A Year on Ladybug Farm #1

by Donna Ball

  They purchased dripping sugar cones—peach, strawberry, and black walnut—and followed the hurrying crowd to the roped-off intersection of Main, Harrison, and Riker Streets. Veteran parade-goers had arrived early and set up lawn chairs and coolers on the curb. Now they sat with paper plates filled with barbecue and sticky-faced children bouncing up and down with excitement, proud owners of the best seats in the house. Others had camped out on the grassy lawns of the two churches with checkered tablecloths spread out for picnics and games of dodgeball and blindman’s bluff going on to pass the time until the parade started. There were tables and booths everywhere one looked, most of them selling food, and from the lawn of the Baptist church came a slow coil of smoke and the enticing aroma of savory cooked pork.

  “Wow,” said Cici, looking around as she licked melted ice cream from the bottom of her cone. “It’s like a scaled-down version of Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.”

  “Or maybe a miniature Rose Bowl,” offered Lindsay, catching drips from the piled-high scoop of strawberry ice cream with her tongue. “This is heaven in a cone.”

  “We are not going home without some of that barbecue I smell,” Bridget said.

  With a drumroll and a slightly flat blare of trumpets, the nattily dressed marching band opened the parade with their own rendition of “Stars and Stripes Forever.” There were high-stepping girls with flaming batons, and no one seemed in the least alarmed when one of the batons, having sailed to the heavens and executed three midair turns, landed in the middle of the crowd somewhere. There was a little excitement while the flames were stamped out and the baton was returned to its rightful owner, but the marching band never missed a beat.

  The riding club was represented by riders in turquoise Stetsons atop white horses in jingling harness, and Miss Blue Valley made her entrance riding on the back of a Mustang convertible, wearing a blue satin gown, evening gloves, and what appeared to be a fox stole around her shoulders. Sweat stains had damaged the blue satin beyond all hope of repair.

  There was a vintage fire engine and a contingent of Army Reservists in full uniform, which elicited wild cheers and applause from the crowd as they passed by, followed by a World War II cannon pulled by a pickup truck. There were representatives of various clubs and civic organizations carrying banners, and mascots wearing chicken suits and pig suits and dog suits, waving to the crowd. The whole thing ended with Shriners in tiny cars, and it was impossible not to laugh and cheer with the rest of the crowd when the last of them passed by.

  They stopped by a booth selling fried pies and homemade pound cakes, and received an invitation to join the Women’s Literary Society. Bridget bought a folk-art painted birdhouse and received advice on organic pest control for the garden, as well as a great many helpful—although not necessarily relevant—thoughts on what kind of mole, rabbit, deer, or goat might be devouring her sprouts. Cici bought a vintage marcasite ring that that she thought Lori might like for her upcoming birthday, from a booth that was raising funds for new computers for the elementary school; it was there that she met the mayor and his wife. Lindsay saw Jonesie selling his wife’s lemon cakes to raise money for new band uniforms, and promptly placed an order for electric fans, which he promised to deliver the first thing in the morning.

  But by far their most lucrative find was when they crossed the street to the Baptist lawn and discovered a pig, roasting in a pit under a bed of glowing wood coals while a bluegrass band played and men in overalls served parts of that pig, with your choice of red (sweet) or vinegar (sour) barbecue sauce, complete with baked beans, potato salad, and a side of slaw, for five dollars a plate.

  “And now we know,” announced Cici as they stepped into line, “what pig-picking is.”

  Maggie was behind one of the tables, pouring lemonade, and she happily introduced her husband Lee as the overalled barbecue chef by her side. When they inquired about the pig, Lee was pleased to explain how it had been roasting in a closed pit all night, supervised by the men of the Rotary Club, who kept each other awake with tall tales and, he added with a wink and a nod toward his wife, maybe a six-pack or two. It was an annual event, and the money they raised was divided equally between the mission funds of the two churches.

  “What’s the deal with the fireworks?” Cici wanted to know. “Farley seemed awfully disappointed.”

  Lee gave a snort that was half derision, half amusement. “Guess he should’ve planned better, then.”

  “Farley usually drives down to this little place in South Carolina to get a special deal on the fireworks,” Maggie explained. “It’s not that we have a big display, just a few little things for the children, you know. But this year he waited too late to go and they were all out of the good stuff.”

  “Got plenty of sparklers though,” chuckled Lee, ladling up baked beans. “Ya’ll be sure to stay for that.”

  “They told him they’d have a new shipment in by the middle of next week,” added Maggie.

  Lee just shook his head, still chuckling.

  Maggie wanted to know how they were settling in, and they regaled her with stories of their house-restoration efforts while she helped fill their plates.

  “So now we have a forced-air furnace sitting in our cellar and no air conditioner, and I don’t think we’ll ever see that electrician again,” Lindsay said.

  “Not to mention we’re going to have to have some serious septic tank work done,” Cici said. “Farley gave me the name of a fellow, Will Peterson, but said he was in Baltimore for a couple of weeks.”

  Maggie frowned a little as she filled three paper cups with lemonade. “Baltimore? Will Peterson can’t even afford to go to Stony Gap.” And then her face cleared. “Oh! He must have said ‘gone to Baltimore.’ As in . . .” She lifted one shoulder and looked at them meaningfully. “You know.”

  Cici looked at Bridget and Bridget looked at Lindsay. They all looked back at Maggie.

  Maggie glanced at Lee, who just shrugged and wedged a huge piece of Texas toast onto the plate he was preparing. She lowered her voice and leaned toward them confidentially. “You know. He drinks. Sometimes for weeks at a time. Most of the year, he’s just as fine a fellow as you could meet, but if you happen to be in the middle of a job when he goes off on a bender, Lord help you. No, no, you don’t want Will, do they, sweetie?” She poured herself a glass of lemonade, looking thoughtful. “Why don’t you girls put in your own circuit box?” she suggested. “Nothing to it, really, just make sure you turn off the main breaker for the house before you get started.”

  “Easy as pie,” Lee assured them, mounding coleslaw onto the plate. “Ya’ll want sweet or sour?”

  Lindsay said, “Sweet for me,” and Lee ladled red sauce over the shredded pork on her plate.

  Cici said, “Don’t you have to have a licensed electrician do something like that to pass code?”

  Maggie gave a dismissing wave of her hand. “What code? Around here, we figure it’s your property and you can do what you want with it. Farley can take care of your electric work,” she added, growing thoughtful again, “but you’re really going to need a heating-and-air contractor, not to mention a new septic tank. What you need to do,” she advised, “is go to church.”

  Lindsay accepted a heaping plate of hot barbecue pork. “Church?”

  Maggie nodded. “The Baptists have the carpenters, the Methodists have the plumbers. Baptists have a good heat-and-air man, Methodists have the best stonemason. And for your grading and septic work, it’s Methodist all the way.”

  “But I’m Presbyterian,” Lindsay said.

  “And I’m Lutheran,” said Bridget, looking concerned.

  “Unitarian,” Cici admitted with an apologetic shrug.

  Maggie gave them a sympathetic smile as she produced the last overflowing plate. “Well, now,” she assured them gently, “I’m sure you’ll do just fine.” She held out her hand. “That’ll be fifteen dollars.”

  So, on Sunday, Bridget and Lindsay went to the Methodist church and
Cici went to the Baptist church. They wore their most conservative suits—Bridget’s navy blue with a white blouse and ruffled collar; Lindsay’s a camel color with a short jacket and pleated skirt; and Cici in smoke gray and a black blouse. Their hair was pulled back, their jewelry modest, and their expressions determined. They looked like members of a law firm setting off for a power lunch.

  Lindsay volunteered to stuff envelopes for the March of Dimes in the spring, and Bridget agreed to serve on the Food Committee for the Mission Society’s annual banquet in the fall. They were introduced to two contractors, a high school guidance counselor, the librarian, and Deke Sanders, who owned Sanders Grading, Hauling, and Septic Repair.

  Cici sang “Amazing Grace,” listened to a sermon on the evils of moral complacency and video gaming, and was heartily embraced by Maggie—as well as by several other people she didn’t know—who swept her off to the Fellowship Hall to drink Kool-Aid and munch lemon cookies. There she wrote a check to the Building Fund, and was introduced to the pastor and his wife, several councilmen, the church pianist, and Sam Renfro, of Sam’s Heating and Air.

  “You know,” decided Lindsay as they kicked off their high heels and peeled out of their hoisery at home, “it’s not such a bad thing to go to church every now and then. In case of emergency, you know.”

  Cici said, “You don’t call having no air-conditioning and a backed-up septic system an emergency?”

  “I know what she means,” Bridget said. “You know, in case you get sick or something.” The last time they had been together in a church, had been for Jim’s funeral.

  Cici took off her jacket and tugged her blouse out of her skirt as she started upstairs. “I suppose,” she agreed, a little reluctantly, “at our age you have to think about things like that. Besides, it’s a good way to get to know the new community.”

  “One thing,” Lindsay cautioned, following her up the stairs. “I think the pastor was a little annoyed that you didn’t come with us to the Methodist church.”

  Cici admitted, “Maggie did ask where you two were.”

  The three of them stood on the stairs and puzzled over this for a moment.

  “I don’t see how all of us can be at both churches at the same time,” Cici said.

  “A house divided against itself cannot stand,” Bridget pronounced solemnly.

  “On the other hand,” ventured Lindsay, “the Methodist church does have an eight o’clock service.”

  “And the Baptist church has one at nine thirty.”

  “Do you mean,” Bridget queried, only slightly incredulous, “we should go to both churches?”

  Cici shrugged and continued up the stairs. “I don’t see that we have much choice. We can’t afford to make anyone mad at us now. Besides, what are we going to do if we ever need a new roof?”

  11

  A Few Minor Adjustments

  By Wednesday, there was a hole in their backyard big enough to drive a truck through, and thirteen linear feet of their ceiling had been removed. Cici had just put the final coat of glossy white paint on the porch ceiling and was standing back to admire her work when she heard the inevitable words:

  “Ms. Burke? Could I show you just one thing?”

  She wiped her hands on a damp rag and went through the screen door into the front room, joining Sam Renfro, the heating-and-air contractor from the Baptist church, as he stood beneath the gaping hole in the ceiling, craning his neck upward to examine it.

  “Looks like you boys are making good progress,” she commented, trying to keep her tone upbeat. A box fan roared in the window, pushing warm air back and forth, and the backhoe that was scraping away at the lawn was a steady throb in the background. She had to raise her voice to be heard.

  Sam said, “See there?”

  Cici tilted her head back as far as it would go, but had to admit, “No. What?”

  He extended his tape measure, locked it, and thrust it into the hole, tapping the floor joists with the metal end. “Six inches, max. There’s no way we can run your ductwork through here.”

  She stared at him. “But you already tore out the ceiling.”

  He looked grave. “Yes ma’am, and I’m real sorry about that. It was fine until we got right here. I’m guessing when they put in the bathroom they ran the plumbing in through here and closed it up.”

  Cici drew a breath. “What can you do?”

  He thought about that for a minute. “We could tear out the ceiling, lower the whole thing by about a foot. You’ve got the room. Of course, who knows what we’re going to find in the rest of the house.”

  Cici blew out her breath. “Right. Who knows.”

  He said, “I really hate to tell you what I have to say now.”

  He looked so genuinely regretful that Cici felt her spirits sink another notch.

  “That furnace them other fellows sold you,” he said, “it’s about half the size you need for this place. It wouldn’t even heat the downstairs come winter.”

  The two of them stood for a time, looking at the ceiling and listening to the backhoe. Then Cici said, “Well.”

  He agreed, “Yeah.”

  “How much more money are we talking about?”

  “A lot.”

  “I appreciate your honesty.”

  He said, “You know, a house like this, it’s stood here all these years, my guess is they must’ve had a few hot summers.”

  Cici’s worried frown turned puzzled. “I guess.”

  “What I mean is, take that wood-burning furnace you got down there. It’ll heat the whole house on three cords of wood a winter. I know that for a fact because it’s my cousin that delivers the wood out here every year. Less than three hundred dollars a year, you can’t beat that.”

  “No,” said Cici, taken aback, “you can’t.”

  “And the best heat pump, it’s not going to cool your house more than fifteen, twenty degrees below the outside temperature,” he went on. “It stays cooler than that in your cellar.”

  “You’re not suggesting that we move to the cellar for the summer?”

  “No ma’am. What I’m thinking is it would be a lot cheaper to move the cool air you’ve got to where you need it, than to try to make cool air out of hot and then move it, if you follow what I’m saying.”

  “I’m not exactly sure I do.”

  “What if we tried to kind of suck the cool air up from the basement through the same vents your furnace uses?”

  The furrows on her brow deepened. “How?”

  “I’m thinking some kind of whole-house exhaust fan.”

  “Like an attic fan?”

  “Something like that.”

  “How big a job would that be?”

  “Well, I’m going to have to do some figuring on that,” he admitted. “Meanwhile, I can get you in business with some ceiling fans. That ought to help some.”

  “Okay, that sounds good. The sooner the better on those fans.”

  The backhoe stopped grinding. It was an ominous sign. Sure enough, in less than thirty seconds there was a rattling knock on the screen door and Deke, the backhoe operator and septic tank expert from the Methodist side, stood on the porch in his muddy boots.

  Cici turned to greet him, and Sam eyed him with the polite reserve due a neighbor from the opposite camp. “Deke,” he said.

  “Sam,” returned Deke in a similar tone.

  Sam said to Cici, “I’d best get back to my measuring.”

  And Deke said, “I don’t want to track in dirt, Miss Cici, but I was wondering if you could come out here for a minute. I just wanted to—”

  “Show me one little thing.” Cici sighed, heading for the door. “I know.”

  “So,” Cici wound up the story long-distance, “it seems the roots of a hundred-year-old hickory tree have infiltrated the septic system and we have to have a whole new drain field dug.”

  “Jeez, Mom, it sounds awful.” But Lori, three thousand miles away, sounded as rushed and as distracted as she always did when
she talked to her mother. Cici knew that the only reason she didn’t hear music blaring in the background was because it was blaring in Lori’s other ear from her iPod, and she could picture her daughter balancing the phone on one shoulder as she tried on earrings or held up dresses or did whatever it was that twenty-year-old girls did instead of worrying about septic tanks and drain fields.

  “Oh, it’s not so bad,” she said. “We can flush the toilets once a day, we just can’t do laundry or empty the bathtubs.”

  “Eeew, gross! It’s like a third-world country or something! How can you stand it?”

  “Listen to this.” Cici held the phone toward the open window.

  She returned the receiver to her ear in time to hear Lori say, “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Whatever.”

  “When are you coming to visit?”

  “When are you getting the toilets fixed?”

  Cici laughed.

  “Mom, I love you, and you know I’m dying to chat but—”

  “You’ve got to run, I know. Where’re you off to on your big day?”

  Lori’s voice became infused with genuine excitement, “Dad got us into the absolute coolest pool party in L.A.—and he bought me a brand-new swimsuit to wear to it! It’s gold lamé with a beaded top and three strands of Swarovski crystal on each side of the bottoms from front to back, you know, it’s just to absolutely die for. All kinds of models and actors and producers are going to be there, including—you won’t believe it!—Hugh Grant!”

  Cici bit her tongue until she thought she actually tasted blood. “Sounds fabulous, sweetie,” she managed at last. “Although I really can’t understand why you’d rather spend your birthday at a pool party with Hugh Grant than digging up septic tanks in Virginia with your mom.”

  She laughed. “I love the ring, Mom,” she told her, “and thank Aunt Bridget and Aunt Lindsay for me, too, will you? I’ll write them a note.”