by Jaime Berry
I tried not to stare when Colton came in and walked toward us. But then he scooted into my side of the booth and caused me to lose all focus and concentration for several seconds. He nodded his hellos, and Abby shot me a not-too-subtle look, earning her a kick under the table.
“Ow!” she said and bent to rub her shin. Subtlety wasn’t one of Abby’s best qualities.
“So, what all did your dad say?” I asked.
“We can use the track. He’ll even put on a race. All money from entry fees and tickets could go to the community Downtown Revitalization Fund,” Colton said.
“There’s a Downtown Revitalization Fund?” I asked.
Abby’s mom appeared at our booth and scooted a chair over.
“There is now,” she said. “Abby filled me in after Mr. Griggs called this afternoon and told me what you kids were planning, and I think it’s brilliant. I’d like to help. I’m the mayor, after all.”
We talked and talked and worked out a timetable for events. Colton confirmed he’d build the booths with his four brothers and his dad. Abby’s dad said he’d set up a mobile One Stop food truck and would recruit other restaurant owners in town to do the same. I spent some time—a lot of time—distracted by the fact that Colton had four brothers. I kept imagining five of him, only different in size, like a good-looking set of nesting dolls.
“The town’s really divided over this, and it’s only made worse now that SmartMart hired Arletta Paisley as their national spokesperson.” I shifted in my seat as Abby’s mom continued. “She’s got a huge following.” She rubbed her forehead. “But I’ll call the paper and see what we can drum up in terms of coverage. We don’t have a lot of time, but if we work smart and fast, we can pull off something special.”
“We could have some craft tables for kids. And a raffle for a special wishing penny for the well. It’d be more gesture than anything else,” I said. “That wishing well is the first thing I noticed when we came to town. Might be nice to remind people of it.”
“Isn’t Main Street Fest coming up? We already have a parade. What if the rally is right after? We’d get more people,” Abby said. “Plus, the weekend before is the Family Pairs Bass Tournament. That always draws out-of-towners. If we advertise at the tournament, they might come back for the rally.”
“And increase the sales of your stink bait!” I said.
“Dip bait,” she and Colton said together.
Abby’s mom leaned back and sighed. “Back when I was young like you three, Main Street Fest was really special, bigger than the Fourth of July. Events went on all weekend long. But with downtown businesses struggling to stay open, the festival got smaller and smaller until all we have left is the parade. I’d love to make Main Street Fest what it used to be.”
“We can do it,” Abby said. “Let’s make Main Street Fest mean something again.” Colton and I both smiled and nodded in agreement.
Abby’s mom clasped both hands and said in a choked-up voice, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a perfect moment of grassroots organization.”
“Easy, Mom,” Abby said.
We were still talking when Wynn’s truck pulled in. I looked around and noticed the One Stop was empty other than our booth and Abby’s family.
Main Street Fest was only a week and a half away, set to happen the weekend before SmartMart’s grand opening. Colton decided how many booths to build based on the list I’d brought; Abby’s mom would handle local media coverage; and Abby’s dad, along with lining up the food, knew a guy who’d make a banner for Main Street. I volunteered to make signs for all the businesses that wanted one. I also offered to make lollipops to sit by registers advertising the festival—free with purchase. Abby’s mom said I had a real mind for business and suggested we call them rallypops.
“How’d it go?” Wynn asked once we were driving home.
“Really good,” I answered. I was dying to get started on my posters and had already envisioned the perfect hand-lettered style. An old-fashioned circus font would be what Arletta called a “style-match made in heaven.” I’d show Abby and Colton after I’d finished a few, and then we’d have copies made.
“Jubilee, I don’t know if it means much, but I’m proud of you,” Wynn said. He cleared his throat. “You’re full of big ideas like your dad. And determined, like your momma.”
He had on a classic country station and “Wide Open Spaces” by The Chicks played as we drove. For once, Wynn didn’t sing. “Got something from your mom today,” he said.
Once, a record executive told Momma that her sound was too vintage, and “vintage meant over and done.” Momma’s voice was full, sweet and clear, but always cut through by a sad warble. I hated hearing her songs. That donut song almost ruined a whole year of my life. But it was more than that. Momma’s voice called up the few memories I had of her—singing me to sleep, planting together with Nan in her old garden, the two of us driving in the car.
Momma sang when she was happy. She also sang when she was sad, and I had those memories too. In a way, I preferred the bad ones. It was easier to sort out how I felt about them.
As Wynn’s Chevy lurched to a stop, he pushed a few buttons and a slide guitar intro began for what I could only guess was Brent Chisholm’s duet with Momma. I started to open the door, but he gently grabbed my arm. “Just listen,” he said. After a few verses of Brent singing, the chorus started, and Momma’s voice filled up every inch of the truck.
If I counted up all my mistakes
I’d have a list a mile high
But my biggest regret by far
Is leaving you behind
You are my dusk, you are my dawn
If that’s not what you thought
You’ve had it wrong all along
I should have never left you at all
Thought I was sparing us both some pain
Thought we’d be better off apart
But I’m left with a you-shaped hole in my heart
You’re in every thought, you’re in every song
If that’s not what you thought
You’ve had it wrong all along
“She wrote it, you know. She’s written three of Brent’s songs. But this one is her best.” Wynn looked straight ahead. “Don’t have to wonder too much about her inspiration.”
“Why are you so loyal to her?” It was a question I’d wondered for years, but never had the nerve or the opportunity to ask. I could tell from the way his face crumpled that maybe I should’ve held off even longer.
“You know I grew up with your mom?”
I nodded.
“I lost my dad when I was sixteen, and my mom was a mess. Until I was old enough to move out, I lived with my best friend and his mom off and on—your dad and Nan. Your dad and mom fell in love, then you came along, and now here I am again. It felt like we were all in it together. The music was part of it, but more than that, it felt like family. Being a third wheel just comes natural to me, I guess.” He cleared his throat. “I’m loyal because I respect her. I respect how hard she’s worked to overcome what life’s slung at her. I guess, it’s that your momma did something mine couldn’t. She struggled through her loss, and she did what was best for you, though it tore her up. I love her for doing that for you.”
A song about partying with friends by Toby Keith came on the radio, and there couldn’t have been a song that mismatched the mood more.
“Seems to me most people could use a third wheel,” I said and was surprised by the catch in my voice. I’d known some of what Wynn had said, but not all of it. “I’ll read one letter. But not tonight. Okay?” Then I was surprised again when he leaned over and smoothed down one of my flyaway curls before getting out of the truck.
“I wouldn’t love you so much if you were a pushover,” he called over his shoulder.
A rerun of Arletta Paisley’s show was on that evening. Monday, Abby had shown up right before the live broadcast and almost dragged me out the door. She’d said there’s no bad time to fish,
but the best time to catch a catfish was at sunset. Sitting on that rotten dock, with the sinking sun lighting up the pond, was the first time I’d ever missed a new episode and now I was going to be late for the rerun.
I dashed to my room for my notebook, plopped onto the couch, clicked on the TV, and was greeted by a close-up of Arletta Paisley’s smiling face. Immediately, I relaxed and settled in. I had a lot to think about, and despite what Holly thought of her, it seemed Arletta always said or did something to help untangle my thoughts.
The whole show was centered on the end of school and was filmed in an auditorium in Osage, Arkansas. During the audience participation section, a woman asked what were some of Arletta’s ideas for teacher gifts. Another woman from the Osage PTA spoke about crafts that could make a difference, and Arletta posted a number for a charity that sold gently used band instruments that could be rented or purchased at a reduced price.
By the end of the show, my notebook lay open on the coffee table filled with notes and sketches. I always wrote direct quotes from Arletta in pen in my neatest cursive. Sometimes, I even went back after a show and shaded letters to make it look like calligraphy. I also recorded the best craft ideas step-by-step in pencil so I could add illustrations and my own personal touches.
“The best gifts speak to the heart and don’t need to come with a hefty price tag.” —AP
1. “Thanks for Helping Me Grow” Flower Pot
Take a small clay pot and cover the lower section with chalkboard paint and paint the rim yellow. After the paint dries, use a permanent marker to make the yellow rim look like a ruler. Then write “Thanks for helping me grow” in chalk on the body of the pot.
2. Apple Jelly Jar
Use any small glass jar with a lid. Paint the jar red (it may take several coats) and the lid green. Glue on two green leaves cut from card stock, add a wooden knob or even an empty wooden spool to the top for a stem, and then fill with your candy of choice (or your teacher’s favorite, if known).
3. Pencil Pencil Case
Clean a can from the recycling bin. Glue pencils side-by-side to completely cover the outside of the can. Fill with your teacher’s favorite markers or more pencils!
The show ideas sounded like good ones. Nan’s laptop lay on the coffee table, and I flipped it open to use the store locator function on the SmartMart website. I typed in Osage, Arkansas. Holly was right; a SmartMart was already there with a Superstore due to open soon.
Arletta might be the face of SmartMart, and she may only be filming in these little towns because of a store opening, but SmartMarts would open with or without her. She’d been a comfort to me for years, and I couldn’t see her as some sort of evil mastermind like everybody else seemed to. But Holly, Abby, Colton, and even bossy old Miss Esther meant something to me too. Maybe something more.
I lowered my head into my hands, heard a rustling in the kitchen, and looked over to see Nan getting a glass of water. “How’s my girl?” she asked.
“How do I figure out who’s wrong when everyone seems right?” I asked.
She took a long drink. “In my experience, it’s not often someone’s all the way, top-to-bottom right. Or wrong either. ‘Things aren’t always simple, but most things worth doing aren’t.’”
“Who said that?” I asked.
“That one is a Nan Johnson original with a dash of Teddy Roosevelt.” Nan turned to go back to her room.
“Nan?” She stopped and faced me. I took a deep breath and said what I’d been scared to admit to myself. “This rally is important to me. But it’s not going to be easy to pull off. The hard things have always been easier when I’ve had your help. I could use it now.”
Nan smiled. “When you put it that way, sugar, how can I say no?” After giving me a kiss on the head, she carried the water back to her bedroom and left me to think. The more I thought, the more I kept coming back to one thing: Blessed, Alabama. When I’d finally told Nan about being called Donut Hole, instead of talking to my teacher or telling me to stand up for myself, she’d packed. We were settled in Oklahoma two days later.
That quote didn’t have a smidge of Nan in it. Nan and I didn’t do hard. Whenever times got the tiniest bit complicated, we did one thing. We moved.
HOPE SPRINGS RALLYPOPS
Level: Beginner
Supplies:
80-oz bag of Jolly Rancher candies1 (using three candies per lollipop, one bag will make about 126 lollipops)
Lollipop or popsicle sticks
4-inch by 6-inch clear candy bags
Twine
Gift tags
Tools:
Aluminum foil
2 cookie sheets
Nonstick cooking spray
Directions:
1. Preheat the oven to 275°F. Line two cookie sheets with aluminum foil and spray with nonstick cooking spray.
2. Place three candies in a cluster with the long sides almost touching (leave about ¼ inch between candies so they have room to spread as they melt). Use the same flavor for a solid lolly, or different flavors for a striped lolly. Be sure to leave room at the bottom of the sheet for the sticks.
3. Bake for 3 to 5 minutes, keeping a close eye on them. Once candies begin to melt and spread, remove from the oven. Don’t wait until they bubble.
4. While candies are still hot, place the stick at one of the ends; gently press and twist so both sides of the stick are covered. Work quickly, before the candies harden.
5. When completely cool, place one lollypop per candy bag, tie with twine, and attach a gift tag.
Tip: Use only green apple candies, then dip them in melted caramel and let them rest on wax paper before packaging. It’s extra effort, but you can charge twice as much! Sometimes, hard things are worth more, literally.
Footnote
1 Select your candies to match a color theme! For example, use your school colors for pep rallies or other fundraisers.
Give and Take
The Fabric Barn was the busiest I’d ever seen it, and I couldn’t restock quilting supplies fast enough. A line five deep waited at the register while Holly finished reading the newspaper. She pointed to a page and yelled, “Our Jubilee is famous! She’s front-page news!” Every head in the store turned to look at me. Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I considered sticking my head under a pile of cotton batting.
The local paper had run an article about the festival and an interview with Abby and me. Despite our begging him to join, Colton opted out, claiming he didn’t have anything to say. We’d huddled around the phone in Abby’s mom’s office for the conference call, fought off some serious giggles, and ended up answering the questions without sounding totally clueless. Also, Abby’s mom announced a quilting contest in the article. The winner would collect a prize of five hundred dollars and the quilt would hang for a year in city hall.
Holly folded the paper and smacked it down on the counter. “A week’s not nearly enough time for a good quilt. But for five hundred dollars, I’m dang sure going to try.” The ladies buying upholstery fabric agreed and attacked my quilting display.
It seemed just the idea of Main Street Fest made people come to town to shop. Downtown was bustling. Seven whole cars kept the lonely traffic light company as they waited for green. It was a Hope Springs traffic jam.
Holly and I only had a few free moments after closing to set up the back room for her first class. She’d rebraided her hair, spilled a box of thread, and after picking the spools up, had taken to pacing back and forth.
“What if I’m so rusty they get up and leave?” she asked.
“I’ll block the doors,” I said. “Speaking of, seems like there are three people already waiting to get in.”
Before Holly went up front, she picked up the jar of rallypops and pulled one out. There were only two left, but we’d been so busy she hadn’t had a chance to look at them. She took a second now to read one of the gift tags. LICK THE COMPETITION AND BUY LOCAL.
“These are perfect. You’re a genius, swee
theart.”
I blushed. Wynn and Nan had volunteered to deliver more than twenty jars of rallypops while I was working. For two full days we worked to make more than two hundred suckers. We listened—well, Nan and I listened while Wynn sang—to classic country music. We’d been a country-singing sucker-assembly line.
Last night, when Nan tied the twine on the two-hundredth sucker, she’d smiled at me. Her eyes shone as she looked at the pile of sweets we’d created. “This is really something. What you’re doing… well, I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m happy you talked me into being part of it.” Something inside me loosened a bit, like Nan’s pride in me had melted away the tight nervousness I’d carried without knowing it was even there.
Wynn nodded. “Nothing like doing something good,” he said and left the room. He returned wearing the apron I’d made him. He only nodded at me, and I couldn’t think of a time I’d been happier. I smiled until my face ached.
The next morning, he had the apron on again and wore it all through dinner that evening. At first, I’d been glad that he’d changed his mind, but then again, it was also a constant reminder of Momma’s unread letters. Part of me wondered if he’d really given in or gotten just what he wanted.
The past few days had been jam-packed with Main Street Fest business. I’d cut and folded squares of fabric for the quilting class and tried to push away the thought of leaving, the box of letters under my bed, and Momma in general.
