2: THE CRANBERRY BOG
The truck rumbled through clustering cities, green country andwhite villages. All the children stared in fascination untilJimmie grew too tired and huddled down against Grandma's knees,whining because he ached and the sun was hot and the truck wascrowded.
Grandpa kept pointing out new things-holly trees; muskrat housesrising in small stick-stacks from the ponds; farms that madetheir own rain, with rows and rows of pipes running along sixfeet in air, to shower water on the vegetables below.
It was late afternoon, and dark because of the clouds, when thetruck reached the bogs. These bogs weren't at all what Rose-Ellenand Dick had expected, but only wet-looking fields of low bushes.There was no chance to look at them now, for everyone washurrying to get settled.
The _padrone_ led them to a one-room shed built of rough boardsand helped dump their belongings inside. Grandma stood at thedoor, hands on hips, and said, "Well, good land of love! Ifanybody'd told me I'd live in a shack!"
Rose-Ellen danced around her, shrieking joyously, "Peekaneeka,Gramma! Peekaneeka!"
Grandma's face creased in an unwilling smile and she said,"You'll get enough peekaneeka before you're done, or I miss myguess."
"Got here just in time, just in time!" chanted Dick andRose-Ellen, as a sudden storm pounded the roof with rain andsplit the air with thunder and lightning.
"My land!" cried Grandma. "S'pose this roof will leak on thebaby and Seth Thomas?"
For an hour the Beechams dashed around setting up campkeeping.For supper they finished the enormous lunch Grandma had brought.After that came bedtime.
Rose-Ellen lay across the foot of Grandpa and Grandma'sgoosefeather bed, spread on the floor. After the rain stopped,fresh air flowed through the light walls.
Cranberry-picking did not start next morning till ground andbushes had dried a little. Grandpa and Daddy had time first toknock together stools and a table, and to find on a dumpheap alittle old stove, which they propped up and mended so Grandmacould cook on it.
"The land's sakes," Grandma grumbled, "a hobo contraption likethat!"
While they washed the breakfast dishes and straightened the oneroom, the grown-ups discussed whether the children should work inthe bog.
Their Italian neighbor in the next shack had said, "No can makada living unless da keeds dey work, too. Dey can work. Myyoungest, he four year and he work good."
"Likely we could take Baby along, and Jimmie could watch herwhile we pick," Grandma said dubiously. "But my fingers are allthumbs when I've got them children on my mind.--Somebody's at thedoor."
A tall young girl with short yellow curls stood tapping at theopen door. Grandma looked at her approvingly, her blouse was socrisply white.
"Good morning," said the girl. "I've come from the Center, wherewe have a day nursery for the little folks." She smiled down atJimmie and Sally. "Wouldn't you like us to take care of yourswhile the grown-ups are working?" She made the older childrenfeel grown-up by the polite way she looked at them.
"I've heard of the Centers," Grandma said, leaning on her broom."But I never did get much notion what you did with the young-onesthere."
"Well, all sorts of things," said the girl. "They sing and makethings and learn Bible verses. And in the afternoon they have anap-time. It's loads of fun for them."
"They take their lunch along?" Grandma inquired.
"Oh, no! A good hot lunch is part of the program."
"But, then, how much does it cost?"
"A nickel apiece a day."
"Come, come, young lady, that don't make sense," Grandpaobjected. "You'd lose money lickety-split."
The girl laughed. "We aren't doing it for money. We get moneyand supplies from groups of women in all the different churches.The owner of the bog helps, too. But we'll have to hurry, oryour row boss will be tooting his whistle." Her eyes wereadmiring children and shack as she talked. Though not likeGrandma's lost house, this camp was already clean and orderly.
On the way to the Center]
So the three went to the Center, the girl carrying Sally, andJimmie hobbling along in sulky silence.
Jimmie had stayed so much at home that he didn't know how tobehave with strangers. Because he didn't want anyone to guessthat he was bashful, he frowned fiercely. Because he didn't wantanyone to think him "sissy," he had his wavy hair clipped till hishead looked like a golf ball. He was a queer, unhappy boy.
He was unhappier when they reached the big, bright, shabby housethat was the Center. Could it be safe to let Sally mingle withthe ragged, dirty children who were flocking in, he wondered?
His anxiety soon vanished. The babies were bathed and the biggerchildren sent to rows of wash-basins. In a jiffy, clean babieslay taking their bottles in clean baskets and clean children weredressed in clean play-suits.
Besides the yellow-haired girl (her name was Miss Abbott, butJimmie never called her anything but "Her" and "She"), there weretwo girls and an older woman, all busy. When clean-up time waspast and the babies asleep, the older ones had a worship servicewith songs and stories.
After worship came play. Outdoors were sandpiles and swings.Indoors were books and games. Jimmie longed for storybooks andreading class; but how could he tell Her that he was nine yearsold and couldn't read? He huddled in a corner, scowling, andturned pages as if he were reading.
Meanwhile the rest of the family had answered the whistle of therow boss, and were being introduced to the cranberries. Dick andRose-Ellen were excited and happy, for it was the first fruitthey had ever picked. Though the wet bushes gave them showerbaths, the sun soon dried them. Since the ground was deep inmud, they had gone barefoot, on the advice of Pauline Isabel, thecolored girl in a neighboring shack. The cool mud squshed upbetween their toes and plastered their legs pleasantly.
The grown folks had been given wooden hands for picking--scoopswith finger-like cleats! At first they were awkward at strippingthe branches, but soon the berries began to drop briskly into thescoops. The children, who could get at the lower branches moreeasily, picked by hand; and before noon all the Beecham fingerswere sore from the prickly stems and leaves. In the afternoonthey had less trouble, for an Italian family near by showed themhow to wrap their fingers with adhesive tape.
But picking wasn't play. The Beechams trudged back to theirshack that night, sunburned and dirty and too stiff to straightentheir backs, longing for nothing but to drop down on their beds.
"Good land of love!" Grandma scolded. "Lie down all dirty on myclean beds? I hope I ain't raised me up a mess of pigs. Youyoung-ones, you fetch a pail of water from the pump, and we'llsee how clean we can get. My land, what wouldn't I give for abathtub and a sink! And a gas stove!"
"Peekaneeka, Gramma!" Dick reminded her, squeezing her.
"Picnic my foot! I'm too old for such goings-on."
Lying down on the beds]
Though Grandma's rheumatism had doubled her up like a jack-knife,she scrubbed herself with energy and soon had potatoes boiling,pork sizzling, and tea brewing on the rickety stove. Daddybrought Jimmie and Sally from the Center. After supper they felta little better.
Jimmie wouldn't tell about the Center, but from inside his blousehe hauled a red oilcloth bag, and emptied it out on the table.There were scissors, crayons, paste, pencil, and squares ofcolored paper. And there was a note which Jimmie smoothed outand handed to Daddy.
"From Jimmie Brown," he read, "Bethel Church, Cleveland."
"We-we were s'posed to write thank-you letters!" Jimmie burst outmiserably. "She sat us all down to a table and gave us pens andpaper."
"And what did you do, Son?" Daddy asked, smoothing the bristlylittle head. "I said could I take mine home," Jimmie mumbled,fishing a tight-folded sheet of paper from his pocket.
"I'll write it for you," Rose-Ellen offered. She sat down andbegan the letter, with Jimmie telling her what he wanted to say.
"But the real honest thing to do will be to tell her you didn'twrite
it yourself," Grandma said pityingly.
"They have stories and games at night," Jimmie said, changing thesubject. "She said to bring Dick and Rose-Ellen."
Dick and Rose-Ellen were too tired for stories and games thatnight. They tumbled into bed as soon as supper was done, and hadto be dragged awake for breakfast. Not till a week's picking hadhardened their muscles did they go to the Center.
When they did go--Jimmie limping along with his clipped headtucked sulkily between his shoulders as if he were not reallyproud to take them-they found the place alive with fun. Besidesthe three girls and the woman, there was a young man from anear-by university. He was organizing ping-pong games and indoorbaseball for the boys and girls and even volleyball for somegrown men who had come. Everyone was busy and everyone happy.
"It's slick here, some ways," Dick said that night.
"For a few weeks," Daddy agreed.
"If it wasn't for the misery in my back, it wouldn't be bad,"Grandma murmured. "But an old body'd rather settle down in herown place. Who'd ever've thought I'd leave my solid oak diningset after I was sixty! But I'd like the country fine if we had areal house to live in."
"I'm learning to do spatter prints--for Christmas," saidRose-Ellen, brushing her hair before going to bed.
"Jimmie, why on earth don't you take this chance to learnreading?" Daddy coaxed.
"Daddy, you won't tell Her I can't read?" Jimmie begged.
Yet, as October passed, something happened to change Jimmie'smind.
As October passed, too, the Beechams grew skillful at picking.They couldn't earn much, for it took a lot of cranberries to filla peck measure-two gallons-especially this year, when the berrieswere small; and the pickers got only fifteen cents a peck. Thebogs had to be flooded every night to keep the fruit fromfreezing; so every morning the mud was icy and so were theshower-baths from the wet bushes. But except for Grandma, theydidn't find it hard work now.
"It's sure bad on the rheumatiz," said Grandma one morning, asshe bent stiffly to wash clothes in the tub that had been filledand heated with such effort. "If we was home, we'd be lightinglittle kindling fires in the furnace night and morning. And hotwater just by lighting the gas! Land, I never knew my own luck."
"But I like it here!" Jimmie burst out eagerly. "Do you knowsomething? I'm going to learn to read! I colored my picturesthe neatest of anyone in the class, and She put them all on thewall. So then I didn't mind telling her how I never learned toread and write and how Rose-Ellen wrote my letter to Jimmie Brownin Cleveland."
He beamed so proudly that Grandpa, wringing a sheet for Grandma,looked sorrowfully at him over his glasses. "It's a pity youdidn't tell her sooner, young-one," he said. "The cranberrieswill be over in a few more days, and we'll be going back."
"Back to Philadelphia?" Rose-Ellen demanded. "Where? Not to aHome? I won't! I'd rather go on and shuck oysters like PaulineIsabel and her folks. I'd rather go on where they're cuttingmarsh hay. I'd rather--"
"Well, now," Grandpa's words were slow, "what about it, kids?What about it, Grandma? Do we go back to the city and-and partcompany till times are better? Or go on into oysters together?"
The tears stole down Jimmie's cheeks, but he didn't say anything.Daddy didn't say anything, either. He picked Sally up and huggedher so hard that she grunted and then put her tiny hands on hischeeks and peered into his eyes, chirping at him like a littlebird.
"I calculate we'll go on into oysters," said Grandpa.
Across the Fruited Plain Page 3