Sunshine Picklelime

by Pamela Ferguson

  “We all got talking and they told me about the area around the port, called South End, where many wonderful families of all different colors and backgrounds and religions used to live. Many of them worked at the docks or on the fishing boats and factories close by. Only, the government was very cruel in those days and said only white families could live there. So the police came in with big bulldozers and smashed all the houses and shops—that’s why the field by the tree was bare except for piles of broken bricks and glass. And they sent Chinese families to the Chinese areas. Black families to the black areas. Mixed-race families to the mixed-race areas. Muslim families to the Muslim areas. Indian families to the Indian areas. They broke up the whole neighborhood, PJ. Isn’t that sad? But you know what happened? The white families refused to remain behind once the area was destroyed and all their friends were sent away. So they moved away, too.”

  Messenger Gull shook his head and paused to sip some water.

  PJ looked down, feeling the sadness he shared. Then she lifted her head and listened. The house was beginning to stir.

  “I’m almost done,” said Messenger Gull before resuming Lemon Pie’s voice.

  “I forgot to tell you what kind of tree this was. It’s a huge wild fig tree, PJ, and I mean huge, like a million times bigger than your hair, with a gnarled, twisted trunk. When South End was destroyed all those years ago, it stopped producing figs. Just stopped like that. But you know what? As I sit here, I can see tiny figs beginning to bud again, because there’s a democratic government now. All sorts of people can live, work, and study where they want. I’ll stay here and wait with the other birds until the fruit is ripe. Then I will eat a lot of it and fly away to drop and plant its seeds all along the coast to Cape Town. So goodbye, dear PJ. I love you!”

  PJ bit her lip. Messenger Gull began to cry big drops of salty tears.

  “And that’s it?” asked PJ. “Lemon Pie said he was just going to keep on flying?”

  Messenger Gull nodded. He wiped away his tears with the tip of a wing and stared outside at the pink sky.

  PJ sighed. After a quiet moment, she thanked Messenger Gull for the wonderful b-mail from Lemon Pie. “Will you stay with me, Messenger Gull, so I can send a b-mail back to Lemon Pie?”

  Messenger Gull shook his head sadly. “I wouldn’t know where to find your Lemon Pie,” he said. “Now I have to fly to Central Park in New York to deliver a b-mail to a silver-gray dove who lives in a tree by the boat basin.”

  And with that, he pecked up the last of the banana pieces, hopped on the windowsill, spread his wings, and lifted off into the sky.

  Mr. Flax, the botany teacher, was setting up his Power-Point as PJ rushed in late. Pencils tumbled out of her backpack and clattered all over the floor. Mr. Flax was a gangly, craggy man with smiling blue eyes, and he said to the class, “Seeds scatter just like our PJ’s pencils. Look!” He began showing various views of his garden that he had photographed last summer. Tall, wavy sunflowers zigzagged across a path and made crazy patterns on the lawn and soared out of beds of lavender and mint.

  “Oooh.” “Oh wow.” “Cool.” “Look at that!” everyone said at once.

  “I didn’t plant any of those sunflowers,” Mr. Flax chuckled. “Nature did the work. They’re all spontaneous. In some areas they sprouted out of compost. Or they grew out of seeds dropped by birds around the bird feeder. Or breezes brought them onto my path from sunflower farms in the next village. Come and look at what I saved,” he said, scattering sunflower seeds on his desk along with dried sunflowers, brittle stalks, and roots from his shed.

  PJ remembered an earlier class when he had prompted them to be aware of tiny plants and trees sprouting out of crags and crevices in the cliffside. She felt thrilled, thinking about Lemon Pie’s plan to scatter seeds from the big fig tree by the port all the way down South Africa’s south coast.

  “Mr. Flax,” she asked, “do sunflowers also grow out of trees when they fall down and rot and go all crumbly?”

  “Good question, PJ. What do the rest of you think?”

  Hands shot up. “Sunflowers need sun, don’t they?” piped a voice from the back.

  “Sure.” Mr. Flax nodded. “I’ve seen sunflowers growing out of rotting tree trunks. Their stalks bend every which way to tilt their faces to the sun.”

  “Broken trees in our backyard are full of creepy-crawlies and funny mushroomy plants. But no sunflowers,” said another voice from the front of the class.

  “Creepy-crawlies, heat, and rain help to break down the inside of a tree into all sorts of ecosystems,” said Mr. Flax. “In some places deep in the rain forests, you’ll find beautiful orchids, ferns, or mosses growing out of old tree trunks lying on the ground.” Turning to the whiteboard, he reached for green, red, and brown markers and began writing out their homework assignment for the next class. “See how many forms of life you can find in any old broken tree trunk. Spiders weaving webs. Mushrooms. All kinds of grasses. Twisted roots. Wildflowers, or maybe some young sunflowers?”

  “Bugs?” PJ suggested.

  “As many as you can spot,” said Mr. Flax. “Only don’t touch anything in case hundreds of fire ants come scurrying out!”

  waterfalls

  “Jump in, PJ,” said Mrs. Patel, rattling to a stop outside PJ’s school in an old VW Beetle of a brilliant rose red like the bougainvillea tumbling over her house.

  “Oh, Mrs. Patel, I have homework,” pleaded PJ.

  “No arguments,” said Mrs. Patel. She wagged her finger so fast, her jangly bracelets sounded like castanets. “I’ll have you home before sunset. Here, let me call your mom,” she added. She reached for her cell phone and speed-dialed the Picklelime home to leave a message.

  “Done,” she said. “Come. I want to show you my waterfall.” And with that, she spun the VW around in a single motion and sped off toward the cliffs.

  PJ eyed the sky just in case young Lemon Pie had decided to fly home, but in her heart she knew that was impossible. She told Mrs. Patel about the wonderful surprise in Messenger Gull’s b-mail and how Lemon Pie had ended up in the huge old wild fig tree down by the harbor of Port Elizabeth on the east coast of South Africa.

  “A wild fig tree? Did he say anything special about it?” asked Mrs. Patel.

  “Special? Well, it was filled with all sorts of birds, waiting to eat new figs.”

  “No, there’s more. Didn’t Lemon Pie tell you the wild fig tree is sacred in southern Africa?”

  “Sacred?” PJ said in surprise.

  “You see, PJ,” Mrs. Patel went on, pausing at a red light. “For hundreds of years, families have gone to wild fig trees to talk to their ancestors and to ask for messages and guidance.”

  “Their ancestors also lived in the wild fig tree?” PJ asked, puzzled.

  Mrs. Patel laughed. The light turned green and the VW varoomed ahead. “No, child. The ancestors had passed on, one by one, invisible to us but all there in the memories of their loved ones. When family members had a problem and needed to sort something out, they would visit the wild fig tree.”

  “I don’t think Lemon Pie knew that, but he wants to drop wild fig seeds along the coast. Isn’t that great? More trees for more families to visit!”

  “What a lovely idea!” said Mrs. Patel, moving the VW’s stick shift down to a lower gear.

  Fascinated, PJ watched her. She was used to her mom’s Toyota automatic. They slowed down, turned onto a dirt track, and bounced over potholes toward the craggy clifftops.

  “Mrs. Patel, how do you know about the wild fig tree?” she asked.

  “Ah, that’s simple, PJ. You see, many Indian families went to live and work in South Africa’s sugar plantations a long time ago, mainly around a city called Durban on the east coast. It’s very hot and tropical and steamy and lush. Pineapples and bananas are deep gold in color and they are so sweet they make your head spin! I have uncles and aunties there and more cousins than I can count. That’s how I know about the wild fig tree. Your Lemon P
ie will come back to us as a wise little bird after all these experiences.”

  PJ was silent for a moment, trying to recall everything Messenger Gull told her about Lemon Pie’s travels. She hung out the window to study the slope of the cliffs. Jagged ledges held wisps of former nests where Lemon Pie once protected the eggs of local laughing gulls. When would she meet some of those gulls, as Lemon Pie promised?

  The beach seemed equally stark after the oil spill and massive cleanup operation. Only a couple of dark shapes dotted the sand here and there where a stray oil streak had escaped the cleanup and floated back with the tides. PJ touched her tight, springy curls. When they grew wildly bushy again, perhaps the coast guard would ask for more sacks of hair.

  The VW pulled up close to a pathway cut into the cliff. Mrs. Patel switched off the noisy motor and said, “Listen, PJ!”

  PJ opened the car door and raised her head. She could hear the distant caw-caw of gulls and steady lapping of the ocean below.

  “Listen beyond those sounds,” said Mrs. Patel. “Come, let me show you.”

  They got out of the VW. Mrs. Patel dropped to her knees and lowered her ear to the sand between clumps of sea oats. When PJ hunkered down and did the same, a deafening roar filled her head. She sat up quickly and looked around, thinking she’d heard the whup-whup of Pete’s helicopter.

  “Oh no, child.” Mrs. Patel stood up. “This is a surprise…. I want you to see for yourself.”

  “See what, Mrs. Patel?”

  “Follow the sounds, PJ.”

  They climbed down the stone pathway, holding on to the rope hung there as a handrail. Then PJ began to tune her ears in to the roar of water.

  Halfway down the cliff, Mrs. Patel said, “Turn around, PJ. Look!”

  There it was. A waterfall crashed down inside the ravine and hit a pool that jumped from the impact. Water escaped over the edge in three separate waterfalls that plunged wildly into another pool below, so deep it looked almost purple to PJ. She leaned over.

  Mrs. Patel grabbed hold of her T-shirt. “Careful, PJ! You’re too young for the waterfalls to take you. Let’s keep going, to my secret hiding place.”

  They climbed all the way down to the lower pool. Water swirled and whirled and splashed over the rocks. PJ followed Mrs. Patel along the path to a sandy ledge and into a cave directly behind the rushing curtains of clear water. A wild roar filled the air. “Oooh wow,” PJ said. Mrs. Patel waved her closer. A thousand stings of spray hit them. Sand squelched underfoot. They were soaked within seconds.

  They stood there until their ears rang with the noise. Then they returned to the path and followed the rapid streams that fanned out across the beach toward the waves. Clear, sweet waters met salt in a joyful leap of foam.

  Close by, PJ found a large, seaweed-covered tree that had floated in with the tide. Tiny crabs scurried around and vanished into crevices in the roots as she crouched down for a closer look. Mussels and shells crusted an entire side. Mr. Flax hadn’t said anything about trees that washed up on the beach, but wasn’t this a perfect example of a different ecosystem for the class? She took a quick mental snapshot of it to sketch later for her homework.

  The sun hovered over the horizon like a big, squashy overripe orange. Softer shades of orange lingered across the sky between cloud puffs. PJ closed her eyes because she didn’t want to watch the sun disappear. But the air was becoming chillier, giving both PJ and Mrs. Patel goose bumps.

  They retraced their steps and climbed up the path, stopping once more to watch the waters crashing down relentlessly in the falling light.

  Mrs. Patel reached into the backseat of the VW for huge, fluffy midnight blue towels and handed one to PJ. They dried themselves and their damp hair and sipped cups of spicy hot chai she had brought in a thermos.

  Mrs. Patel said, “Come, child. Time we were on our way.” Then, turning, she pointed toward the mountain.

  “Oh, PJ, look at the moon!”

  PJ took a deep breath. As the squashy orange sun sank into the ocean, directly opposite it, the curve of the moon began to rise between two peaks. “I’ve never seen both at the same time before! This is awesome, Mrs. Patel. Awesome! Please can’t we stay a little longer? Please?”

  Mrs. Patel glanced at her watch and shook her head. “PJ, I promised your mother I’d get you home by sunset!”

  “Aw, just a few more minutes. Can’t we call her?”

  Mrs. Patel jangled her car keys. “Let’s go, PJ. Keep the beautiful images in your thoughts. Never wait until they’re all over.”

  “I don’t want to go home,” PJ announced.

  “What nonsense! Come. It’s warmer in the car. Talk to me, child,” she said, switching on the ignition. The VW jumped to life and they bounced over the potholes once again, toward the road.

  “I don’t know what to say,” PJ mumbled after a moment.

  “You’re too young to be so sad.”

  “Only older people can feel sad?” PJ asked.

  Mrs. Patel chuckled. “Lemon Pie has gone, but there are other birds and animals that need you. No time to waste now.” Pursing her lips and making a swift left turn, she said, “I think I know just the thing for you! A big sister. Have you met Ruth?”

  “Ruth? The girl who bikes around with her hands off the handlebars? Joshua’s her twin?”

  “That’s Ruth.”

  “But she has all kinds of friends. She probably thinks I’m a baby,” PJ said.

  “Nonsense! I’ll introduce you. She lives a few streets away from us. Do you know what she does?”

  “I think she plays soccer?”

  “Oh, much more than that, child! She rescues injured animals. She could probably do with some help. She’s hoping a soccer scholarship will pay for veterinary school in a few years. So she’s getting lots of experience right now.”

  Mrs. Patel pulled up outside PJ’s front gate. “Off you go now, PJ. Your mother’s probably wondering what’s happened to you. I’ll take you to meet Ruth after school tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Patel. Also, thanks for sharing your waterfalls with me,” said PJ, climbing out of the VW. “The sun and moon put on a great show for us, don’t you think?”

  “Oh yes, PJ. Just keep watching the sky.” Mrs. Patel laughed.

  Later, at the kitchen table, PJ told her parents about the wonderful sights she had seen.

  Her dad took another slice of spinach quiche and said, “Shouldn’t you be doing homework instead of chasing waterfalls? Patel’s claptrap VW is so noisy I’m surprised the waterfalls didn’t dry up in shock!”

  “Philip, don’t be such a party pooper,” Mrs. Picklelime said, helping herself to fresh beetroot-and-parsley salad. Then, with a toss of the head, she said to PJ, “‘Dance there upon the shore; What need have you to care For wind or water’s roar? And tumble out your hair That the salt drops have wet; Being young you have not known The fool’s triumph …’”

  “Maura, give us a break,” PJ’s dad cut in. “PJ’s too young for your mad Irish poets.”

  “No one’s ever too young for Yeats,” PJ’s mom said. “My parents read him to me in my crib.”

  “Well, that explains a lot,” he muttered.

  “Dad, Mom, come on,” pleaded PJ. Then she turned to Mrs. Picklelime. “Mom, what’s the poem called? Won’t you finish it for me? I like the words.”

  “Ah, it’s called ‘To a Child Dancing in the Wind,’ and yes, of course I can finish it for you. Where was I now?”

  “‘The fool’s triumph,’ Maura, ‘the fool’s triumph,’” said Mr. Picklelime, rising from his chair. “OK, I’ll leave you poets to it. I’m beat.” He went to the next room to watch TV.

  “Mom?”

  Mrs. Picklelime glanced at her husband’s half-finished meal, then reached out and closed the door to muffle the sound of the TV. In a soft tone, she went on, “‘… nor yet Love lost as soon as won …’” Her voice trailed off. “Um, sorry, PJ, I can’t remember the rest. Have a look at my collected poems of
W. B. Yeats. It’s on one of the bookshelves in the front room,” she said.

  PJ tried to figure out her mother’s expression, but Mrs. Picklelime looked away. “Mom, did you quote poetry to me as a baby?”

  “Sure I did, honey. It’s a long tradition in my family. My ear is never far from wonderful poets and writers—Yeats, Lorca, Keats, Rumi, Frost, Angelou. You’ll find them all there, all of them,” she added, nodding in the direction of the bookshelves. “Love them in your time, PJ. Now, let’s stack the dishwasher!”

  Later PJ went up to her room. Why did her parents seem to be in different worlds these days? To stop herself from worrying, she completed her homework assignments, including a detailed pencil sketch of the mussel- and seaweed-covered tree she found on the sand. Then she picked up her pastels, propped herself comfortably against cushions on her window seat, and began to draw Messenger Gull flapping at her window. Before going to sleep, she also sketched the waterfalls, the beach, the squashy orange sunset on the horizon, and the moon peeping above the mountains.

  ruth and the rescue animals