Growing Season Read online

  There was a faint scratch and a quiet “whoosh,” then an “a-ha!” from Mabel echoed up from below. She grinned as she topped the stairs, puffing just a bit, whether from excitement or exertion or maybe both.

  “We’ve got heat, girls. I’ll fill these pots with water and jars, and then let’s get started on those berries.” Then she looked at Melinda. “My dear, you don’t want to wear that.”

  Her tee shirt and shorts were faded but clean. She noticed then that Angie’s pants carried faint splatters of old paint and her knit top had a hole in it near the hem.

  “Strawberry juice is nasty to get out once it sets in. You’ll want the oldest things you’ve got,” Mabel suggested as she loaded empty jars into a stockpot. “And we’ll need newspapers for the table, counters and the floor.”

  Once Melinda changed and the newspapers were spread over every surface, they set up an informal assembly line. Melinda washed and drained the berries into a clean pan. Angie took the pan to the kitchen table, where Mabel was set up with a paring knife in one hand and a bucket by her feet. With a few flicks of her wrist, Mabel lopped off the tops of the berries and sliced them in half and then half again. The chunks of fruit plopped into another pan on the table.

  Once all the berries were washed, Angie and Melinda joined Mabel at the table with their own knives and buckets. Mabel eyed the mounds of sliced berries, calculating their volume, then filled the canner with water and cranked up the electric kitchen stove. The jar rings and the new lids were stacked in a small pot of water and put on to heat. Then several cups of berries, their juices already starting to run, were measured into a large kettle. When it was half full, sugar and lemon juice were added.

  “Melinda, you can stir that until it’s just about to boil,” Mabel handed her a large spoon. “Once it does, turn it down to medium-low and give it about ten minutes, make sure the sugar is dissolved. We’ll get the jars ready.”

  “I think I can handle that.” Melinda took up her place in front of the stove. “We’re not adding pectin, right, since this isn’t going to be jam?”

  “Exactly,” Mabel nodded and gave her a wink. Melinda felt her confidence grow. This really wasn’t so hard.

  “Where can I get an old cookie sheet for these jars?” Mabel asked. Melinda gestured to one of the lower cabinets and Mabel, with some clanging and banging of metal, tugged out a dark-shaded pan that had seen better days. “Wow, Horace must not bake much. But this will do.”

  The sparkling, sterilized jars, steaming from their bath on the basement range, were lined up on a stack of clean towels on the counter nearest the kitchen stove. Mabel used a funnel to fill the jars with the strawberry mixture while Melinda followed behind and wiped the rims with a damp dishcloth, set the steaming-hot lids on top, and screwed on the metal bands until they gave a little resistance. Angie lifted the rack out of the canner, which was now growling and filled with a rolling boil of water, and used tongs to place the jars in the metal rack. With two thick potholders, she carefully lowered the basket into the canner and set the lid securely on top.

  “And now we wait.” Angie nodded with satisfaction and set the alarm on her phone. “Let’s get another stack of towels ready for when these come out of the canner.”

  They had two canner loads of pint jars done by noon, stemming and slicing mounds of berries and sterilizing more jars and lids while each batch processed. The jars cooling on the counter’s bed of towels started to “ping,” announcing their lids had sealed.

  “The best sound you can hear on canning day,” Mabel told Melinda as they sat down for lunch at the kitchen table. The newspapers were splattered with red stains and Melinda’s hands were dotted with bright blotches. Her ragged tee shirt, which she was unconsciously using as an apron, wasn’t going to be good for anything other than canning in the future, but she didn’t care. The jars on the counter glowed like rubies, proof of the women’s hard work.

  Angie took a bite of her pasta salad. “What’s in this dressing? It’s fabulous.”

  “Well, it’s a secret blend of ranch dressing and whatever spices are in the cabinet. Today, that’s just salt and pepper and a little celery seed.”

  “This hits the spot.” Mabel wiped her hands on one of the paper towels Melinda had hastily handed out as napkins. “The perfect lunch for canning day. I always say, the day I put up strawberries is the first real day of summer, no matter that the calendar says we’ve got another week until the solstice.”

  “We’d better get back at it.” Angie gathered the paper plates. “Looks to me like we’ve got about a week’s worth of berries left.”

  Once the last jars were down in the canner, the women began to wash up the sticky-sweet bowls stacked around the kitchen. It was nearly four o’clock before the mess was cleared away and it was time for some dessert. Melinda put the last of the cooked berries in a bowl in the refrigerator and, just before Mabel and Angie headed for home, they sat down at the cleared kitchen table for slices of Mabel’s famous coconut cake, doused with strawberry sauce.

  “This cake is amazing,” Melinda raved as she scraped the last of the coconut crumbs and berries out of her bowl. “I’ll need that recipe, Mabel.”

  “I’ll bring it over soon,” Mabel sighed and stretched her legs under the table. “We did great work today, ladies. Just look at all those jars.”

  “Be sure to load up whatever you want to take home.” Melinda waved her spoon at the counter lined with rows of glowing jars. “There’s more than enough for Horace and myself to enjoy. But I think when more berries come on in the next few weeks, I’ll just put them in the chest freezer in the basement.”

  “Just wait,” Angie raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Once the canning bug bites, you’ll be firing up the stove again in no time.”

  “Well, actually, I noticed there’s a rhubarb patch out there,” Melinda said casually, but she was already hooked. Now, every row, every plant in the garden was full of potential. “It crossed my mind that some strawberry-rhubarb jam might be worth a try.”

  Angie’s face lit up. “Just call and I’ll come over. We have until June 25th to cut rhubarb this season. Then we need to leave it alone so it grows back next year,” she added after seeing Melinda’s puzzled look.

  “I pull my rhubarb, and pull it by the end of June,” Mabel glanced sideways at Angie, then smiled. “But that’s a debate for another day. It’s nearly chore time. Melinda, if you’re still trying to win over the chickens and sheep, all you have to do is give them those strawberry tops. They’ll be your friends for life.”

  CHAPTER 12

  It took a few more days, but Melinda began to settle into her new routine. She still needed an alarm each morning, of course, but one was finally enough. She was up early, seeing every sunrise for the first time in years. Morning chores were followed by dragging the hoses up and down the garden rows, watering the plants on a rotation she designed with Jerry’s guidance. Then off to Prosper Hardware, then back to Horace’s for a second round of chores and dinner.

  But while the garden thrived, so did the weeds. They seemed to sprout up everywhere the moment she turned her back. On many evenings, she donned a battered straw hat she found in the porch closet, pulled on her new floral gardening gloves and went out to battle the invaders. A folded towel helped spare her knees along with her jeans, and an application of bug spray kept at least a few of the pests away. Pushing a dented metal bucket ahead of her, she crawled up and down the rows while Hobo sniffed the tracks he found in the garden dirt or lounged next to the hydrant. Her back ached and her pretty gloves quickly became dingy, but Melinda didn’t care. For the first time since she walked out of WP&S, hugging her cardboard box, she felt a sense of satisfaction about how she spent her days.

  Working at Prosper Hardware was more fulfilling than she expected. She had loved her old job and the creativity and camaraderie it offered, but there had been too many hours spent in endless meetings about customer demographics and media trends. But now, she made
people’s day-to-day lives easier, and she could immediately see the effect her efforts had on customers. Bill and Esther proved to be good friends as well as supportive co-workers, and Melinda found herself looking forward to the gossip around the coffee pot before the store opened.

  Hobo was always waiting by the garage to greet her when she came home, but the cats remained aloof. The orange one was fluffier than the gray-and-white one. She was lucky to catch a glimpse of them peering down at her from the rafters at chore time. She bought them a set of sturdy food and water bowls, hoping to win them over. But neither cat would come down to eat until she left the grain room, then the sound of their munching echoed from behind the door while she fed the sheep.

  She stuffed the cats’ open bag of food in a large trash bag and took it inside the back porch, placing it next to Hobo’s kibble. She had yet to meet any rats or raccoons in the barn, and the tracks Hobo traced in the garden were thankfully small, but she didn’t want to tempt any unwanted visitors by leaving food unsecured.

  The sheep were beginning to trust her, helped along by the coos and tentative forehead scratches she offered along with fresh water and grain. They now answered with an enthusiastic chorus of “baaaas” when she called them to come into the barn. The chickens also learned her voice and no longer rushed for the far corners of the run when she came through their gate. One of the rust-colored hens, however, seemed to be looking for chances to peck at Melinda’s legs. She decided that one had to be Pansy, and kept watch out of the corner of her eye for any sudden, darting movements.

  There were more eggs than she could eat or give to her parents, and she was thankful when Kevin emailed her a list of Horace’s regular buyers. One couple came by the next night and took two dozen off her hands. Kevin said she could keep the money, but these were Horace’s chickens and it didn’t seem right. She pinched the dollars and coins into a glass jar and set it in the kitchen cabinet above the phone.

  Melinda didn’t have much free time. But when she did, it was relaxing to sit out at the picnic table or on the front porch swing, watching the fireflies dance across the lawn as the sky deepened into a violet dusk. When thunderheads puffed up to the west or the humidity drove her inside, she stretched out in Horace’s easy chair, surfing his impressive collection of cable channels or reading. Melinda had brought along a few favorite novels and some titles she had yet to begin, but she was curious about the selection at the Prosper Public Library. Her expectations were low, but it surely had more to offer than the dozens of Westerns and thrillers stocked on Horace’s shelves.

  The library, just across the street from Prosper Hardware, was only open for a few hours Wednesdays through Saturdays during the summer months. Melinda took her first internet bill to work one day so she could stop in on her lunch break to sign up for a card.

  The library’s picture window illuminated the paneled checkout desk and a small alcove for coats and hats, but left the rest of the space in those cozy shadows that seemed to be reserved for libraries and bookstores. The lights were on, as was a radio behind the counter, but no one was at the desk. Melinda wandered through the stacks and came upon the children’s story time area and what was apparently the media center: a wooden work table topped with two computers. There looked to be a small meeting room in the very back, but the glass window between it and the rest of the library was dark.

  “Hello?” Melinda still saw no one else in the library.

  “Over here, I’m in here. Sorry, was taking care of some of my other duties,” a woman called out from an entryway that opened into the front room of City Hall next door. She popped into the library, adjusting her glasses and shifting a stack of papers from the crook of her right arm to her left.

  “You must be Melinda. I’m Nancy Delaney, Prosper city clerk and librarian all rolled into one. Jerry and Miriam told me you were back for the summer. How wonderful that you’re able to help out over at the store.” She paused, then laughed at the amazed look on Melinda’s face.

  “We so rarely have anyone new in town,” she explained, as Melinda began to laugh, too. “The odds were overwhelmingly in my favor.”

  “So glad to meet you,” Melinda said, admiring Nancy’s stylish, razor-shaped bob. Her dark brown hair was shot through with streaks of gray. “I’ve been wanting to stop in and get set up with a card.”

  “Oh, absolutely.” Nancy settled in on the high stool behind the polished oak counter. “Great, you’ve got a piece of mail with your current address, a photo ID …” She reached in a drawer for a new library card and activated it with a scanner.

  “Believe it or not, we only went digital two years ago. I’d love to upgrade those computers in the back, but the budget’s nearly nonexistent. However, we do our best to get in the new books, especially fiction.” Nancy gestured at a display rack by the front door. “See if there’s anything over there that catches your eye.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Melinda walked out into the sweltering afternoon with her arms wrapped around two books. One was historical fiction from Nancy’s display of recent arrivals. The other was an aged title on the basics of gardening discovered on a back shelf. As she crossed Main Street, Melinda once again felt that exhilaration she’d experienced as a child visiting the library in Swanton. Books could take you anywhere you wanted to go, and she couldn’t wait to get home and turn those first pages.

  “Nancy keeps this city running,” Jerry told her the next morning as they were preparing for the coffee group’s arrival. Auggie was out of town, so Jerry nominated himself as the set-up and tear-down committee.

  “She’s the city’s only full-time employee. Handles the accounts and the bills. Takes minutes at the council meetings. Oversees the library, with the help of a part-timer and a group of volunteers. We’ve got probably ten years before she’ll retire, thankfully. It’ll take that long to find a replacement.”

  Melinda did the math and guessed that Nancy was in her mid-fifties. “I found her friendly and super sharp. I can certainly see her being capable enough to keep all the plates spinning.”

  The back door creaked and John Ogden came in, offering Jerry and Melinda a tired wave. Prosper’s only veterinarian carefully rubbed the soles of his work boots on the floor mat before ambling up the aisle. He sighed and lowered himself into a chair then removed his navy cap, the gray of his stubble-short hair seemingly at odds with his wiry, strong frame. Doc, as everybody knew him for miles around, looked like he’d been up for several hours already.

  “We were lucky to hire Nancy, back when I was on the council,” Doc said. “She’d been down in Des Moines, wanted to move back closer to her family in Hampton after her divorce, have the kids near the grandparents. She had the right degree and didn’t balk at obtaining her library certification after our longtime librarian retired a few years back.” Doc yawned and gratefully accepted the steaming mug handed across by Jerry.

  “Late night or early morning?” Jerry asked.

  “Got an emergency call at four-thirty, of all hours,” Doc muttered. “Cow had her head stuck in a fence, must have been there for quite a few hours last night. Just a few minor lacerations, didn’t need stitches. Took us longer to get her untangled than treat her wounds. I’m starving but there’s not time to run home before my first office call at eight. Melinda, are there any packaged muffins back in the grocery aisle?”

  “Sorry,” she checked the row but shook her head. “Got some granola bars, though.”

  “That’ll do. Here,” Doc fished a five out of his wallet. “Many thanks.”

  There had been snacks at only one of the coffee gatherings in the two weeks Melinda had worked at Prosper Hardware, but she hoped to become a regular contributor. Angie was coming over that weekend to show her how to make strawberry-rhubarb jam, and she planned to bring in a jar next week for George’s birthday. The preserves would be perfect slathered on some fresh baking-powder biscuits.

  She didn’t want to get her hopes up yet about the jam. She had Grandma Foster
’s biscuit recipe down pat, but her first attempt at cooking with rhubarb had been anything but sweet.

  First, there was the dilemma about whether to cut or pull the stalks. Melinda wasn’t sure if she should follow Angie’s or Mabel’s advice, so she did a little of both. The rhubarb pie recipes she found online seemed easy enough, but the amount of sugar they called for made her gasp. Surely she could ease up on it and the pie would still be good. Her parents were coming over for dinner, and they were trying to eat healthy.

  The crust browned beautifully and she was proud to set the pie on the dining room table, but the looks on Roger and Diane’s faces as they took their first bites told the truth. She forked into her own slice, determined to give it a try. The sharp, bitter taste brought on a coughing fit that had her reaching for her water glass. Even worse, the filling was what could only be described as gooey yet crunchy. Horace’s oven apparently ran overly hot, and the bottom crust had burnt before the rhubarb cooked through.

  Trying to salvage even a little of her efforts, Melinda dumped the pie into a bowl, rinsed off the rhubarb pieces and carried them out to the chickens. The hens took only a few pecks before they shook their feathers and strutted off with indignant clucks, leaving her hard work in the dirt.

  The strawberry-rhubarb jam, however, was a success, thanks to Angie’s expertise. Melinda was so pleased with the results that she vowed to make another batch on her own before the rhubarb season came to an end. The afternoon also gave the women a chance to get to know each other better. Melinda found herself in awe of Angie’s kitchen skills and was impressed by the goal she and Nathan had to add an organic vegetable delivery service to their farming operation. Angie in turn was fascinated and entertained by Melinda’s stories about her life in the Twin Cities.