are my favorite animals, how exciting it is to watch new piglets squeal into the world. Even my mother, who once hoped to marry a big-name lawyer and take vacations to the south of France, isn’t able to conceal her awe when these births take place on the hay-strewn barn floor. In spite of what she tells Andrea and me about her once-upon-a-longings, we know she is married to the wisest and sweetest man in the world. His profession as a farmer only makes him humble.
My mind wanders to what kind of childhood the children who come to The Center for the after-school program have had—and are having—but I push the topic as far away as my mind will let me.
No, Grandpa, this is not the life I would have chosen.
seventeen
S ally and I sit on the deck, grilling trout and catfish as the sun vanishes behind the edge of the mountain closest to the cabin. Sally is a good fisherwoman; she brought two rods, bait, and tackle, and we spent this morning fishing in Deep Creek.
Perhaps she had heard the sorrow in my voice when I told her that my hope to drive to Tifton to visit Dad and Mom and spend four or five days on the farm was not going to be realized.
Whatever the cause, Sally didn’t hesitate. She hopped in her Honda Civic and made the winding trip of 152 miles to Bryson City. She left another doctor in charge of all her fuzzyfurred, wet-nosed clients.
“School is out June eighth here, but they want me to teach all summer,” I told her as I stood in my kitchen with my cell phone clutched in one hand and stirring buttercream frosting with the other. “Summer school. It starts on Monday.”
“They really want these kids to learn to cook, don’t they?” Sally sipped from her cup of coffee. I could hear the slurp over the phone. Starbucks Mocha Latte. Two percent milk, a dash of cinnamon. Sally’s favorite.
While I longed for my own cup of Starbucks, I said, “They want to keep them occupied and off the streets.”
“Well, that’s important, I guess.”
“Miriam says that the summer program also has this guy named Robert teaching drama and art. I’m sure the kids will like that.”
Just art, drama, and basketball would be enough to keep their minds and hands busy, wouldn’t it? Are the cooking classes really necessary? When I asked Miriam about it, she said, “Cooking helps them learn about measuring, and ingredients, and how to use them in recipes, but it also teaches children to follow directions in order to obtain a satisfactory result.” She shuffled her tennis shoes, reciting the words, and I wondered which cookbook produced this wisdom.
I squeeze some lemon juice on the skins of the fish fillets and tell Sally that I think the money they pay me at The Center comes from some kind of account Grandpa Ernest set up.
“Your grandpa seemed to have loads of money.” She lifts a piece of smoky catfish off the grill with Ernest’s tongs. “What did he do?”
“You mean besides traveling all over the world after he lost his wife?” I deliberately pause for effect. “He was a surgeon in Pennsylvania. You know, one of those rich doctors.”
Sally smiles and pokes me with the end of the tongs. “How’s the hot tub?”
“I haven’t…”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t been in it yet!”
————
Catfish and trout always taste better when you’ve caught and cleaned them yourself. We enjoy our meal out on the deck as a tame breeze blows against our faces.
After we wash the dishes, Sally helps me pull the covering from the hot tub and shows me how to heat the water. Sometimes all you need in life to get something done is sheer determination, and Sally is set on enhancing her mountain cabin weekend with time in the hot tub. She’s brought her swimsuit, a cute little one-piece that slenderizes her even more than she normally looks. I put my suit on, too. I try not to look at my scars, even though Sally does. “They are healing nicely,” she tells me in her most medical tone of voice.
“But
My mind wanders to what kind of childhood the children who come to The Center for the after-school program have had—and are having—but I push the topic as far away as my mind will let me.
No, Grandpa, this is not the life I would have chosen.
seventeen
S ally and I sit on the deck, grilling trout and catfish as the sun vanishes behind the edge of the mountain closest to the cabin. Sally is a good fisherwoman; she brought two rods, bait, and tackle, and we spent this morning fishing in Deep Creek.
Perhaps she had heard the sorrow in my voice when I told her that my hope to drive to Tifton to visit Dad and Mom and spend four or five days on the farm was not going to be realized.
Whatever the cause, Sally didn’t hesitate. She hopped in her Honda Civic and made the winding trip of 152 miles to Bryson City. She left another doctor in charge of all her fuzzyfurred, wet-nosed clients.
“School is out June eighth here, but they want me to teach all summer,” I told her as I stood in my kitchen with my cell phone clutched in one hand and stirring buttercream frosting with the other. “Summer school. It starts on Monday.”
“They really want these kids to learn to cook, don’t they?” Sally sipped from her cup of coffee. I could hear the slurp over the phone. Starbucks Mocha Latte. Two percent milk, a dash of cinnamon. Sally’s favorite.
While I longed for my own cup of Starbucks, I said, “They want to keep them occupied and off the streets.”
“Well, that’s important, I guess.”
“Miriam says that the summer program also has this guy named Robert teaching drama and art. I’m sure the kids will like that.”
Just art, drama, and basketball would be enough to keep their minds and hands busy, wouldn’t it? Are the cooking classes really necessary? When I asked Miriam about it, she said, “Cooking helps them learn about measuring, and ingredients, and how to use them in recipes, but it also teaches children to follow directions in order to obtain a satisfactory result.” She shuffled her tennis shoes, reciting the words, and I wondered which cookbook produced this wisdom.
I squeeze some lemon juice on the skins of the fish fillets and tell Sally that I think the money they pay me at The Center comes from some kind of account Grandpa Ernest set up.
“Your grandpa seemed to have loads of money.” She lifts a piece of smoky catfish off the grill with Ernest’s tongs. “What did he do?”
“You mean besides traveling all over the world after he lost his wife?” I deliberately pause for effect. “He was a surgeon in Pennsylvania. You know, one of those rich doctors.”
Sally smiles and pokes me with the end of the tongs. “How’s the hot tub?”
“I haven’t…”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t been in it yet!”
————
Catfish and trout always taste better when you’ve caught and cleaned them yourself. We enjoy our meal out on the deck as a tame breeze blows against our faces.
After we wash the dishes, Sally helps me pull the covering from the hot tub and shows me how to heat the water. Sometimes all you need in life to get something done is sheer determination, and Sally is set on enhancing her mountain cabin weekend with time in the hot tub. She’s brought her swimsuit, a cute little one-piece that slenderizes her even more than she normally looks. I put my suit on, too. I try not to look at my scars, even though Sally does. “They are healing nicely,” she tells me in her most medical tone of voice.
“But
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