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Authors: Sandra Dallas
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chicken boiled so long, there isn’t any taste left, and custard for dessert. I never knew there was so much colorless food a person could eat.”
“Since she’s so crazy about eating white stuff, I told her to serve popcorn the next time she and Mom had club meeting,” Rita said. “Buttered popcorn.”
I didn’t understand. “You can’t quilt and eat buttered pop-corn.”
“That’s the idea, silly.”
Tom sat down on the arm of the davenport, putting his arm around Rita, who stood next to him. “What’s that you’re drinking, Grover?”
“Popskull,” Grover said. “Darn good stuff, too. It’s Tyrone’s leftover bourbon, which is better than what you buy legal these days. Sometimes, I think Franklin Delano Roosevelt was wrong about putting an end to Prohibition.”
“Tangleleg suits me. How about you, morning glory?” Tom put his arm around Rita, who wore a pretty yellow sundress, a yellow silk ribbon around her hair, and a tiny gold wristwatch on her arm.
“Is that stuff really bourbon?” she asked.
“It’s awfully strong,” I warned her.
“Well, hot dog, then! The bigger the kick, the better,” she said.
“I’ll just see to dinner,” I told the men after Grover brought the drinks, expecting Rita to follow me into the kitchen the way women did. Instead, she went out on the porch and sat down with Tom and Grover. I made the gravy and put dinner on the table, hurrying so I wouldn’t miss anything. When I was finished, I called everybody to come inside. Tom and Grover said things looked good enough to eat, but Rita forgot to say, “My, you shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble,” the way you’re supposed to. I guess they have different manners in the city.
“Tom applied for a job with a copper-mining company in Butte, Montana,” Grover told me, after he’d returned thanks, being especially grateful for friends and asking the Lord for rain.
“Me and about a thousand other men. There’s not much call for engineering graduates these days. I guess Rita will be a famous newspaper reporter before I even get the notice that I’ve been turned down.” Tom took an extra big helping of mashed potatoes. “You know, I’d kind of looked forward to coming back to Harveyville, but I’d forgotten how damn hard farming is. Toots over there’s been game, but she wasn’t brought up to slop pigs. This life is even harder on her than it is on me.” Neither Grover nor I could think of anything to say. We knew farming was hard, but it was the best life we could think of. We were silent until Tom said, “Queenie, this is the finest gravy I ever tasted.”
I nodded to accept the compliment. Then I said to Grover, “Maybe you didn’t know Rita’s going to write articles for the
Enterprise.”
“You writing up stitch ‘n’ cackle?”
I kicked Grover under the table. “For your information, it’s called the Persian Pickle Club.” Grover and Tom broke out laughing, anyway. Rita chuckled, too, and even I had to smile because “stitch ‘n’ cackle” really did describe Persian Pickle sometime.
Rita cut her ham into little pieces before she answered Grover. “I’m going to write about the school-board election.” She put a piece of ham into her mouth and chewed it. “Tom’s dad says the way people vote in it will tell whether good times are coming back. The new people running for the school board want to build a grade school, and that’ll make taxes go up. So if they win, I’ll say people believe good times are around the corner and they don’t mind paying more to the government. But if the old school-board members are reelected, it means voters think hard times are here to stay and they want to keep taxes low. That’s called a slant.”
“You see those better times, Tom?” Grover asked.
“Maybe,” Tom said slowly, using his spoon instead of his knife on the butter. It had been as hard as ice when I’d put it on the table, but the heat in the room had melted it, and
“Since she’s so crazy about eating white stuff, I told her to serve popcorn the next time she and Mom had club meeting,” Rita said. “Buttered popcorn.”
I didn’t understand. “You can’t quilt and eat buttered pop-corn.”
“That’s the idea, silly.”
Tom sat down on the arm of the davenport, putting his arm around Rita, who stood next to him. “What’s that you’re drinking, Grover?”
“Popskull,” Grover said. “Darn good stuff, too. It’s Tyrone’s leftover bourbon, which is better than what you buy legal these days. Sometimes, I think Franklin Delano Roosevelt was wrong about putting an end to Prohibition.”
“Tangleleg suits me. How about you, morning glory?” Tom put his arm around Rita, who wore a pretty yellow sundress, a yellow silk ribbon around her hair, and a tiny gold wristwatch on her arm.
“Is that stuff really bourbon?” she asked.
“It’s awfully strong,” I warned her.
“Well, hot dog, then! The bigger the kick, the better,” she said.
“I’ll just see to dinner,” I told the men after Grover brought the drinks, expecting Rita to follow me into the kitchen the way women did. Instead, she went out on the porch and sat down with Tom and Grover. I made the gravy and put dinner on the table, hurrying so I wouldn’t miss anything. When I was finished, I called everybody to come inside. Tom and Grover said things looked good enough to eat, but Rita forgot to say, “My, you shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble,” the way you’re supposed to. I guess they have different manners in the city.
“Tom applied for a job with a copper-mining company in Butte, Montana,” Grover told me, after he’d returned thanks, being especially grateful for friends and asking the Lord for rain.
“Me and about a thousand other men. There’s not much call for engineering graduates these days. I guess Rita will be a famous newspaper reporter before I even get the notice that I’ve been turned down.” Tom took an extra big helping of mashed potatoes. “You know, I’d kind of looked forward to coming back to Harveyville, but I’d forgotten how damn hard farming is. Toots over there’s been game, but she wasn’t brought up to slop pigs. This life is even harder on her than it is on me.” Neither Grover nor I could think of anything to say. We knew farming was hard, but it was the best life we could think of. We were silent until Tom said, “Queenie, this is the finest gravy I ever tasted.”
I nodded to accept the compliment. Then I said to Grover, “Maybe you didn’t know Rita’s going to write articles for the
Enterprise.”
“You writing up stitch ‘n’ cackle?”
I kicked Grover under the table. “For your information, it’s called the Persian Pickle Club.” Grover and Tom broke out laughing, anyway. Rita chuckled, too, and even I had to smile because “stitch ‘n’ cackle” really did describe Persian Pickle sometime.
Rita cut her ham into little pieces before she answered Grover. “I’m going to write about the school-board election.” She put a piece of ham into her mouth and chewed it. “Tom’s dad says the way people vote in it will tell whether good times are coming back. The new people running for the school board want to build a grade school, and that’ll make taxes go up. So if they win, I’ll say people believe good times are around the corner and they don’t mind paying more to the government. But if the old school-board members are reelected, it means voters think hard times are here to stay and they want to keep taxes low. That’s called a slant.”
“You see those better times, Tom?” Grover asked.
“Maybe,” Tom said slowly, using his spoon instead of his knife on the butter. It had been as hard as ice when I’d put it on the table, but the heat in the room had melted it, and
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