buy your own cream cakes. Only thing you get free, if you really did come hungry, is one old oat mash cookie. And that’s only so the mind ain’t in the belly. So it can learn. You get the chance to sit in a school chair all day, instead of working someplace, you are lucky. Blessed and highly favored. Children ought to appreciate it like we did in my day.” She proceeds to the door, still talking. “Spoiled. Spoiled on Ding Dongs.”
I wish I’d recorded every bit of that speech on cassette tape. Or better yet, VCR. I’d play it for the kids, over and over and over until something changes.
“Granny T?” I catch her before she makes her way through the door.
“Mmm-hmm?” She hesitates, lips puckered again as she cranes upward.
“Have you thought any more about coming to my class to talk to the kids? It really would be good for them to hear your story.”
Once again, she fans off my idea like a giant, annoying gnat. “Oh, honey, I ain’t got anything to say.” She’s quickly out the door, and I’m left with banana oatmeal cocoa pooperoos. Which is more than I had a few minutes ago. So, there’s that.
I’m also late to meet Wonder Woman and get my roof repaired. I put the new cookies in my Ding Dong security vault, otherwise known as the top file drawer, lock it, and hurry home.
Aunt Sarge is already on the roof by the time I pull into the driveway. There is a stepladder propped next to the porch, so I climb it and stand on the top step, my hands keeping balance on the roof, which is still at about the level of my front pants pockets.
I say hello and make my apologies for being late.
“Not a problem,” Aunt Sarge mutters around a nail protruding from her mouth like a cigarette. “Didn’t need you anyway. All the work’s outside.”
I perch there a moment, watching with no small bit of admiration as she slides the nail from between her lips and whacks it into a shingle with four efficient hammer strokes. A small package beside her appears to contain additional shingles, which worries me a little. There’s more involved here than just roofing tar, clearly. This looks costly.
The ladder wobbles underfoot as I hook a knee onto the roof. Fortunately, today is laundry day, and I have on my oldest pair of work slacks, which I’ve decided need to go into retirement anyway. I ascend with all the grace of a performing seal trying to mount a circus pony.
A bothered look flicks my way. “You got something else you need to do, no worries. I’m fine up here.” There’s a sharp defensiveness, as if she’s used to battling for the ground she stands on. Maybe it’s a military thing. An adaptation to surviving in challenging work environments.
I wonder if that’s true of the kids in my class. Could it be that their apparent disdain for me is nothing personal? The thought flutters around the edges of my mind, unexpected and appealing, a bit revolutionary. I always assume people’s behaviors are a reaction to something I’ve done, not that they’re just doing their thing.
Hmmm…
“Roof won’t leak when I’m through,” Sarge assures me. “I know construction work.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it for a minute. And I couldn’t tell one way or another, anyway. I have zero experience with roofs, other than living under one.” I crawl up and sit. This thing is steep. And higher than I thought. From here, I can see the entire cemetery and across the orchard to the farm field beyond. It’s quite a view. “Maybe if I watch, I’ll know how to fix it next time. But I thought we were only talking about putting some tar around the pipe or something.”
“Needed more than that. Unless you want it to leak again.”
“Well, no. I mean, of course not, but…”
“You’re looking to have a slipshod job done, I’m not your girl.” She sits back on her heels, regards me with her head tilted away and her eyes narrowed. “If we’ve got some other