” and said, “It’s like an envelope full of options. You want it?”
Almost more than anything else, Nan liked to have options.
I nodded, and while Nan went up to the register, I went back to perusing. One pattern had a little girl younger than me sitting in the lap of an older girl, probably meant to be her sister. A whole section was stuffed with matching outfits—mother-daughter, sisters, maybe even cousins. The patterns for kids all seemed to hint at family, and not a single one looked like me and Nan.
We ended up with more fabric than we could carry out ourselves, and Holly gave us two yards of the mum fabric for free. After helping us load the car, she leaned her head in the window and said, “You know, Jubilee, I have a few jobs I could use some help with. You ever have any free time, and if it’s all right with you, Nan, I’d love the company and the extra pair of hands. I’ll pay you, of course, as long as I’ve got consent from your guardian.”
Nan nodded and I said, “Sure, I’ll think about it.” Nan had taught me to be cautious when it came to commitments. Together, we’d come up with Relocation Rule Number 11: Always leave yourself some wiggle room. If I didn’t make any promises, then I wouldn’t have to break them later.
Once the windows were up and we were back on the road, Nan hummed along to Patsy Cline. “Holly seems nice,” I said.
“Mmm-huh,” Nan mumbled. She looked at me. “I guess she was, but I’ve got the only friend I need right here. Relocation Rule Number One: When it comes down to it, it’s just the two of us. Me and my Jubilee.” Nan sang that last bit every time.
I smiled like always, but something about it bothered me. I’d never really questioned Nan much about our moving. But I was beginning to wonder if she was really searching for the perfect place… or just searching? Did she ever truly think we’d settle down somewhere? And how were we ever going to find a perfect place if she never gave anywhere or anyone a chance?
The more I thought about our first Relocation Rule, the more it rubbed me wrong, and the more “just the two of us” felt like one away from alone.
There was something about Holly Paine and the Fabric Barn. The mess there felt disordered, for sure, but it also felt different—comfortable almost. When Holly walked down the aisles, I’d noticed she ran her fingertips lightly across the bolts of fabric. I wanted to do the same thing, reach out and touch all that possibility waiting to be unrolled and made into something.
By the time we pulled into our new driveway, I’d decided to make Holly Paine some lemon-scented room deodorizer in a mason jar from Arletta Paisley’s Homemade Home Scents week. I’d never made anyone something after only just meeting them, but Holly and Rayburn seemed in desperate and immediate need of some subtle glamorganizing.
HOLLY PAINE’S LEMON-SCENTED JELLY JAR ROOM DEODORIZER
Level: Advanced
Supplies1 :
2 lemons
1-pint glass mason jar (really any glass jar will do) with lid
3 sprigs fresh rosemary
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 square fabric swatch, large enough to cover the lid
Small card
½ yard grosgrain ribbon, plus more if decorating the lid
Tools:
Kitchen knife (have a parent or guardian around for this)
Glue stick
Scissors
Hole punch
Directions:
1. Slice lemons ½-inch thick and arrange in the jar with sprigs of rosemary (equally spacing the rosemary against the jar and pushing the lemons onto them makes a nice pattern).
2. Pour in the vanilla extract and add water and fill to the top.
3. Center and glue the fabric swatch onto the lid; for extra glamour, wrap a ribbon around the edge.
4. Use a pen to write the instructions on the card.2
5. Punch a hole in the corner of the card, run the ribbon through, and tie it onto the jar in a bow.
Footnotes
1 For a stronger scent, double the amount of lemon, rosemary, and vanilla. Recommended for Rayburn or other gassy companions, animal or otherwise.
2 Instructions to be written on the card: Pour the contents into an appropriate container and put it on the stovetop, on a hot plate, in a Crock-pot, or in a potpourri cooker over low heat. As the water evaporates, add more.
Roadblocks
All Friday afternoon, Nan and I sewed, rolled up rugs, and packed as much pink as we could into the old shed in the backyard. The kitchen cabinets, slathered in a bold coat of Pepto-Bismol pink, were a real problem. Hard to change and even harder to leave alone.
“Maybe we could cover the cabinet fronts with contact paper or fabric. Or I could stencil another color over the front. I don’t think I can repaint a whole kitchen. Can we even change the cabinets?” I opened a drawer full of rubber bands, old batteries, rusted spoons, and what I hoped was a dried-up raisin. I slammed the drawer shut. “I’m going to have bad dreams about that drawer.”
“Oh now, don’t overreact. You’ll think of something. You always come up with a project that makes our place better. And I can help. But until then, I vote we eat on the couch and cook wearing a blindfold,” Nan said.
Her cooking started with a can opener and ended with a microwave—blindfolded or not, it couldn’t get much worse. Nan wasn’t always the best problem solver. She relied heavily on Relocation Rule Number 13: When faced with a roadblock, get off the road. Some of the rules had a double dose of Nan and only a sprinkle of me. Matter of fact, I liked a challenge—liked to take something and fix it up. But I did need a break from that kitchen. It was hard to see many opportunities when faced with floor-to-ceiling pink cabinets and drawers teeming with the stuff of nightmares.
“I think I might work in my room for a while,” I said.
My bedroom had plenty of pink, but I didn’t mind, because next to it was old Mrs. Burgess’s quilting room (also pink). It was empty except for built-ins all along one wall and a long table perfect for working on projects. I never in a million years thought I’d have my very own crafting room. All thoughts of the kitchen swept clean out of my brain as soon as I walked down the hall.
For the rest of the evening, I unpacked and arranged my supplies. There was a whole box of dusty mason jars in the shed. After some cleaning, they sparkled and held small knickknacks labeled with card stock tags. I’d seen the exact same thing in Arletta Paisley’s slightly blurry background. When Nan knocked on the door and asked if I wanted frozen pizza or a can of soup for dinner, I went with the soup just so I could drink it down and get back to work.
Arletta Paisley’s show was filmed in her house, mostly in the kitchen or her craft room. Both were bright white with touches of aqua and pale lemon yellow. Those rooms stayed the same from month to month and felt more like home to me than any of the places Nan and I’d actually lived. As I worked, the shelves slowly filled, and by the time night rolled around, I had a feeling that maybe this truly was it; maybe this place could be different than all the others. That feeling seemed to expand, spreading over me every time I stepped back to look over my work.
The next morning, all I wanted to do was stretch out flat on the couch, watch a few hours of the Hearth & Home Network, and then get bac
k to my craft room. Arletta Paisley’s summer season premiere was only a few days away, and H & H was showing a heavy rotation of reruns to build excitement about the new show.
I hopped out of bed, skipped to the living room, and set up my notebook, my sharpened Ticonderogas (three: one to use, one if the other broke, and one just in case), and my two ink pens—a special one for jotting quotes from Arletta and one for calligraphy—and a highlighter, for extra emphasis. Even though I’d seen the episodes before, I knew they were full of hidden gems. Besides, a good idea sometimes deserved to be written down twice.
During a commercial break, I hustled to the hall bathroom to wet and comb antifrizz foam through my hair. My hair resisted my organization efforts almost as much as Nan. While I tried to smooth some final flyaways, Arletta Paisley’s commercial echoed down the hall. I didn’t have to be there to picture it; I had the whole thing memorized. She smiled, nodded her big blonde hair, and said, “Join me for a whole new season of Queen of Neat, because y’all know life can get messy.” Then she winked one of her deep lake-blue eyes. Everything about her seemed tranquil and soothing, pillowy almost, and gave me a feeling I could sink into.
Nan once joked and called Arletta Paisley my “TV momma.” A joke I did not find all that funny, maybe because there was too much truth in it. My real mom was Arletta Paisley’s opposite. Momma, with her long dark curls and sharp angles. She was always thin, always beautiful, and always gone. It’d been days since I’d called her but still no call back, no text, no nothing.
On my tenth birthday, Momma promised to drive down and take me out to dinner, just the two of us. But then a spot for a singer opened up at a club in Austin, Texas. So she drove there instead. I knew better than to count on her for anything other than a disappointment. But knowing better didn’t keep my heart from hoping things might change.
I ran my palm coated with cream over my hair and hoped it might get rid of frizz along with all mom-related thoughts.
We hadn’t yet started sewing the couch cover, but I’d cut out the pieces, some still fastened to the cushions. I straightened my supplies on the coffee table and sat, careful to avoid the pins, and smiled at the idea that Arletta would be the first friend I welcomed into my new place. As I settled in, a knock sounded at the door.
On our small slab porch stood Abby Standridge, dressed like a carpenter, hair as big as an azalea bush, and holding two fishing poles. “Hi. Brought an extra. The pond’s not too far a walk from here.”
“I-I’m not really dressed for fishing,” I stammered. I wore a floral summer dress Nan had helped me sew from a pattern last year. Nan’s help was mostly supervisory in nature. The dress was a little small and fish slime wouldn’t be an improvement. Arletta’s intro music played in the background.
“Well, just throw on some shorts. Normally, I ask my friend Colton, but he can’t today,” Abby said.
To me, a day was mapped out and dressed for; I called it my POD—plan of the day. Fishing wasn’t part of that itinerary. I had to tackle a whole couch cover and still wanted to work on my craft room.
Plus, I did not “throw” on anything.
A long “ummm” was all I could manage before Nan hollered from the kitchen, “Jubilee, who’s there?”
Nan walked behind me mumbling something about neighbors as the camera zoomed in on Arletta wearing a chambray denim shirtdress and sitting at a worn oak table. Season 1, episode 8: “Hand-Lettering from the Heart.”
“Nice to see you again, Ms. Johnson,” Abby said.
Nan and I stared at Abby.
“Well.” Nan looked at me. “Guess we better invite your new friend in.”
My mind was hand-lettering a variety of get lost messages, but my mouth said, “Come on in.”
Breakfast was instant oatmeal and yogurt spooned from individual containers into a large lumpy bowl Nan and I had made in a “Mom and Me” pottery class. Nan occasionally joined in on my crafting. But solo crafting was more my thing. I took do-it-yourself more literally than most.
Abby came right in and sat down at the table. “Y’all made some changes. Old Mrs. Burgess sure had a thing for pink. She wore it head to toe. Even her hair was a touch pink. But you gotta respect a person who has a passion.”
Nan and I stared at Abby again. Nan cleared her throat. “I guess that’s true. I always like a person who isn’t afraid to be themselves.”
Abby nodded. “Me too.” She looked over at me and flashed a big smile. There was no easy way to get out of this. Nan answered my pleading look with a discreet shrug. Sometimes she wasn’t any help at all. Seemed like I was about to experience the joys of fishing, whether I really wanted to or not.
“Guess I’ll go change.” I left the kitchen, turning off the TV with a stifled sigh. By the time I returned from my room, wearing my oldest T-shirt and cutoffs, Abby had a bowl in front of her and a napkin on her lap, and she and Nan were visiting like old friends.
“Can I interest you in some miniature marshmallows for your oatmeal?” Nan asked.
“Absolutely,” Abby said.
“I personally think no meal’s complete without them,” Nan said.
“I can get behind that idea,” Abby agreed.
“What do you two have planned?” Nan asked.
“I was going to take Jubilee fishing over at Miss Esther’s pond. She’s down the road and doesn’t mind, long as I call her first.” Abby blew on a lumpy spoonful of oatmeal.
Nan almost spit out her coffee. “My Jubilee? Going fishing? Well, that’s a new one.” She gave me a peck on the head and said, “Fish, I love you and respect you very much. But I will kill you dead before this day ends.”
Abby and I both stared at her, swinging a spoon like it was a sword and staring out the kitchen window. “Hemingway? The Old Man and the Sea? Good grease-gravy, what do they teach you kids at school?” That Hemingway guy was one of Nan’s favorites and inspired a few of our best Relocation Rules. He must have been quick to pack up and move along too.
Abby smiled and raised an eyebrow at me. I shrugged, trying not to blush.
New Private Relocation Rule: Keep all potential friends away from Nan.
Faking It
The grass in our new yard was as brown and crunchy as peanut brittle. Abby practically skipped toward that sickly looking pond. I stumbled along behind her, careful to avoid the dust she kicked up, and struggling to steady a flutter of growing nerves. I didn’t know a thing about fishing, and I hadn’t been on a one-on-one outing with a friend in over a year.
“Nan’s your grandma, right?” Abby asked when we reached the end of the driveway.
I nodded. My stomach seemed to be tying itself in knots. Maybe that was it—I could fake a stomachache and be back on the couch in no time.
“She sure isn’t like my gram,” Abby said. “Gram kind of smells like lemon-scented mothballs and licks napkins to wipe off my face. It’s disgusting.”
If Nan ever tried to lick me, I’d think her mind had turned to marshmallow fluff.
“Her main interests are baking and church. She thinks her piecrust recipe is a personal gift from Jesus himself. If you ask me, the crust is the worst part of a pie. Nan cook much?”
I gave her a look. After all, she’d just eaten one of Nan’s best breakfasts, and we both laughed. I’d hold on to my stomachache excuse for now, see how things went, and if I wasn’t having fun in ten minutes, then I’d use it. Abby turned at the end of our drive and jumped over the ditch that ran by the side of the road. She walked up to a barbed-wire fence. Then she stuck her foot on the bottom row of wire and pulled up the top row, making a wide space.
“Well, go on through,” she said.
“You want me to go through there?” I asked. “Isn’t there a gate somewhere?”
“Come on. You can do it,” she said. She pulled the wires wider and motioned with her head.
Nan and I had a Relocation Rule for this kind of predicament: When something is totally new, pretend it isn’t. I always had t
o fake it a little bit, and then when we moved, I had to fake it all over again with a whole new set of people. But things didn’t have to be new all the time if we’d stick around long enough for something to happen more than once. For Nan, uncertainty meant adventure and opportunity. But for me, uncertainty was starting to feel like I could never count on anything to stay the same.
I looked at Abby, and she gave me a big smile and encouraging nod. I leaned down and squeezed through, careful to avoid the barbs. When I straightened on the other side, a breeze whipped my hair and I felt a touch braver than I had just seconds before.
Once, on a winter field trip to the Oklahoma state capital, I stepped in an icy puddle. My teacher, Mrs. Lester, had a garbage bag full of extra clothes she took on bus trips. She gave me a pair of gym socks to wear. They were clean but worn and pilled at the heel. It was too cold to say no, but putting them on almost made me gag. Lately, that’s what a new town felt like—sliding my foot into somebody else’s old gym sock.
I held the fence open for Abby like she’d done for me. She smiled again, stepped through in one quick motion, stood, and took off toward a beaten trail.
“Last year, I caught a six-and-a-half-pound bass at the Family Pairs Bass Tournament. Used to be called the Father-Son Bass Roundup, but Mom caused a fuss until they changed it. I came in second place to Mr. Meacham. He beat me by two-tenths of a pound. Mr. Meacham owns Meacham Auto Repair and wears overalls every day. Rumor is, that’s all he wears. Built-in air-conditioning.”
I laughed and said, “Gross.”
“Even grosser if you know Mr. Meacham.” Abby shuddered, then pointed to an outcrop of rocks. “Steer clear. Saw a rattlesnake there last week.”
