Listen To Me Honey (6 page)

Why
doesn’t that surprise me? Raced through Amanda's mind.

Chapter Six

The next morning, even at a slow
speed, they bounced every time Art hit a pothole in the narrow,
rocky road.

“Grandpa, if you can’t slow down, could you at least miss
some of those holes? My teeth are about to jar out of my head,”
chattered Amanda.

“Doin' the best I can,” said Art, gripping the steering
wheel.

“I
don’t understand why you want to be seen in this crummy pickup.
Your car had to be better than this. Driving a nice car defines who
you are. You shouldn't have gotten rid of the Buick,” griped
Amanda.

“There came a time, Mandie, we realized we didn’t want
folks to define us by what we drove or even where we lived. They
should like us for who we are, and that includes our
granddaughter,” explained Art.

“Listen to him, Honey. Some day when you're older, ya will
understand what Grandpa just said is true,” Tansy told
her.

Amanda couldn’t help comparing the
sights along the road to the high rise buildings and pavements in
Chicago. The trees reached for the sky just like the skyscrapers
and hugged the road, giving her the same closed in feeling. Trees,
with their leafy branches draped in green Virginia ivy, stood out
amid stately, dark green cedars.

On the edge of the road grew sumac,
polk and goldenrod. Amanda asked her grandma what the plants were
called. The weeds were close to the edge of the road. If Amanda
rolled the window down, she’d be able to reach out and touch them.
Not that she was willing to try that with the way Grandpa drove. If
the window was down, she just might fly out of it on one of the
bounces.

The dew was heavy that morning. It
covered the landscape to add a glitter to the foliage like
sparkling diamonds.

Grandpa was a puzzle to her. Amanda
couldn't understand how he'd give up nice things. She mulled over
that and decided maybe her grandparents couldn't afford nice
things. Finally somewhere in the boonies, Art pulled into the
church yard.

The dark brown, one story building
with a tin roof was nestled in a clearing against a backdrop of
trees.

“This doesn't look like any church I ever saw,” Amanda
said.

“Pleasant Valley church was the school your grandma and I
went to, before school buses came after the country younguns. We
only went to eighth grade in them days,” Art said.

“No
kidding. You didn't have to go to school as long as they make us
kids go now?” Amanda asked.

“Nope, we didn't go to school, but sometimes, we wished we
could be in school. We spent every hour of daylight workin' with
our parents. Yer grandma had to he'p her mama, and I worked in the
field with my daddy,” Art explained.

“Oh,” Amanda said softly.

“Doesn't sound like much fun, does it? It wasn't, but that
was the way it was in them days. The church is a community
buildin', a votin' place and church on Sunday,” Grandma informed
her. “We're lucky to have such a fine buildin' in Pleasant
Valley.

In the middle of the front yard set
a pitcher pump. Hanging on its handle, a tin cup blinked, touched
by the sun.

In the back yard was a weather
darkened outhouse. The building leaned to the side. Amanda wondered
if a person could stand upright in the outhouse without sliding
sideways and hit the wall.

She had seen such country things as
all of this in picture books about under privileged places. She
just didn’t know so many country churches, pumps and outhouses
still existed. “Grandma, we should have stopped to pick up bottled
water. No one drinks well water these days.”

Tansy made a huffing sound. “Y'all
have been drinkin' well water for a few days now and aren't sick
yet. It sure doesn't make me and yer grandpa sick.”

It’s not safe though,” Amanda
concluded.

“Listen to me, Honey. This is God’s day. Stores are closed.
Even if they were open, we wouldn't go shoppin' on God's day.
Besides, no one has gotten sick yet from drinkin' the church’s
water,” Tansy defended.

Amanda worried, “What if I have to
go to the bathroom?”

Tansy pointed behind the building.
“There’s the outhouse just like the one at home.”

“It don't look quite like yours. The way that
outhouse leans it might fall over any minute. It’s germy, Grandma.
Lots of people use it. I just can’t ----,” began Amanda.

“Come on, Mandie. Get out of the pickup. We’re the first
ones here so we make the fire to warm the church before everyone
else gets here,” interrupted Art.

Amanda followed him inside, waiting
for her eyes to adjust to the dimness so she could see what the
chilly building looked like.

Right out of Little House On The Prairie, the two rows of a
dozen wooden pews shone, slick from a century of congregations
sliding in and out.

The pew boards were spaced four
inches apart. The seats were shiny from the congregation sliding in
and out over the years. Even the rough, splintered floor was worn
smooth under Amanda’s feet as she walked down the aisle.

A riser, at the front of the
church, was home for the podium, and once upon a time, probably
held the teacher's desk. Next to the podium was a piano. Tansy
explained it remained unused for long periods of time when no one
in the congregation knew how to play it.

On top of the piano set an
arrangement of faded, plastic blue flowers, still in a place of
honor from someone's wedding. Now they were though long past their
prime.

Grandpa carried slabs from the wood
box in the back of the room and filled the heating stove. Soon, the
fire crackled and popped, sending warmth from the stove’s thin,
dented sides.

Not only was the room much warmer,
but so were the hibernating, black wasps in the ceiling cracks.
Amanda watched in horror as they crawled up and down the walls. She
squealed and ducked when one flew low over her and soared up to
bounce off the fly specked ceiling.

“Mandie, those wasps won’t hurt you,” scolded
Art.

“I
already told her that when she found them in the outhouse,” groused
Tansy.

As the church pews filled, Amanda
scooted closer to Tansy and looked out the window. The pickups,
parked in a row, weren’t in much better shape than Grandpa’s.
Didn’t anyone around here own a decent car?

“Pretty this time of year,” stated Tansy, looking at the
timber.

“Pretty but like a zoo,” grumbled Amanda, watching
two squirrels chase each other up a tree.

A girl, with bright red pigtails
and freckled pale skin about Amanda's age, scooted into the pew by
her. “Hey, you must be new here. I'm Willa Scott.”

Amanda nodded. “I'm Amanda
Craftton.”

“Y'all just visitin'? Ya sure don't sound like you're from
around here,” Willa probed.

“Yes, visiting my grandparents. I'm from Chicago,” Amanda
explained.

By
then, the congregation had filled the church. People quieted down
as the preacher stood up and faced them. “We'll begin this fine
mornin' by singin' The Old Rugged Cross.”

Tansy handed Amanda a song book
open to the right page. Voices loudly rang out, escaped the walls
and echoed through Pleasant Valley. The worshipers didn’t miss the
piano, and no one, but Amanda needed a hymn book to put their
hearts and souls into those familiar words.

The
sermon followed. While the preacher spoke, some people shouted,
“Praise the Lord.” The only other sounds were people squirming on
the hard seats, a soft cough now and then, and the impatient
whisperings of a small child.

The offering plate passed along
Amanda’s pew. Willa put a handful of pennies into the plate,
already half filled with coins and dollar bills. The girl smiled at
Amanda as she handed her the plate.

Amanda took the plate. “You done?”
She found it odd the girl, about her age, gave only
pennies.

“I
gave my whole allowance this Sunday. That means I'm done,” stated
the girl, proudly.

It dawned on Amanda that she didn’t
even have pennies to put in the plate. Red faced, she passed the
plate to her grandma, fully realizing the girl beside her,
expectantly waited for her to make an offering.

Tansy patted Amanda's hand on the
plate and whispered loud enough for Willa to hear, “Listen to me,
Honey, I’m puttin' in fer both of us today.”

The minister offered the closing
prayer. The congregation rose to their feet to greet each other,
shaking hands all around before they filed out.

As she left the church, Amanda
turned to look back down the aisle. The once crackling fire had
quieted to a playful sizzle. The piano and the podium stood alone
on the quiet stage, but yet not really alone. On the back wall hung
a picture of Christ on the cross, his image watching over all he
surveyed.

Amanda stepped outside, into the
sunlit, timber scented air and headed for her grandpa’s old pickup.
This place was so different from Chicago. Downsizing Grandpa called
having an old pickup and not many modern conveniences. That must be
what everyone around here practiced.

No one wore stylish outfits or had
fancy homes and cars, and they seemed happy with the way they
lived.

Her grandpa stood in a group of
men. They were discussing going frogging some night after it warmed
up and getting the fish lines set for catfish before they
spawned.

Grandma, in her navy blue dress
with the lace at the neck, stood with the women. They discussed
gathering for a quilting bee and putting on a box supper social to
raise money for the church. They reminded each other that next
Sunday was picnic lunch Sunday.

More foreign language to Amanda.
She didn't understand what they were talking about. Maybe later she
could get her grandparents to explain.

She looked around for the girl who
put her whole allowance into the offering. Willa was going into the
outhouse. She didn’t seemed to mind the way things were here, and
she didn’t have a tattoo, either. Maybe that girl could explain to
Amanda what she needed to know to understand this way of life that
was so unfamiliar to her.

Her grandparents didn't look to be
in any hurry to leave. Amanda headed for the outhouse just Willa
came out.

Willa greeted, “Hey,
Amanda.”

“Hi,
Willa,” Amanda replied.

Willa leaned against a sassafras
tree by outhouse. “What ya got planned for this
afternoon?”

Amanda shrugged. “Not much. Just
hang out with my grandparents.”

“Sometime if y'all want to, ya can come over to my house.
We can find somethin' to do,” Willa invited.

“Like what?” Amanda asked.

Willa smiled. “Oh, we'll think of
somethin'.”

“Where do you live?”

Willa said, “Not far from y'all. In
fact, in walking distance. Yer grandpa can show ya on the way home
if you ask him.”

Chapter Seven

As they bounced toward home, Amanda
asked where Willa Scott lived. Tansy said not far from them. She
showed Amanda Bill and June Scott's house as they drove
by.

“Would you mind if I went to visit Willa sometime? She
asked me.”

“About time ya had someone yer own age to visit. Call her
when you're ready, and see if that's a good time for Willa's mama.
The girl can come visit ya any time she wants just so ya know.”
Tansy said.

“Thanks, Grandma.”

“I'll be glad to take ya when ya want to go,” Grandpa
offered.

“No
need since they live so close. Did my dad have a bike?” Amanda
asked.

“Sure enough he did. It's hangin' on the tool shed wall.
Want to use it?” Art asked.

“I'd
like that,” Amanda said.

As soon as they got home while
Tansy started dinner, Art took Amanda to the tool shed. He lifted a
blue bike off the holders on the wall and set it on the
floor.

“This bicycle sure cleanin'. I expect the tires are about
flat. I'll air them up, and ya can give it a try,” Art
said.

Amanda looked the bike over and
complained, “It don't have any speeds on it.”

“Sure this bicycle has speeds just like any bicycle. It's
all man powered. Ya pedal fast, and the bicycle's speed is fast. Ya
pedal slow, and the bicycle goes slow,” Art explained.

Amanda wasn't sure if Art was
teasing. “If the bicycle doesn't work, the walk to Willa's house
will do me good.”

That afternoon, Amanda and her
grandparents sat on the front porch.

Amanda sized up the dog, lying at
her grandpa's feet. “Is Jubel ever going to like me?”

The dog brought his head up at the
mention of his name. He looked at Amanda with his head
cocked.

“Aw,
I reckon he will sooner or later,” Art drawled.

“What kind of dog is he?”