Sunshine Picklelime

by Pamela Ferguson

  To all the beloved younger members of the Ferguson, Pearce, and Coombe clans, spread around the world from the USA to Britain, from Lithuania to Singapore, and from South Africa to New Zealand. And to the younger members of the Winiker clan in Switzerland.

  —P.E.F.

  CONTENTS

  1. Picklelime and Lemon Pie

  2. Lemon Nectar

  3. A Birdmail from Lemon Pie

  4. Waterfalls

  5. Ruth and the Rescue Animals

  6. The Chocolate Dream

  7. Helicopter Pete

  8. Operation Owl Rescue

  9. The Moonbow

  10. Ruth

  11. PJ’s Search

  12. The Gull Gang

  13. Blackbirds

  14. The Art Show

  15. PJ’s Tree House

  acknowledgments

  picklelime and lemon pie

  PJ Picklelime lives in a village very close to you. Meadows are knee-deep in wildflowers in early springtime. Summers are hot and dreamy when golden peaches the size of melons hang from the trees. Snow drifts like powdered sugar down the mountainside in winter.

  PJ lives in a cottage with stone walls and stone floors that keep the family Picklelime cool in the summer and slowly absorb warmth from the sun to keep the family cozy in winter. The Picklelimes have barrels outside to catch rainwater in spring, summer, and autumn and snow in winter. A barrel on the roof pipes sun-heated water directly down into the shower below.

  Families from all over the world live in PJ’s village because a computer company on the other side of the mountain brought people in from Africa, the Middle East, Asia, Europe, and North America.

  PJ looks different from other kids, as she was born with a crop of thick, black curly hair, inherited from the darker side of her mother’s family. “Oh, she’ll lose that,” said neighbor Shanti Patel over the fence one day. But PJ never lost her hair, and it continued to grow each year like a wild bush around her head, even wilder when winds heavy with salt came off the nearby ocean. Every time her parents tried to cut it, PJ covered her hair with her hands and screamed out loud until they put down the scissors.

  “PJ, no one can see who you are under all that hair!” said her mom.

  “Think of the money we could get if we sold PJ’s hair to the pillow makers,” said her dad.

  PJ clapped her hands to her ears so their words just sounded all muffled and marshmallowy. “My hair has a job,” she insisted. “You don’t understand. My hair has work to do.” She wouldn’t tell her parents exactly what that work was.

  You see, one day she had found a tiny little bird, a yellow warbler, peeking unhappily between the branches of the yellow Lady Banks rosebush that had burst into bloom to fill an entire corner of their back garden.

  “Why do you look so sad, little friend?” PJ asked, stroking the bird’s yellow breast, which was a shade creamier than the roses that clustered around it.

  “Because I can’t warble,” cheeped the bird. “Listen to my silly voice. All the other warblers left me behind when they flew south. They said I couldn’t be a warbler because I couldn’t warble, so I had to find my own way. But I don’t know where to go!”

  “I have plenty of space for you,” said PJ. She made sure her parents weren’t watching from the kitchen window, then she bent over and parted her hair to make room for the tiny bird.

  But the bird hesitated. “I’ve never lived in hair before, only a nest made of twigs and branches and old string and wool and bits of this and bits of that.”

  “Well, let’s say my hair is a new kind of nest, ready-made and waiting for you to move in. You don’t even have to pay rent,” PJ told the bird.

  So the little bird hopped off the branch of the bush and landed in PJ’s hair. PJ let go of her curls and they sprang around the warbler protectively, thick enough and black enough to hide his yellow feathers.

  “This is different,” said the bird. “Soft and springy! I think I’m going to like this!”

  “Just one problem,” said PJ.

  “What’s that?” cheeped the bird. He dipped his head to burrow through PJ’s curls.

  “There’s no bathroom on board. You’ll have to fly in and out. Make sure it’s when we’re alone and before you go to sleep. If my parents see you, they’ll make you go away. This is our secret, OK?”

  “OK. Done!” said the bird.

  “Now, the next thing we need to work on is your voice,” said PJ.

  “My voice?” cried the little bird. “But I don’t have one. That’s why the others left me behind!”

  “Nonsense,” said PJ. “They were just too impatient. Would you like me to teach you how to sing?”

  “How can you? You’re not a warbler!”

  “No, but I know how to sing!” PJ said.

  “Well …,” said the little bird.

  “Then let’s get started.” PJ didn’t want to waste any time. “Now, you have to fly back into the roses while we work. I can’t talk to you when you’re buried in my hair since I can’t see you or hear you properly.”

  With a tiny flutter of wings, the little bird untangled himself from PJ’s curls and flew into a cluster of roses a few inches from her nose.

  “Perfect.” PJ smiled. “You match the flowers! No one can see you except me. OK, first things first. What’s your name?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just the yellow warbler who can’t warble,” said the bird.

  “Hmmm.” PJ thought for a moment. “What name would you like?”

  “Something sweet?” asked the bird.

  “Lemon Pie?” PJ suggested.

  The little bird giggled so much, roses bounced around him.

  “Right, Lemon Pie it is. Now then, Lemon Pie, let’s start with your breath. Don’t think about your voice. Just your breath. Breathe in, two, three, pause, then breathe out, two, three. Let’s try that together. Breathe in, two, three, pause, and breathe out, two, three. Wasn’t that easy?”

  “Not easy. Dreamy. I’ll fall off my branch if you go on like this!”

  “Then snuggle against the petals so you feel safe. Let’s try that again, but this time, add a little humming sound. Keep your beak shut and hummmmmmmm….”

  “Huu, hum, hum, hum, cough cough, huuuuuuuuu…”

  “Beak shut, Lemon Pie. Try to turn huuuuuu into huuummmmmm.”

  “Huuu-u-u-mmm.”

  “There, you see, breath becomes hum!”

  “It makes my chest feel all warm.”

  Each day for several days, PJ and Lemon Pie went to the rosebush after PJ got home from school to humm and aaaah and ooooo and eeeee and ayyyy at one another, until the bird sort of lost himself in sound and forgot that he didn’t know how to sing. But this wasn’t really singing. It was a way of practicing different sounds and having fun.

  Sometimes at night, Lemon Pie stayed out late and practiced alone under the twinkling stars before flying through PJ’s open window to snuggle into her hair against the pillow to sleep.

  PJ’s mom would stand by the kitchen window and say, “That’s an odd-sounding bird out there.”

  “It isn’t a bird,” said PJ’s dad. “It’s a baby raccoon.”

  Mrs. Patel, their neighbor across the road, thought it was an owl. PJ’s art teacher, Pablo dos Santos y Sanchez, who lived on the next block, said it sounded like a young dove. Mr. Splitzky, who lived behind the Picklelimes, said, “It’s a singing rosebush!” Blossom, his dog, kept scratching at the corner of the fence where the yellow rose branches draped down gracefully onto his lawn.

  Nobody could ever spot Lemon Pie in the clusters of yellow petals. When he wasn’t there, he was tucked inside PJ’s curls, which grew even bushier to hide him as he grew bigger through the days
of springtime.

  “Next time ocean winds blow in from the south, they’ll whisk you into the sky if you don’t let us cut your hair,” said PJ’s dad.

  “But if I get whisked into the sky, my hair will be like a parachute. You’ll see me floating and swaying down into the garden,” said PJ.

  Her mom laughed, but her dad said, “Don’t encourage her, Maura,” and shook his head.

  One morning an oil tanker broke up along the nearby coast and hundreds of seabirds and pelicans struggled to survive. Oil covered them and the waves like a huge carpet, black as night. An immediate appeal went out to all the local haircutters and barbers in the area to bag up everything they swept off the floor to help soak up the oil slick.

  PJ’s parents took her aside and explained the situation and said everyone with long hair was running to the local barber for a quick cut.

  “PJ, the community needs your hair,” said her mom. “The seabirds need your hair. The waves need your hair. We could fill an entire bag just with your mop of curls!”

  PJ stood there in silence and asked if she could have a few moments outside to think. Feeling even more protective of the little bird nesting in her dark curls, she walked into the back garden to talk to Lemon Pie near their favorite rosebush. Lemon Pie sat quietly listening to the news, then untangled himself from PJ’s hair and hopped onto a branch to be at eye level with her.

  “What should we do, Lemon Pie?” PJ asked, cupping her hands around his body. “I can’t throw you out, and we haven’t finished your singing lessons yet!”

  Gentle sea breezes began to stir the branches under Lemon Pie. After a few moments, he said, “I’m growing too big to be hidden by your hair for much longer, PJ. We both know that. You’ve taught me a new way to sing. The warblers might not recognize my voice, but who cares about them? Perhaps it’s time I flew down to the coast to help rescue the seabirds and their eggs. And maybe it’s time you cut your hair. Don’t worry, it will grow back very quickly. Something else will nest in there. You wait and see!”

  And with that, Lemon Pie began to caw-caw-caw like a laughing gull and move his wings. PJ opened her hands. He lifted off into the sky, circling a fond farewell above her head, before turning and flying off toward the damaged coast.

  lemon neetar

  PJ missed Lemon Pie and the feeling of the little bird’s warm body nesting in her curls. Every time she reached up to pat her cropped head she thought about him. But she watched the daily TV news on the rescue operation at the coast and felt proud to think of her bundle of hair mopping oil off the surf. She also eyed the skies, anxious for any sign of Lemon Pie.

  And then, yes! During one evening news report she thought she caught a glimpse of a yellow spot, way up on a cliffside. “Look!” she gasped. “Oh … was that a flower?”

  “Was what a flower?” her mom asked, squinting at the TV. “What are you talking about, PJ? They’re rescuing seabirds and pelicans and you’re talking about flowers?”

  “Oh, um, way up on the cliff there. Mom, look! Our botany teacher, Mr. Flax, told us how winds carry seeds into cracks in rocks miles and miles away,” said PJ. “We have to tell the class when we find flowers or grasses growing out of strange places like rooftops or chimneys or cliffs.”

  “I don’t want you climbing up on the roof to look for flowers,” said Mr. Picklelime sternly.

  “I won’t,” PJ promised, and stared at the TV screen. Wait! There it came again. A quick dash of yellow as the helicopter camera zoomed down and hovered over the edge of the cliff.

  Lemon Pie! There he sat, in all his glory, on a nest of seagull eggs on a ledge near the top of the cliff, wings spread protectively over his soon-to-be foster chicks. Well, it would be typical of Lemon Pie to float into a nest of lonely eggs if mama seagull was weighed down by oil or had been taken on a rescue boat to be cleaned. All Lemon Pie needed to do was caw-caw-caw like a laughing gull and provide loving warmth for the chicks, and how would they know this wasn’t their real mama gull?

  Lemon Pie was gone in the blink of an eye. The camera zoomed in toward a group of rescuers pulling a raft of oil-covered seabirds out of the surf.

  PJ tried to fix the exact location in her memory, picking out landmarks—a huge clump of jagged rocks that made a sort of V in the cliffside down to the beach. If she could find a way to get there, it shouldn’t be too difficult to climb down the cliff’s edge, should it?

  Over the next few days she asked around to see if anyone was planning a trip to the cliffs. But only those involved in the rescue operation could go.

  PJ knew it would take weeks for her hair to grow bushy enough to contribute to the mop-up again, but she couldn’t wait that long. In her mind, she kept asking Lemon Pie to help her come up with an idea. And then, late that Friday night, she sat bolt upright in bed as the answer came wafting through her window. Warm, gentle winds lifted the fragrance of ripe lemons into her room from Mrs. Patel’s trees across the road. Yes, of course! She’d create a very special lemonade stand and then find a way to take the lemonade and the money it earned to the rescue crew.

  PJ opened her side window and picked out the dark line of lemon trees next to the greenhouse in her favorite neighbor’s garden. Mrs. Patel was from Madras, India, and she was so homesick, she had created a wonderfully exotic garden to remind her of her family home. When everything was in full bloom, rows of rich frangipani and lemon blossoms ran all the way to borders of puffy camellias in pink and white. Flaming red bougainvillea cascaded down the whitewashed walls of her house. A magnolia tree, a trellis of jasmine, and a trellis of granadilla gave off delicious scents and cast all sorts of shadows along the pebble path leading to the front door.

  Mrs. Patel was a generous neighbor and had told PJ to come over anytime to collect ripe lemons that had fallen into the soft grass.

  PJ could hardly wait for morning. There was no way she could fall asleep. So she sat in her window and let the velvety night hug her and gazed up at the Milky Way. She imagined herself running its full length, scattering stardust across the sky with her feet. The feeling was so strong, she reached for her sketch pad and trays of pastels and sketched what was in her mind. But she must have dozed off, head resting on her arms, because she woke as silvery lines were breaking gently into a soft orange horizon.

  “Ommmmm,” came the familiar sound of Mrs. Patel meditating in her garden. PJ knew she couldn’t interrupt, so she hung out her side window and watched Mrs. Patel doing her morning yoga. PJ loved the tree pose best, when Mrs. Patel balanced on one leg with her hands pressed together in a perfect peak. She stood so still, not even her glossy waist-length hair moved. In her pink yoga pants and loose shirt, she looked like one of those lovely flamingo birds.

  As this was Saturday, PJ decided to get dressed in her favorite paint-splashed sweatshirt and jeans. Whenever she wore them, friends told her she matched the floor of an artist’s studio. She tiptoed downstairs, left the house, crossed the street, and jumped over the fence onto Mrs. Patel’s lawn.

  “Oh, hallo, PJ.” Mrs. Patel greeted her with a dazzling smile that crinkled her dark eyes. “You’re up bright and early today!” she said in her singsong voice.

  PJ told Mrs. Patel about her plan for the lemonade stand, and Mrs. Patel ran inside for a basket. Together they picked ripe lemons out of the soft, dewy grass.

  “You know, child, lemons can be quite bitter. Come, let’s go to my kitchen. Why don’t we experiment to see how we can make the sweetest, most unusual lemonade anyone ever tasted?”

  For the next hour, they squeezed dozens of lemons into a big glass pitcher and then poured it into ten separate little cups so they could play around with different flavors.

  Mrs. Patel reached for her jars of lemon-blossom honey from the bees of their neighbor Mr. Splitzky and stirred in a single teaspoon, then two, then three, to find the right balance between sweet and sour.

  “Mmmm,” said PJ. “Perfect.”

  Mrs. Patel wagged her finger. “No, not so fas
t, PJ. Our search is not yet over. We need a little dash of something else.” And with that she opened her cupboard full of pungent spices from Madras. She reached for some bottles, sniffed each one, and shook her head. Finally she picked up a jar of vanilla essence, shook some drops into the lemonade, and held the glass up to the light.

  She handed it to PJ and said, “What do you think, child?”

  PJ stirred the juice and held it under her nose for a few moments, as Mrs. Patel had done earlier. Then she sipped. And sipped. And sipped. The liquid filled her mouth with a gloriously unusual sweetness and freshness and just a dash of vanilla. It was like nothing she had ever tasted before.

  “Come,” said Mrs. Patel, clapping her hands. “Let’s go into production. We have dozens of lemons to squeeze, young lady. No time to waste! Help me make some room in the fridge for the jugs.”

  Mrs. Patel set up their work space on the countertop that overlooked her flowering frangipani trees in the garden. She slipped some Indian music into the CD player and showed PJ how to move her fingers in rhythm to turn the lemon squeezing into a special dance of its own.

  After PJ and Mrs. Patel made ten jugs, filling the kitchen with the heady scent of lemon, they knew they were almost there. They brought some of the lemon peel outside to dry and stored some in the fridge for Mrs. Patel to use in her homemade chutney. They took leftover pulp to the compost bin at the far end of the garden.

  Now it was time to create the lemonade stand. They set up a folding table and stools at the corner of the street where neighbors passed by on foot and bicycles on their way to work or shop. The morning had a warm, creamy softness about it, and since it was Saturday, nobody seemed to be in a frantic rush.

  “Let’s make it look pretty,” Mrs. Patel suggested.

  She spread out a yellow handwoven tablecloth with a bumblebee design. PJ placed two huge pitchers of juice at the front and encircled them with cups. Mrs. Patel put a large round bowl filled to the brim with lemons in the center. But what was missing?

  “Hmmm, PJ, go and pick the loveliest frangipani blooms—whole branches—so we can display them in a tall vase, with flowers flowing down to the cloth,” she said, handing PJ a pair of scissors.