Amelia Bedelia Digs In

by Herman Parish

  “So what is it?” said Amelia Bedelia’s father.

  “It’s a map, maybe the first map made of this area,” said Bob.

  He took down the frame. Everyone gathered around him to get a closer look.

  “Look! No town. No houses,” said Bob. “See how much the coastline has changed? This is the bay. The bridge goes from here to here. Only one thing stayed the same. Look familiar?” He was pointing at an irregular speck of land in the center of the bay.

  “Blackberry Island!” said Pearl.

  “Bingo,” said Bob.

  “Let’s play bingo later,” said Amelia Bedelia. “Tell us more about the map.”

  “I’m just guessing, but this map must have been drawn by one of my ancestors,” said Bob. “Perhaps to stake a claim to this island.”

  “Back then, not many people could read or write or even sign their names,” said Mary. “So the X could mean that the island was claimed by Bob’s family a very long time ago.”

  Amelia Bedelia’s heart was racing. Her knees got weaker and weaker. She looked around the room, from one person to the other.

  Did I hear right? she wondered. Let’s see, she thought. In a place swarming with pirates, someone finds an old map of an island with an X on it. Was she the only one who got what that meant? Her brain screamed, Wake up, Jason! You’re the Treasure Island expert! Hadn’t something amazing just happened?

  Amelia Bedelia couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Is that where the pirate buried his treasure?” she blurted out.

  There was silence. Then everyone burst out laughing, even Jason.

  “What a vivid imagination,” said Mary. “You’re the treasure, Amelia Bedelia.”

  “If anyone could find buried treasure, it’s Metal Man Bob, right?” said Amelia Bedelia’s father.

  “Yeah,” said Jason. “That X is right in our backyard.”

  “Wish it were true, Amelia Bedelia,” said Bob. “But I’ve combed every inch of this island with my metal detector. Never heard a peep.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Amelia Bedelia. “I didn’t mean to call your ancestor a pirate.”

  “That’s okay,” said Bob. “Makes a nice story around the campfire.”

  “Speaking of campfires, you should get grilling, Bob,” said Mary. “These folks must be starving.”

  Amelia Bedelia’s father, Bob, and Jason went outside to light the fire pit. Amelia Bedelia’s mother and her aunt Mary headed into the kitchen.

  “Would you like me to make my mother’s secret salad-dressing recipe?” asked Pearl.

  “You bet,” said Amelia Bedelia’s mother.

  “What can Alice and I do, Aunt Mary?” asked Amelia Bedelia.

  “Please take the meat and fish out to Uncle Bob,” said Mary. “It’s on those platters right over there. And thank you!”

  Amelia Bedelia and Alice arrived at the fire pit just as the last match sputtered out.

  “Dang it,” said Bob. “Hey, Jason, run and get us more matches, please.”

  “Today you run for matches, tomorrow you run for mayor,” said Alice.

  Jason smiled as he started jogging back to the house.

  “Jason’s way too young to run for mayor tomorrow,” said Amelia Bedelia.

  “Well, someday then,” said Alice.

  Bob and Amelia Bedelia’s father kept fussing around with the fire, arranging driftwood and adding dry seaweed.

  “Can we help?” said Amelia Bedelia.

  “Can you start a fire?” said Bob.

  Amelia Bedelia and Alice looked at each other, then back at Bob.

  “We’re experts,” said Alice.

  “Over to you, then,” said Bob. “Show us your stuff.”

  Alice arranged a small cone of sticks around a ball of dried grass that Amelia Bedelia had gathered. Then she stacked bigger sticks, log-cabin style, around that upside-down cone shape. Spying a piece of flint on the ground, Amelia Bedelia struck it with the handle of a big fork, sending a small shower of sparks into the dried grass. When a wisp of smoke appeared, both girls began blowing on the glowing ember inside. It kept smoking, smoking, smoking, until, at last, it burst into flames.

  “You did it!” hollered Amelia Bedelia’s father, bursting into applause.

  Bob stuck his fingers in his mouth and let out a whistle almost louder than the horn on the Reel Busy.

  “Thank you, thank you,” said Jason, who was just arriving with the matches. He put his hands in the air in triumph, basking in their praise. “This meeting of the Jason Fan Club will now come to order,” he said. Then he saw the fire that Alice and Amelia Bedelia had started. “Well, it looks like you don’t need my matches,” said Jason. “Or me! Boo-hoo-hoo!”

  His fake crying made the girls laugh.

  “Don’t put out our fire with your tears,” said Amelia Bedelia.

  As Bob and Amelia Bedelia’s father tended to the fire and began grilling, Amelia Bedelia recalled a conversation she had overheard last summer. Her mother and Aunt Mary had been talking about cookouts.

  “Having a backyard barbecue is like going back twenty thousand years,” Aunt Mary had said. “We might as well be eating mastodon burgers and saber-toothed tiger steaks.”

  “Who wants to cook over a fire, like cavemen?” Amelia Bedelia’s mother had replied.

  “The gatherers get stuck in the kitchen, struggling to make salads and vegetables exciting,” said Aunt Mary. “Meanwhile, the hunters are standing around a fire, grilling and laughing and swapping stories.”

  “Oh, don’t I know,” Amelia Bedelia’s mother had said. “The only hunting my husband does is rummaging through our freezer for a pint of rocky road ice cream.”

  Amelia Bedelia looked around at this barbecue. The steaks and fish sizzled, the aromas of food and smoke mingled with the talking and laughter. The breeze was soft, and she could see the bay sparkling through the trees. For Amelia Bedelia, the lesson was crystal clear. Hanging out and grilling around a fire pit was way more fun than being stuck inside a kitchen. At least at the shore!

  “Let’s shift most of the fire to one side,” said Amelia Bedelia’s father. “That way we can cook over the hot coals here and use that spot over there to keep things warm until everything is ready.”

  “Great idea,” said Bob. “You’re a beach barbecue expert.”

  “Not really,” said Amelia Bedelia’s father. “But I once worked with a guy who created a barbecue sauce. I read lots of books and articles about barbecuing while I was figuring out how to sell that sauce.”

  “In Treasure Island, Long John Silver’s nickname was Barbecue,” said Jason. “He became the ship’s cook after his leg was shot off by a cannonball.”

  “Ouch!” said Alice. “That must have hurt.”

  “Pirates were tough. Very colorful characters, but not nice guys,” said Bob. “They captured ships, stole cargo. . . .”

  “Took the crew and passengers prisoner,” said Jason. “People who didn’t have money or jewelry were held for ransom until their family paid up.”

  “How much?” asked Amelia Bedelia.

  “The going rate then was two dollars per person, or a dollar an ear,” said Amelia Bedelia’s father. “That’s why pirates were called buccaneers.”

  “No kidding,” said Alice. Then she noticed the others smiling.

  “Yes. Kidding,” said Amelia Bedelia.

  They all started laughing, even Amelia Bedelia. “Sorry, Alice,” she said. “I’m used to my dad joking around and making up stuff that sounds sort of true.”

  “Buccaneers? Truly the worst joke I’ve ever heard,” said Bob, shaking his head and chuckling.

  They were still laughing when Amelia Bedelia’s mother arrived carrying a big paper bag. Amelia Bedelia could tell that her mother was thinking about cavemen clowning around while they cooked.

  “I hate to interrupt with some actual work, but can you guys grill some ears?” she said.

  “Mom! Gross!” said Amelia Bedelia.

  �
�Of corn. Ears of corn,” said her mother. “Can you roast them?”

  “Sure, honey. But it’ll cost you,” said Amelia Bedelia’s father.

  “Cost me?” she asked. “How much?”

  “A buck an ear,” he said.

  They all started laughing again—even Alice. Amelia Bedelia’s mother was busy heaping up the platters with their barbecued meats and fish and making room on the fire pit’s grill for the corn. She handed one platter to Amelia Bedelia, another to Alice, and grabbed one herself.

  “Let’s carry these back to the kitchen,” she said.

  Turning to go, Amelia Bedelia was sorry to miss more stories around the fire pit. The last thing she heard was Bob saying, “This place is so peaceful now. Hard to believe it was once a pirate stomping ground.”

  On their way back to the house, Amelia Bedelia began imagining pirates and buccaneers everywhere. They could be lurking behind every clump of grass or tree. What if one jumped out and grabbed her to be ransomed? Would her parents pay up?

  She was giving herself the willies just thinking about pirates stomping on this same ground. She started to stomp her feet. That made her feel even more creeped out. A spine-tingling shudder ran through her, so strong that she almost dropped the platter.

  “What are you doing?” said Alice.

  “Nothing. Just scaring myself out of my wits,” said Amelia Bedelia.

  * * *

  THE FIRST GRILL MASTERS

  Early barbecues were held in the islands of the West Indies, later a haven for pirates. Spanish explorers referred to a barbacoa, a framework that the native islanders had taught them to build and use for grilling and smoking meats. Years later, French pirates adapted the same structure, calling it a boucan. When a ship sailed near their island, these “boucaners” would row out and attack, armed with the knives they used to butcher meat for grilling. These short, sturdy weapons evolved into the cutlass, a sword favored by pirates for close combat.

  * * *

  The dining room table was set with eight places, and Aunt Mary was lighting the candles when Amelia Bedelia and Alice walked in with their yummy-smelling platters.

  “Oh, I don’t know, girls,” said Aunt Mary. “Should we eat in or out?”

  “Eat out?” said Amelia Bedelia. “We have all this food and you want to go to a restaurant?”

  “I mean inside or outside our house,” said Mary.

  “I vote for out,” said Amelia Bedelia’s mother. “We can enjoy the sunset.”

  “We’re eating in, but out,” said Mary.

  “In. Out. I don’t care as long as we eat,” said Amelia Bedelia. “I’m hungry!”

  Alice and Amelia Bedelia took everything from the dining-room table and reset the picnic table on the patio. Pearl brought out her salad and dressing, and Aunt Mary and Amelia Bedelia’s mother brought out the side dishes and platters just as Amelia Bedelia’s father, Bob, and Jason arrived with the roasted corn. There was so much food that Bob set up a smaller table to hold it all, buffet style. Amelia Bedelia’s mother closed her eyes, inhaling the delicious aromas.

  “Something smells terrific,” she said, opening her eyes.

  “That would be me,” said Amelia Bedelia’s father. “Like my new cologne?”

  “You smell like a smoky campfire,” said Amelia Bedelia.

  “That’s the price you pay for hanging around a grill for hours,” said Amelia Bedelia’s mother.

  “Amen,” said Amelia Bedelia’s father.

  “Yippee!” said Amelia Bedelia. “That’s the shortest grace I’ve ever heard. Let’s eat!”

  “That ‘amen’ wasn’t our grace,” said Aunt Mary. “Your dad was just agreeing with your mom.”

  “Let’s say the grace we learned at camp,” said Alice.

  They all joined hands around the table.

  “Now think of something or someone that you are grateful for,” said Alice. “When you are finished, you squeeze the hands of the people on either side of you.”

  “That means grace is over,” said Amelia Bedelia.

  “Then everyone drops their hands,” said Alice.

  They gave it a try. Everyone loved it.

  “I’m thankful you came up with a quick grace,” said Jason.

  “Let’s eat,” said Mary. “Dig in!”

  Everyone happily did just that.

  After a few minutes of serious eating, Mary added, “And for dessert we’re featuring blackberry cobbler.”

  “Yum!” said Pearl. “Alice, you’re going to love Mary’s famous blackberry cobbler!”

  “Oh, no! Blackberries!” said Mary, shaking her head, her hands on her cheeks. “Why do I always do this?”

  “Do what? Bake a fabulous blackberry cobbler?” said Bob.

  “You can’t help it. You’re talented,” said Amelia Bedelia’s father.

  “I forgot my signature final touch,” said Mary.

  “The whipped cream is right here,” said Jason, dipping his finger into the bowl for a taste.

  “So what’s wrong, Mary?” said Amelia Bedelia’s mother.

  “I gathered a basket full of fresh blackberries today,” said Mary.

  “You’ve got the scratches to prove it,” said Bob.

  “And I always tell myself, save the biggest and plumpest berries to put on top of each piece, for decoration,” said Mary. “But I always wind up using them all in the cobbler.”

  Everyone was looking at one another and at Mary.

  “That’s it? That’s what’s wrong?” said Amelia Bedelia’s father. “I was afraid that a crab had crawled into the cobbler and was going to nibble at our noses.”

  Even Mary laughed at the thought of that. Standing up, she said, “I’ll be back in a sec with more blackberries.”

  “Hold on, honey,” said Bob. “You don’t need more scratches. Let one of the kids go.”

  “I’ll get them, Aunt Mary,” said Amelia Bedelia.

  “You just want to get out of clearing the table,” said Jason.

  “Shhhh!” said Amelia Bedelia, raising a finger to her lips.

  “Thank you, sweetie,” said Amelia Bedelia’s mother, handing her a basket. “Alice, Jason, and Pearl, you help me. Let’s get the kitchen shipshape so we can all enjoy dessert and this beautiful evening.”

  The sun was just starting to set. Pink, orange, and red rays of light made a glowing path to the berry patch. It was way too pretty for Amelia Bedelia to be scared of pirates.

  She ducked down, away from the thorns, and entered the magical circle of berries. Even late in the season, hundreds were still hanging there, plump and ripe. Amelia Bedelia began picking them as fast as she could. The glossy black berries reflected the sunset, looking like thousands of beady eyes glowing pink and orange and red.

  Amelia Bedelia was determined not to let her imagination spook her. So what if this was a pirate stomping ground? she told herself. That was hundreds of years ago. She could stomp here too. Amelia Bedelia stomped her feet with each berry she picked. One. Stomp. Two. Stomp. The ground she was stomping on was way too soft and sandy to make a sound. She kept picking and stomping. Seven, stomp, eight, stomp, nine . . . CRACK!

  Amelia Bedelia stopped. What was that? Turning around, she called out, “Alice, is that you?”

  Silence.

  Weird. Amelia Bedelia shivered, then shrugged and kept picking berries. Ten, stomp, eleven, stomp . . . CRACK!

  There it was again, this time right under Amelia Bedelia’s feet. She looked down. She saw sand disappearing beneath her, swirling. It was like someone had pulled out the stopper of a bathtub full of sand. She was watching it disappearing down the drain. Amelia Bedelia froze. The trickle of sand was going faster and faster. Her feet were sinking farther down. The sand was over her ankles, then up her calves, then above her knees. Something was sucking her down a sand drain! She gripped the handle of her basket tighter and hoped that this was not happening to her. Just as she was opening her mouth to holler for help, there came the loudest CRA
CK of all.

  Then Amelia Bedelia was plummeting feet-first into Blackberry Island.

  Amelia Bedelia landed on a mound of soft sand. Lying flat on her back and opening her eyes, she found herself looking up at the sky. Actually, it was just a circle of deep blue filling the hole through which she just had fallen.

  She saw stars twinkling against the blue. Was she seeing stars like her father had after hitting his head? No, these stars looked real. And there were no planets circling her head. It must still be early evening.

  Amelia Bedelia checked herself out. She wiggled her toes. Check. Wiggled her fingers. Double check. So far, so good, she thought. Then she s-l-o-w-l-y sat up and looked around. Luckily, there was still enough light to see. The mound of sand she was sitting on was piled up on a wooden floor. The boards were wide, like in the cottage, but not smooth and shiny like those were.

  “Where am I?” she said out loud. Then she laughed. She wasn’t afraid or hysterical. She was remembering the legend about the pirate who had stumbled upon this place. He didn’t know where he was, so the locals called his ship the Whereami.

  “I am in the same boat,” she said. As her eyes began adjusting to the dim light, she looked around some more. The floor was round, about the same size as her reading circle at school. The walls had wooden ribs, like the inside of Pearl’s sailboat. They curved up, making an arch at a point above her. Or they used to, because that was where she had fallen through. She reached up to try to touch the edge of the hole. It was about three feet higher than her fingers, even on tiptoes. She jumped. No luck. She stumbled over something hard, ending up on her knees in the sand pile. Great, she thought. I look down when I’m surfing, and I fall. I look up when I’m jumping, and I fall.