On Zion's Hill

by Anna J. Small Roseboro

  Ken certainly hopes Thia is over her snit by the time he gets back. Mom will want her to help with the beans and definitely will have no patience with Thia’s moodiness.

  Of course, it will be better if Melvin has called…with a good reason for why he hadn’t come last night. Ken doesn’t want to be around if Melvin does call or his explanation doesn’t satisfy Thia. That will just send her into a deeper funk!

  Ken wonders if Angie sulks when she’s upset. Not that it would matter for at least three years anyway. He shakes his head as if to shake thoughts of her out of his head, stacks the baskets, closes the car trunk, and tromps back over to the last row of beans.

  Ken is in good physical shape for basketball. He’s used to reaching up to block passes and to shoot baskets, not bending down to pull recalcitrant legumes off rows of low growing bean bushes. Standing up and rubbing his back, he estimates how much longer he’ll be here and goes back to work. Another fifteen minutes or so should do it.

  Whew! Finished at last. He hauls the baskets of beans to the car and arranges them in the trunk before taking one more hike up to the well. There he sloshes water over his head and arms to clean up and cool down. He grabs the towel he’d left in the shed from his last trip up here and dries off before getting into the now steaming car. Pee-yew! Truly odoriferous!

  “Ouch! I should have at least left the window down! It’s hot enough to cook the beans. I should put those beans in a bucket and add some well water. They’ll be done enough to eat by the time I get home. Mom will love that.”

  Ken checks the clock in the car…. Twelve noon! That’s nearly three and a half hours of not thinking about Angie…except for a nanosecond when he was getting a drink. Not bad. Really good. He has other things to do than spend all his energy on what probably will never happen, and if it does, it shouldn’t happen for at least three years. So, it’s a good thing he hasn’t been thinking about her…much.

  AFTER HE PARKS THE CAR in the yard, Ken walks around to the trunk, wondering what he’ll have to eat. Angie would be having a full dinner with her grandparents, but he’s eaten only carrots since breakfast.

  He hauls the baskets of green beans to the picnic table next to the trailer. “Hey, Mom,” he calls through the screen door. “Think this’ll work a little better for you? It’s not bad. Still warm out here, but not stifling like it probably is in there.” He fills the large metal tubs with water so Mother can clean and string the green beans out here and catch a few breezes.

  He sees through the screen door that his mother has the kitchen all ready to begin washing the vegetables in preparation for canning. The jars in the wire racks in the blue-speckled canning kettle are set on the stove gently boiling.

  “What?” she asks dripping to the screen door, peering out to see what he’s said. “What? I couldn’t hear you. Oh, that looks refreshing. There is a little breeze out here, isn’t there.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s not bad. Why don’t you work out here awhile?”

  “Thanks, son. I’ll string the beans out there. Let me get my transistor radio. You know Evangelist Kathryn Kuhlman’s program’s about to begin. I just love hearing that Dino playing hymns on that Steinway piano. I’m gonna order me a couple of his cassettes.”

  While she walks back to their bedroom to get her little radio, Ken rinses the surface dirt and sweat from his face and arms using the garden hose. It’ll take less time in the teeny toilet if he only has to soap and rinse with the hot water inside. He and his mother exchange places: she outside; he inside.

  His step-dad comes from around back of the trailer and sits at the picnic table with his mother. Ken can hear them talking and smiles when he learns his Dad’s going to be working on something in the basement. That means the car may be available after all, and he can head up to the grounds earlier than he’d planned. Dad usually squeezes in small tasks whenever he has a couple hours free. Little by little he’s nearing their goal to move down there before winter sets in.

  Refreshed from his quick sluice, Ken stands in front of the closet trying to figure out which of his three shirts he’ll wear this afternoon. Before this week, what to wear had never been an issue for him.

  In high school, it had been jeans and a tee shirt around the house, slacks and Ban Lon polos for school, his one brownish suit for church and whatever dress shirt still fit. In the Air Force, he’d had uniforms. Now that he’s met Angie, he’s thinking about what he’ll look like in what he wears.

  Well, he’d worn the blue one yesterday and the silvery grey one the previous day. That means, it’s the orange shirt today. It’s not a color he’d have picked for himself, but Thia had gotten it on sale. She called the color “salmon”. She gave it to him as a late birthday present when he got back from college in June. Yep, he’d wear the salmon-colored shirt tonight. Or should he wear his white dress shirt?

  This is Men’s Night, and they’d asked the men to wear white shirts. But that was for the choir. Though he misses singing with male groups like he’d done in high school and the Air Force, Ken’s not singing tonight. He’s been away from Zion’s Hill for years and doesn’t know the guys, and he hasn’t really kept up with contemporary church music. They rehearsed this morning, and he was up working like a field hand. Anyway, he’d better save the white shirt to wear on Sunday with his one and only dark blue sports coat and the charcoal grey slacks he’d worn last Sunday. So, yes, by process of elimination, it’ll have to be the salmony orange shirt tonight.

  Ken pulls it out, gives it a snappy shake to relax the inevitable wrinkling in a cramped closet, and tugs the shirt over his head, still a little damp from where he had gotten his hair wet using the garden hose. He picks up the brush and pulls it through his curly reddish brown hair, glad that his quo vadis hairline still is relatively neat.

  He’d been extending time between haircuts to save a little more for school. Tuition would be due right away, and though his scholarship covers that, he has a cash deposit to pay for the room he’ll be sharing with a fellow engineering student this school year. Of course, there also will be textbooks to buy.

  He doesn’t like asking his parents for help. After all, he’s a grown man and going to college is his choice, his dream, and definitely his expense to meet. His folks need their savings to get that basement wired and ready to move into before snow fall. They probably can’t endure another year in the trailer. Too many adults in that small space is taking its toll on family harmony. But his parents already have agreed to drive him back to campus, so he won’t have to put out any money for the Greyhound until he returns for Christmas at the end of the term.

  Thankfully, the Penn State coach arranged on-campus jobs for the team members to earn a little pocket cash to supplement their scholarships. Last year, Ken sold programs at the football games. He did pretty well and was able to end the year with no outstanding school debts.

  Ken wrings the washcloth as dry as he can. Anything to reduce the humidity inside the trailer. With the canning kettle boiling for the next three hours, it’ll be a sauna in there again. Then he decides to take both the wet cloth and damp towel outside and hang them on the clothes line. Every little bit helps. Satisfied the little toilet is as clean and neat as he found it, Ken leaves, reaches back to slide the closet door closed, and exits the trailer.

  Ah, a breeze. Maybe this portends a cooler evening. It will take several hours before the heat dissipates enough for comfortable sleeping…especially when one sleeps in the kitchen.

  “Ken, your dad says you can use the car this afternoon. It may need a little gas, though.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Sure, Mom. I’ll put in some gas. I think I’ll just get lunch while I’m out, too. Melvin’s aunt Liz has that hamburger stand up on the grounds. You know she still uses that special seasoning and then charbroils them out back on that 55 gallon drum grill. Remember?”

  “Yeah, Ken,” his dad agrees, “I do remember her burgers. Makes me want to ride up with you and get a couple myself.’’

&
nbsp; “No you don’t,” his mother scolds. “You’re not leaving me down here with all this work to do. I know you’re not going to help me with the canning, but you got a lot to do down in that basement. You know it might rain tomorrow, and you gotta get all those boxes of tile off the pallet they delivered yesterday. You don’t want my special tiles to get all moldy, now do you?”

  “You’re right, Honey,” Dad replies. “See, Ken. A man’s work is never done, and his wife won’t let him forget it. So you go ahead, and you better get on out of here before she finds another job for you.”

  He gives his wife a pat on the shoulder as he heads over to the boxes on the pallets. He glances back, lifting the first box, “Ken, you got just another week home, and you’ll be back into the thick of things. Basketball practice starts right away doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, we start conditioning in the weight room the first week of school. Speaking of school, the profs call it the winnowing year.”

  “Winnowing? They trying to get rid the student? That sounds strange.”

  “I know, but you remember, we have to declare our majors after sophomore year, and if we don’t have the grades, we won’t be allowed to continue in the program. So it’s going to be nose to the grindstone this year. I can’t let my grades fall and lose my spot in the school of engineering.” Ken pulls out the keys and calls across the yard, “Thanks, Dad for letting me use the car.” Ken leaves, and his step-dad gets to on with his work.

  12 - Mr. Conley’s Coming

  ADMITTEDLY A LITTLE TIRED from working with the kids at Children’s Church, Angie is satisfied with the results of their craft making. Some of the projects turned out really cute. Now, hustling across the grounds, she’s on to her paying job. Part of Angie’s responsibility is to sweep the floor, wash all the surfaces, and wipe down the fronts of the freezer compartments once her work shift ends. That’s every day. Today they’re doing a deep clean for the weekend.

  To assure that they have hot water on hand throughout the day, Stella brings a ten gallon insulated jug of boiled water. It remains pretty warm all day, and when enough is left, they dump it into buckets, add a few drops of bleach, and clean the place thoroughly. Stella has errands to run today, so Angie is alone in the ice cream stand.

  In addition to ice cream, Stella also gets her other supplies from Mr. Conley because he’ll deliver them at no extra charge. In fact, a delivery is scheduled this afternoon, and Angie’s watching the clock. The place had better be up to snuff if Stella is to have that contract renewed for another year. Angie needs the job. A payment on school fees for the fall term is due the last week in August. That’s next week!

  Angie tips the Thermos jug to drain the last of the warm water before sliding the jug back on the table so she won’t knock it over as she sweeps, and then mops the floor. She does get a kick out of their using the spigot on the side of the metal Thermos as a faucet. That makes it easy to dampen cloths and keep up with the splashes and spills of dipping ice cream hour after hour. Whenever the traffic of customers slows, Stella expects Angie to return the place to spic and span order. She’s to refill the cups and cones dispensers, neaten the napkin holder, and clear any accumulated trash. It would be nice if this job were as much fun as it is necessary.

  She grimaces and then grins as she lifts the Thermos to wipe the little corner table, then sets the container down, fingering the raised Thermos label on the jug. It’s the same brand of metal insulated jug her family carried on road trips when her parents were still married.

  Angie’s dad liked fishing for perch and pike in Michigan’s fresh water lakes. Every once in a while, he allowed the family to go along when he went to state parks to fish. Since the divorce, though, Angie and her sisters seldom see their dad. Her brother, Isaac still went fishing with him sometimes. It must be a guy thing.

  RECOLLECTIONS OF SUCH FAMILY OUTINGS evoke a mosaic of memories for Angie. Dad preferred getting up before dawn to be on the river at sun-up. So Mom, not an early riser, had to fix everything the night before so everyone could get up and out in a timely manner.

  They’d have just a glass of juice before leaving and later cook breakfast on one of the charcoal grills at the state park. Cooking eggs over an open fire meant carrying the cast iron skillet and cushioning Dad’s eggs to prevent their cracking during the trip. He liked his over easy, so having the eggs already cracked and stored in a Mason jar wasn’t an option. And then there was the toast. Angie never learned to hold her bread over the flames without scorching the edges. Probably because she preferred buttering the bread before toasting. It dripped and smoked. Not good. Not fun at all.

  On the other hand, she thoroughly enjoyed sitting on the river banks in the cool of the morning, reading her chosen book of the week. Later in the day, when reasonable people arrived with their families, gaggles of kids would gather at the swing sets, climb the monkey bars, and compete in pick-up softball games. That was good. Lots of fun.

  Dad generally fished until the sun reached its zenith and then returned to the campsite for lunch. Tension again. He liked hamburgers made with only lean meat. Mom preferred a little fat in her burgers. According to her, a little fat gives them more flavor. The kids had hotdogs.

  No problem with those. Stick ‘em on a stick, rotate them across the flames until they get crispy but not burnt, and eat ‘em. Of course, searching for just the right balance of heat and flame, she and her siblings would swat one another’s dogs aside. Invariably, someone’s dog would fall off the stick into the fire. Not good. Not fun at all.

  Mom’s potato salad and relish tray of celery, carrots, and pickles complemented the meats, and the frosty, tart lemonade from the green metal Thermos jug provided just the right balance of textures and flavors. Full from the tasty meal, everyone usually was in better spirits and ready for homemade cookies or pound cake. Mom saved fresh fruit for snacks in the car on the drive home later that afternoon. Fruit is neat to eat. Neat was important when in the car and at the campsite.

  Angie and her sisters had to tidy up after the meal, and afterwards her brother would bag up the garbage of used paper products and food leftovers and haul it over to the trash barrel near the parking lot, obeying Dad’s yelling to make sure he closed the lid tightly. There were wild animals in the woods, and the campers were responsible to leave no stuff out for the animals to strew all over the place. Good lessons. But, not much fun at all.

  Then, once home, it was scaling and gutting the fish. Definitely not fun.

  IN THE ICE CREAM STAND, Angie finishes cleaning and lugs the bucket of dirty water outside and over to the sewer drain behind Stella’s mobile home conveniently set up to the right of the ice cream stand. Returning to store the bucket under the table where the Thermos of hot water sits, Angie sees the Conley delivery truck coming up the hill.

  Relieved! She’s finished before Mr. Conley arrives. Just as he sets the air brakes, Angie’s there to greet him. Patting hair back from her sweaty brow, she greets him with the trite, “Hot enough for you, Mr. Conley?”

  “Sure is, Angie,” he replies, climbing down from the cab and fanning curly blond hair out of his face with a crumpled Pittsburgh Pirates’ cap. “Yinz want alla dese flavors in here,” he calls out in the Pennsylvania dialect she always has to re-tune her ears to understand.

  “Or you want I should carry some back over to da big freezer in the hamburger stand?”

  She shrugs.

  “It’s the same difference to me. Gotta go over dere anyway.” As he hefts a tub of vanilla and huffs over to the freezer, Mr. Conley visually scans the stand.

  His sharp blue eyes miss nothing. The Conley Ice Cream sign hanging perfectly parallel to the floor, the sparkling clean containers for the dipping scoops, the completely filled dispensers for cones, cups, and napkins, and the freshly washed aprons hanging on the wall.

  Stella’s right. Mr. Conley is persnickety. At least once a visit, especially close to contract time, he reminds them that the ice cream stand must reflect th
e Conley Family standard of service and setting. His sharp eyes sweep over the freshly mopped floor, and he nods. Angie releases her held breath. So far, so good.

  Although they only sell eight different flavors, the freezer unit can hold twelve of the bulk five gallon cardboard tubs. Stella usually has two each of the most popular flavors. But it’s the weekend, and lots more young folks come on Saturday and Sunday. So they’ll probably be selling more of that new bubble gum, too.

  “Let me see.” Angie checks the note left on the corkboard. “Looks like Stella wants an extra maricopa in addition to her regular order. Got one on the truck?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Dat’s been pretty popular for yinz up here this year? Same for us down to the store. Our customers sure miss da black walnut though. Folks up here been asking for it?”

  “Yes, they have. Just the other night one lady held up the line fussing at me ‘cause we don’t have it this year. She finally settled for the maple walnut,” Angie relates as she trails Mr. Conley back out by the truck.

  It’s still morning, but blazing hot already. The freezer door whooshes open, emitting gusts of trapped air tempting her to shove Mr. Conley aside and stick her head inside to cool off a bit. She’s melting from cleaning inside and now from the scorching sun outdoors. She resists, though. Not good for the business. She pays attention as Mr. Conley chats away,

  “We got some regulars who don’t wanna buy nothing else. D’er complaining don’t cut no ice with us, though. Anyway dey know we only use da best ingredients in our creams and da local black walnuts been bad dis year”

  “Yeah, Stella mentioned that.”

  “We can’t afford to buy dem foreign black walnuts, so we just not making dat flavor now. Customers gonna have to wait a whole nother year. Dey be glad though. We make da best creams around!” he brags as he checks the inventory in the truck’s freezer compartment.