by Kelly Jones
Heaven, where people help each other
Querida Abuelita,
We had the work-party picnic today, and it went pretty well!
Lupe and I met Sam and Chris at Redwood Farm this morning and got everything ready: task lists, tables for food, blankets on the grass, and lots and lots of sandwiches, with big mesh domes over them, so the flies and wasps couldn’t land on the food.
Then everyone arrived, all at once. So many people came to help!
A tall Asian guy in a Superman T-shirt told me he was Gregory’s friend George. He wanted to know if it was okay if he started fixing the chicken runs. He had a toolbox, and a tape measure clipped to his belt, so I figured he knew what he was doing. “Sure,” I said.
Sam showed him where to start. (I think Sam’s superpower is getting everybody organized.) Pretty soon I could hear hammering.
Gregory came too. It was weird to see him in jeans and a Queen Latifah T-shirt instead of his mailman uniform. But you know what? He didn’t look sad when he saw Agnes’s farm this time. He looked ready to work. Sam told him that he was in charge of making sure at least one of the chicken coops got totally fixed up and made raccoon-proof by the end of the day, and he said he could do that. He put a big bowl of red beans and rice with a spoon sticking out of it on a not-too-rickety table, and headed off toward the sound of sawing.
Mom and Dad came next.
“So that’s what those ladders are for,” Dad said, staring at the weird ladders set up near the apple trees.
“Haven’t you ever picked apples before?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “I only ever visited Uncle Jim earlier in the summer,” he said. “The apples around here weren’t ripe then, and he was too busy with the grapes for me to come later. I think I’ll get my chance today, though.”
“There are probably buckets in the barn, if you want to bring some out,” I told him. “Maybe if you pick enough, we could make some apple crisp.”
Then Ms. O’Malley wanted to know where she could put her gardening cake. (It had crunched-up Oreos on top, to look like dirt, and Gummy Worms sticking out of it; my chickens would have been impressed!) Her nephew came too—he’s a white guy a little older than Lupe, maybe my cousin Javier’s age. He was wearing a Gravenstein Pizza T-shirt and jeans, and his sneakers had cool skulls on them. He brought a huge stack of pizzas in boxes, and even huger stacks of paper plates and napkins, which I hadn’t even thought about. He took one look at the tables and asked Chris to come help him get some more tables out of his dad’s catering van.
“It’s a pleasure to be back at Redwood Farm,” Ms. O’Malley told me. “I only wish Agnes could be here too.” She put her cake on a table and started cutting it into pieces.
I nodded. But I couldn’t help thinking that if Agnes was still alive, maybe I never would have gotten to visit Redwood Farm.
The extra tables really were helpful. I helped Ms. O’Malley’s nephew set them all up in an L shape outside the blankets. There was a huge long one for drinks and a big bowl of ice, and another one for all the pizza, both with fancy paper tablecloths on them. (Sam stuck them on with tape.)
When we were done, I nodded at Ms. O’Malley’s nephew. “Thanks,” I told him. “This was really nice of you.”
He smiled at me, kind of shy. “Thanks for inviting me,” he said. “My favorite 4-H chickens were from Redwood Farm Supply. I’ll never forget them. It’s nice to be able to help out here.”
I was pretty busy all afternoon. People had lots of questions, and I didn’t know all the answers, but since everyone was eating pizza and sandwiches and beans and rice and cake, they seemed okay waiting while we figured it out. Gregory stacked up huge piles of blackberry vines. His friend Mark brought his goats, so they started eating the leaves off right away. (I even got to hold their leashes while Mom took a picture!! Goats are great.)
George and Jane fixed all the loose wire fencing on the chicken coops. Chris’s mom and her friend weeded Agnes’s flower garden. Nobody fell off a ladder or out of an apple tree, and everyone seemed happy to take apples home, even the ones with icky bits you have to cut out. Farm people don’t freak out because a bug chewed on their apples. Ms. O’Malley shared copies of her favorite applesauce recipe, and Sam’s dad told everyone how to make apple crisp. (It’s almost the same recipe as blackberry crisp, only with apples instead of blackberries. You squeeze a little lemon juice over the cut apples so they don’t get brown, and you can skip the cornstarch.)
Chris found an old radio in Agnes’s barn and replaced the batteries, and Lupe found a radio station with music that was good for getting work done. Dad came down off the ladder and taught Chris and Sam and Lupe how to do the Funky Chicken. (I helped, because I already know how.) Then Mom and Jane and Violet and Gregory and George taught everyone how to do the Macarena. (Ms. O’Malley really Macarena’d!) By this time, no one was working that hard, but not even Sam was upset, because most of the work was already done. So when Lupe started a dance-off, everyone joined in. No one agreed who won at the end, but it seemed like everyone had a really good time.
When we were driving home with the car full of bags of leftover apples (Dad wants to try making applesauce, and I guess I’d better make some apple crisp), Lupe didn’t say, “I told you so.” Instead, she just grinned at me and said, “Living on a farm is so much fun!”
“Thanks,” I told her. “You were right. It was fun—for everyone, not just for me.”
Maybe that is one of Lupe’s superpowers: figuring out how everyone can have fun.
Te quiero,
Soficita
PS Sam found Agnes’s Redwood Farm stamp in the barn. Lupe says of course I can use it; it’s my farm, after all. There might not be chickens there yet, but it’s almost ready for them now.
Sunday, August 17
Dear Gregory,
Thank you so much for coming to my work-party picnic. As you know, farming is hard work, and I have to make time for school and everything too, but I will try to keep everything in good shape from now on. It would have taken me weeks to get all that done by myself, so I really appreciate your help.
I hope you had a lot of fun too.
Your friend,
Sophie
PS Dad wants to know if you would give him your recipe for red beans and rice, because he’d like to make it for dinner tomorrow. He was sad everyone else ate it all before he could have any.
PPS Please tell George thanks too. Sorry, I don’t know where to send his thank-you.
Sunday, August 17
Dear Ms. O’Malley’s Nephew,
Please tell your dad thank you very much for the pizza and the tables and the plates and the napkins and the ice. They made things like a real party.
And thank you for coming to my work-party picnic and helping out. It’s a big relief to have a coop fixed up and ready for my new chicks. Chickens are a lot of work, but they’re worth it. I guess you know that too.
I hope it was fun for you to see Redwood Farm, even without Agnes’s chickens there.
Your fellow chicken person,
Sophie
PS I’m sorry I didn’t find out what your name is.
PPS What kind of chickens did you get from Redwood Farm? Do you still have any of them? Do you know if anyone else does? (Besides Ms. Griegson’s Rhode Island Reds.) I would really like to hear all about them, if you have time someday.
Monday, August 18
Mariposa Sofía García González
Heaven
Querida Abuelita,
Today was the first day of middle school. Mom and I couldn’t go back-to-school shopping this year, but Lupe let me borrow a yellow T-shirt that was the perfect color for me, and we covered one of Great-Uncle Jim’s old binders with pictures from feedstore catalogs and stickers from Lupe’s enormous sticker collection. Now, in
stead of a beat-up old binder, it’s a work of art.
It was the first day of Lupe’s college too. Neither of us ate very much for breakfast. Since Lupe’s first class started later than mine, she gave me a ride to school.
“Buena suerte, primita,” she told me as I got my backpack out of her car.
“You too, prima favorita,” I told her. (I don’t really have a favorite cousin, but she looked nervous, and it made her laugh.)
Then she drove off, and I went to find my homeroom: world history.
When I got there, I was the only brown kid in class, and all the white kids were already talking to each other, just like I thought. It felt like everybody was looking at me, but nobody said hi.
But then the door opened, and another brown girl came in, with straight black hair in two braids. She stood there for a minute, but no one said hi to her either. I may be shy, but I didn’t want her to feel as lonely as I did. So I gave her a little wave.
She smiled at me and came over. “¿Hablas español?” she asked me.
“Sí,” I told her. I wasn’t the only girl at my new school who spoke Spanish after all!
A white guy who was older than my dad walked up to the front of the class. “I’m your teacher, Mr. Kivi,” he told us. “This year we’ll be learning world history, starting with the history of our families and where they came from. Today, I’d like each of you to tell me your full name, where your name comes from, and what your name means, if you know it.”
The girl with the braids was frowning a little, like she was concentrating. Maybe she didn’t speak that much English yet? “Decimos nuestros nombres, de dónde han venido y que significan,” I told her very quietly in Spanish.
Mr. Kivi noticed. Oh, great, I thought. I’m going to be in trouble for talking in class in my very first five minutes of middle school.
But he didn’t yell at me for talking in class. He stopped, and he asked, “¿Alguien quiere que hable español?” Not like he was calling me out for talking, or even asking us specifically. Just like he wondered if anyone needed a pencil.
I looked at the other new girl. She didn’t look at me, just shook her head no. She didn’t want him to speak Spanish.
I shook my head too. My face felt hot. People always assume I can’t speak English, and I don’t like it. I wished I hadn’t done that to her.
Mr. Kivi waited a minute and then nodded. “I will start. My full name is written like this.” And he wrote “Culhwch Ercwlff Kivi” on the board. “Does anyone want to try pronouncing it?”
The girl with the braids raised her hand. “Coolhuhweech Ehrkwolf Keevee,” she sounded out.
“Very good effort!” he told her. “Here is how I pronounce it: Calwhook Ehrkvuf Keevee. I was teased in school for my name, so you should know I will absolutely not tolerate any jokes about names in my class—about my name or anyone else’s!” He smiled, but I could tell he wasn’t kidding. “Culhwch was one of King Arthur’s cousins, and Culhwch and Ercwlff are Welsh names, from my mother’s family. Most of my friends and family call me Cal. Kivi is a Finnish name, from my father’s family. It means ‘stone.’ ”
He nodded at the blond girl in the first desk. “Now, you,” he told her.
“My name is Clara Marie Evans,” she told him. “My mom thought the name Clara was pretty. They don’t mean anything—they’re just regular names.”
“Are you certain?” Mr. Kivi asked Clara. “I have a dictionary of names and their meanings and origins here,” he told us. “You can come in at lunch to find out what your name means, or you can do research at the library or on your own after school—try interviewing your family! I expect you to turn in one page on what you’ve learned, as homework.”
Clara looked kind of annoyed, but maybe a little intrigued too.
Some kids knew where their names came from, and some didn’t. One kid, whose middle name was Jehosephat, tried to make a joke about it, but Mr. Kivi shook his head and stopped him. “No teasing about names means not even your own name,” he told the kid, whose first name was Aaron. “Names are important, and they deserve respect.” Aaron nodded, but he didn’t try to explain where Jehosephat was from or what it meant.
I know about my names, but I still hate talking in front of the class. I did okay, though. “My name is Sophia Mariposa Brown. My friends call me Sophie. Sophia means ‘wisdom’ and it was both of my grandmothers’ middle names, even though one of them was from Mexico and one was from Wisconsin, so they spelled it differently. Mariposa was my mother’s mother’s first name, and Brown is my father’s last name. If I was born in Mexico, my name might have been Sophia Mariposa Brown González, because lots of people have two last names there. But mine is just Brown.”
We kept going around the room while I recovered and let my breathing slow down again. Then we got to the girl next to me.
“My name is Xochitl Ximena Ramirez. Xochitl means ‘flower.’ It comes from Mexico, like me. My family is from Mexico and from El Salvador.” She looked around the class and smiled. “You can call me Xochi.”
After we got our textbooks and heard more about what we’d be studying, a bell rang, and we had to go to different classrooms for our next class.
“Sorry about that,” I told Xochi.
She shrugged. “I speak English, too.”
“See you at lunch?” I asked. Everyone has lunch at the same time.
She shrugged again. Then she grabbed her books and hurried off into the hall.
I had math class next. When I got my first schedule, the school put me in math for people who need more help. I don’t know why, because I’m really good at math, and I’ve always gotten A’s in it before. But Mom went in and explained to the school that they made a mistake and needed to fix it, so now I’m in harder math.
I flipped through my textbook. It didn’t look too hard. But I don’t know anyone in the class, and we only talked about math.
Then it was lunch. “I met this girl in my homeroom, called Xochi,” I told Sam and Chris, looking around for Xochi when we came into the cafeteria. I didn’t see her, though.
I finished my egg-salad sandwich while Sam and Chris tried to sing the song they learned in Spanish class.
“Dos arbol-ritos que something something eh-else,” Sam sang, batting her eyes like butterflies at Chris. They both giggled.
I tried not to get annoyed. “Your teacher should play some Bomba Estéreo or Ana Tijoux or something people our age actually listen to,” I told them. But they just kept laughing and messing around until I told them to quit it. I didn’t like them making fun of Spanish, even if it was a silly song.
I have PE with Sam, and the teacher let us pick whether to drill with soccer balls or play soccer. Sam isn’t exactly great at soccer, so we drilled together until PE was over. I think she’s getting a little better. She just hasn’t practiced that much.
They only teach beginning Spanish here, and I already know Spanish, so I had study hall in the library next instead of language class.
So does Xochi. I still felt bad about my mistake this morning. But I didn’t want that to stop us from maybe being friends. So I gathered up my nerve, and I asked her if I could sit at her table. And she said yes!
After that, we talked about everything. I told her how I moved to a farm from LA, and how my mom writes articles and my dad is trying to learn to farm, and how I have chickens now, and eggs that will hatch, and how Lupe came to live with us for a while.
Xochi told me about some of the places she lived, when her family was moving from farm to farm, following where the work was. Now her dad is Mr. Moreno’s new ranch manager, so they don’t have to move anymore, and her abuela came to live with them too.
I wish you lived with us. I bet you would have loved it.
Then the teacher-librarian told us we might want to get some homework done while we had the chance,
so I worked on my world history homework and read Part Two of my hatching instructions.
Finding my bus home wasn’t complicated at all. I guess that’s one good thing about small schools.
After I checked on my eggs, I read to my chickens. They’re not very quiet, but it’s hard to worry too much about school while they’re buk-buk-bukking around the barnyard, closing their eyes in the sun and fluffing up their feathers, and rolling around in the dust. My chickens are always glad to see me.
At dinner, Lupe and I both shared about our days. College sounds really hard, but Lupe likes it so far.
Mom was pretty excited about my name assignment. She told me about her name, and she said it gave her all kinds of ideas for articles. (I think Mom’s superpower is that she can turn almost anything into an article and earn money writing it.) When I asked Dad about his name, it turns out he didn’t know much about it. I told him about the name dictionaries, and he said maybe it was time he learned something about his own name. I told him I’d help.
Te extraño,
Soficita
PS After dinner, I told each of my chickens about their names, and how they got them. After all, names are important.
Tuesday, August 19
Mariposa García González
Heaven
Querida Abuelita,
Before we moved here, I knew middle school was going to keep me busy. I just didn’t know I’d be taking care of a flock of unusual chickens and incubating a bunch of eggs too. Now every morning I have to turn the eggs and feed the chickens and give them clean water, and every afternoon I have to check the eggs and do my homework and work on my chicken observations and make sure my chickens are still okay. But all the farmers I know are busy people too, so I guess it’s good practice.
Going to school here isn’t like it was in LA, but I’m doing okay, so far. English will be fine, since I already know how to do punctuation and grammar, and some of the books look good.
Biology might be fun. I wish I knew someone in class, though. When Ms. Low (aka Violet’s friend Cindy) asked us to tell her one thing we hope to learn about this year, I told her I wanted to learn about hatching poultry, and everyone laughed, not in a nice way. She told me later that the kids here already learned that in second grade. But she also told me we’d have individual projects to work on, and that just because they’d learned about eggs didn’t mean kids here had necessarily hatched their own chicks.
