Griselda Takes Flight

by Joyce Magnin

  Frank Sturgis was sure to be in his kitchen that morning stirring a pot of fudge while Ruth baked pie and lemon squares. Charlotte Figg from Paradise was set to bring her pies. We all knew her pies would be in competition with Zeb's, but I think we all looked forward to a little good, wholesome pie fun.

  "It'll do Zeb good," I said aloud as I rinsed my cereal bowl. No one had ever challenged Zeb's pie skills, not since his mother Mable died. She was the queen of pie and was well-known in the area for having baked, along with several other women and men, the largest blueberry pie ever made in these parts. I had a picture of it somewhere and was going to go find it to show Charlotte when I heard a knock on the door.

  It was Zeb. He was standing on the porch in his blue jeans with his white apron tied around his waist. He was obviously already up and baking.

  "Are you going into Shoops for the pumpkin weigh-off?" he asked.

  "I told Stella I'd be there. Are you?"

  "I can't leave the café today. There is so much to do to get ready for the dance. Wish they hadn't changed the pumpkin date. But I'm glad you're going. I feel kind of awful that I can't be there. First one I've missed."

  "I know, lots of folks will miss it because of the dance. But I think I'll go. Stella needs someone there."

  Zeb stepped inside. "Listen, Grizzy, that ain't the only reason I came by so early in the morning."

  He followed me into the old viewing room from the days when my house was a funeral home. "I needed to apologize."

  I sat on the red velvet sofa that had sat in our house in the same exact spot for almost forty years. "Apologize? For what?"

  "Yeah, apologize." He looked away. "I've been acting badly about that Cliff fella."

  I sighed. "Yeah, you were. But now I don't know what to think after hearing what Mildred had to say about him being a con artist. And I like flying so much. It's like nothing I've ever experienced before, Zeb. It makes me feel happy, not that I'm not happy on earth but flying is different."

  "I know you feel that way. Your eyes get bright when you talk about it. So I want you to know that if you really want to take flying lessons, you can. I'll even pay for them—just not from him. But you have to promise me you won't fly too far away." He patted my hand.

  My heart sped as I tried to figure out what it was about Zeb's offer that disturbed me. "Wait a second," I said, finally figuring it out. "I don't need your permission, Zeb, and I can pay for lessons myself."

  Zeb stood. "Ah, Grizzy, I didn't mean it like that. I know you don't need my permission. I was just saying that it's OK. Maybe more OK for me. I'll try not to worry while you're up there flying around."

  "In that case, then. I'll accept your offer, and I'll even let you pay for my lessons."

  He smiled and then took my hands in his and looked me in the eyes. "We're good then?"

  "Uh huh. We're good."

  Then he kissed me and my knees turned to jelly and I felt a blush warm my face.

  "OK, then," Zeb said. "I better be getting back to the café. Tell Nate I said good luck."

  "I will. But I'm hoping he doesn't need any."

  I watched Zeb walk down the street. He had a little bit of a spring in his step and I will admit that I felt a little bit of a spring in my heart.

  Stella said Nate had insisted they get into Shoops by eight even though the weigh-off didn't even start until nine o'clock. Believe it or not it takes a long time to weigh a bunch of pumpkins but I figured they'd make it back to Bright's Pond in plenty of time for the dance.

  I wore jeans and a flannel shirt but grabbed my peacoat on the way out the door. The weather girl had called for the temps to rise into the fifties later in the day, but I had learned not to trust mountain weather. It had a way of changing pretty quickly, and you could almost always count of the breeze to kick up, especially in autumn.

  I stopped at Ruth's first. She was busy making lemon squares.

  "Where's your pies?" I asked.

  She screwed up her face and flicked a crumb from the kitchen table. "I didn't make any. I hear that new woman up in Paradise is making about a dozen pies. Everyone says hers are the best. What's her name?"

  "Charlotte."

  "That's right. Charlotte Kumquat."

  "Figg."

  "Figg, kumquat, what's the difference? She's the new pie queen in town."

  "Don't be jealous. God doesn't want you to be jealous. And he doesn't want Zeb to be jealous either. You still make Cora's lemon squares better than anyone."

  "I added something a little different, this year," she said with bright eyes. "Make them more my own, you know, real lemon zest. Cora never did that. She just used the juice, but I added a bit of the peel."

  "Good idea. I came by to see what you were up to. I promised Stella I'd go to the weigh-off."

  I looked around Ruth's kitchen. I counted seven trays of lemon squares tucked under Saran wrap.

  "Is that today?" Ruth asked.

  "Yes, they changed the date."

  "You know what," Ruth said taking off her watermelon decorated apron. "I am sick and tired of lemons. I say it's time for pumpkins. How 'bout if I come with you?"

  "I was hoping you'd say that."

  "Just let me freshen up, maybe a little lipstick, and I'll be right with you."

  "OK. We have plenty of time. I think I'd like to stop in at Ivy's. Check on her and Mickey Mantle. She's been quiet lately."

  "Oh, I saw her a few times here and there," Ruth called from her downstairs powder room. "She says Mickey Mantle is doing real good. But she doesn't like leaving him for long. And she doesn't like getting those pills down him."

  "Pills?"

  "The antibiotic the doctor gave her. At first Ivy was having a heck of a time getting Mickey Mantle to swallow them but the vet told her to hide it in some liverwurst. Worked like a charm. He laps it up in a second."

  After Ruth checked her stove and locked the back door we headed over to Ivy's house. I knocked on her front door but got no answer.

  "I wonder if she's out walking the dog," I said.

  "She might be but—" Ruth pointed. "There she is, out back with Mickey Mantle."

  Ivy had him on a short leash. His leg, or what was left of it was still bandaged, but he seemed to be standing on three legs like he didn't even miss or need the fourth.

  "Don't suppose he lifts his leg to pee now, does he," I said.

  Ruth couldn't suppress a chuckle.

  Ivy shook her head. "Griselda you slay me. Everyone knows he'd fall down if he does. Poor fella has to squat like a girl dog and go. Kind of pitiful. He used to have quite a reach when he could aim it better."

  Mickey Mantle looked at me. I gave him a good scratch behind the ears. "You are a good pup, aren't you?"

  He barked.

  "How are you doing with all this Ivy?" I asked. "You OK?"

  "I'm doing just fine," Ivy said. "Mickey Mantle is getting used to things and so am I. The doc came out the other day and checked him over. She says he's doing good. She even said I can take the bandage off when I'm ready."

  "What's stopping you?" Ruth asked.

  "Just ain't ready to see it."

  Ivy gave a slight tug on the leash and Mickey Mantle followed her inside. He went to his doggie bed, a large gray pillow near the fireplace and lay down.

  "We're on our way to Shoops for the pumpkin weigh-off. Want to come?"

  "And leave Mickey Mantle?"

  "He'll be OK. Just a few hours. It'll do you good."

  Ivy looked over at her dog who was now sound asleep and snoring. "OK. But we'll be back for the dance, right? Course then I'd have to leave him again. I just don't know."

  "Come on, Ivy," Ruth said. "We can't let Stella be there without a fan club now can we? Mickey Mantle will be OK as long as he has food and water, and he just did his business and all."

  Ivy appeared pensive a moment. "Well, OK. I would like to get out, and the Shoops Pumpkin Festival is always a nice time. They can pretty near make anything wi
th pumpkin."

  "Oh good," I said. "This is going to be fun."

  By the time we made it into Shoops the streets were already lined with parked cars, clear out to the main road. We were forced to park at least two miles from the activities on a fallow corn field. Fortunately two of the sponsors of the event, Piggly Wiggly and The Pink Lady, ran a shuttle bus from the parking to the center of town.

  It was one of those short, yellow school buses with banners advertising many of the local shops and businesses. But the gimmick I liked best was the huge plastic pig on the roof. He had a sign around his neck that read, "This little piggy went to market—The Piggly Wiggly Market."

  We boarded the standing-room-only bus and stood shoulder to shoulder with all manner of folks—farmers, business people, children. My toes touched the "Do Not Cross" line that separated the driver's cab section with the passenger section. The only good thing was that we were the first to get off. Ruth couldn't wait. She never liked tight spaces and would rather climb six flights than take an elevator. Ivy didn't seem to care, although she did remark that her extra-large breasts often made such situations uncomfortable.

  The town was decked out in all its pumpkin puffery with tents shielding craftspeople hawking macramé and pottery, blown glass, and baked goods including pumpkin pies, of course. There were concession stands selling everything and anything that could be made from pumpkins from face wash to bunion cream to lamps.

  "Oh boy," Ruth said. "I want to try some of that pumpkin beauty wash." She bought a jar, a pretty little fat jar with a quilted yellow and red fabric sticking out from under the lid. The label read, Patty Premont's Pumpkin Pie Beauty Cream.

  Ivy purchased zucchini and pumpkin soup mixes that were hand mixed, according to the label, by Mrs. Casimir Puchta and an odd little carved gourd clock wrought by none other than the hands of Mr. Casimir Puchta himself who stood proudly behind his table.

  "You like?" he asked Ivy. "I make many, many more for you. All shapes. All sizes."

  "No, no," Ivy said. "I only need one gourd clock."

  "It's gourd-geous," I said.

  We walked a little farther through the crowded fairgrounds. I picked up a little set of pumpkin salt and pepper shakers. "These are cute," I said. And the little girl behind the cash drawer beamed. "I made 'em myself. Well, leastways I painted them and fired them at the craft store. Pretty ain't they? That there one with the green stem is the salt. The other one, with no stem is the pepper."

  "Thank you very much," I said. "You did a very nice job."

  Our next stop was a white tent with a multicolored sign next to it that read, "THE LORD'S GOURDS." The artist, Mazy Dalton, was proud of her many hand-painted gourds, some tall and skinny, others short and squat. "See there," she said. "That's Jesus walking on the water. And this one here," she held up an ecru-colored gourd, "is of Jesus feeding the five thousand. Took me a whole month to get it just right."

  I had to swallow a chuckle, not very sure if I should be amused or horrified.

  "Come on," Ivy said, also about to burst into laughter. "It's getting close to eight-thirty. We should find Stella."

  Along the way we passed the Shoops Sentinel where Dabs Lemon worked. He happened to be standing outside the office smoking a cigarette. He recognized me.

  "You're Griselda Sparrow," he said.

  "Hi, Mr. Lemon. How are you?"

  "Fine, fine." He flicked his cigarette butt into the street. "How's your sister? Still making miracles?"

  Dabs Lemon interviewed me once for a story he did on Agnes. Not a very flattering story. "She's fine."

  "Hear you got more trouble up there in Bright's Pond." He practically licked his chops.

  "Trouble?" Ruth said. "What trouble?"

  "Stuff that policewoman asked me to investigate. The pilot?"

  I was not about to start discussing what was happening in Bright's Pond with Dabs Lemon. The last thing I wanted was my name in the paper again or to see him snooping around town.

  "Mildred is handling it," I said. "Nothing to get excited about."

  "I don't know about that," Dabs said. He looked away down the street. For effect, I suspected. "That is to say—" he stretched the word say out like it was a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. "I wouldn't worry too much about Cliff Cardwell. He's strictly two-bit. I'd put my money on that woman Gilda Saucer to be the troublemaker."

  "What makes you say that?" Ivy asked. "She seems OK."

  Dabs grinned. "I'll let you know for sure soon. Got some feelers out." He lit another cigarette. "I got a nose for news."

  I waved the smoke away and took Ruth's arm. "You'll have to excuse us. A friend is expecting us at the pumpkin weigh-off."

  Dabs laughed and then coughed like the laughter got stuck in his throat. Served him right I figured. "That stupid contest? At least I don't have to report on it this year. Bunch of pumpkin freaks if you ask me."

  "Well you don't have to be so mean about it," Ruth said.

  At the end of the main drag we saw a sea of pumpkins spread out on wood pallets. They varied in size and shape and color from small to big to huge, from near white to greenish to bright orange, the kind of orange you'd expect for a pumpkin. Men in flannel shirts and caps milled around the sea scrawling numbers on the pumpkins in large, black letters. I looked for Bertha Ann. She was registered in the Gargantuan Division.

  The three of us waded through the pumpkins and finally found Stella and Nate standing near Bertha Ann who all of a sudden didn't look so big. The funny thing about pumpkins is that when they grow so large they kind of flatten out in a kind of Salvador Dali–painting kind of way. Bertha Ann sat between two enormous gourds half again as big as the Kincaid entry. Bertha Ann, although bordering on flat sided was still quite round and pretty.

  "How's it going?" I asked.

  "Ah, Nate wants to go home. He says there's no way Bertha Ann will stack up against these giants."

  "I can't figure where they got their seeds," Nate said. "I thought I had the biggest growers going."

  Stella patted his shoulder. "They aren't that much bigger. They might be all mass. You got volume."

  "That's right. You won't know for sure until she gets weighed," Ivy said.

  "I hope they crack and collapse," Nate said.

  "Now that's not very kind," Stella said. "How'd you like it if someone wished ill will upon Bertha Ann?"

  "Where's Cliff?" I asked looking around. "I thought he'd be here."

  "He said he had some business to tend to," Nate said. "Might come by in a bit."

  "Oh. Well, I'm sure he'll get here in time for the big event. Do you know what time that will be?"

  Nate looked at his watch. "Not for a couple of hours yet. They weigh off the kid's divisions first. The Four H-ers and then the smaller groups. The big guys are always the last to go."

  "That's good," I said. "That will give Cliff time to get here. Maybe he'll fly in if he can find a place to land Matilda."

  Just then the fellow standing near the larger of the two pumpkins close to Bertha Ann pulled out a tape measure. With the help of who I assumed was his son, they wrapped it around their pumpkin.

  "See that?" the man said. "I told you she grew a little overnight. She's just over nine feet around."

  "You're right, Dad," the boy said. "We're sure to win!"

  "Ah, I'm takin' a walk," Nate said as he threw up his hands.

  "Poor guy," Ivy said. "He really thought he was a shoe-in this year."

  "Yeah and after coming so close last year," Stella said. "I hope he takes third or maybe even second."

  I sighed. "OK. Well maybe we'll wander around for a little while and meet you back here."

  "Yeah," Ivy said, "I'm hungry."

  "Plenty to eat if you like pumpkin," Stella said.

  "I smell ribs," Ivy said, "coming from that direction."

  There was no way Stella would leave Bertha Ann. Whether she admitted it or not she was almost as emotionally invested in the pumpkin as Na
te.

  An hour later we made our way back to the judging stands. They started with the smaller pumpkins and awarded ribbons for first, second, and third places. Another hour and half went by before they were finally ready for the largest gourds.

  A forklift picked up the pallets and drove them to a large circle where they were lowered and wrapped with yellow straps.

  "Like babies in a sling," Ruth said as we watched them lift each pumpkin and weigh it on a contraption that looked much like a giant fish scale.

  Nate looked like he was about to bust all his buttons when it came time for Bertha Ann. He directed and hollered at the men as they secured her in the sling.

  "Careful now. Careful. Don't drop her."

  The men, apparently used to temperamental stage parents, simply did their jobs.

  "One hundred twenty-nine pounds, seven ounces." The official declared Bertha Ann's weight.

  "Wow, heaviest so far," I said. "He's got a chance."

  But it wasn't to be. Bertha Ann lost to a monster named Goliath who weighed in at one hundred fifty-two pounds, five ounces. Bertha Ann took third place.

  Nate said precious little. He made noises and harrumphed off toward his truck. Stella followed shouting words of encouragement, which Nate waved away.

  "Sometimes I wish he'd keep on walking," Stella said. "It's like that dang stupid pumpkin is all he cares about."

  "Ah, he loves you," Ruth said. "This is just hard after he invested so much time."

  "Oh, I know," Stella said. "But I still would like to ride home with you if that's OK. He won't even notice I'm not in the truck."

  25

  Ivy graciously offered to sit in the back of Old Bessie since there was no way all four of us would fit in the cab. By the time we were on the road it was nearing two o'clock.

  "The dance starts at six-thirty," I said.