Chapter one- sweet land and sour skies

“Wanna jelly bean?”  Mary Ellen reached into her crumples lunch sack.  She stretched out her fist to me and dumped a rainbow of little round candies.  “They ain’t those belly candies or nothing.  But I picked out those nasty lick-rich ones.  Why someone would put sumthin that look like beetles in candy I don’t know.”

I picked out a couple of orange and red ones and popped them into my mouth.  They didn’t taste like the ones mom and I would get from the candy store at the mall, but it was sugar.  Chewy sugar balls that stuck to my teeth and made me want to drink right out of the creek.  Mary Ellen grabbed herself a second handful.  I put the rest of mine in my pocket, maybe as a peace offering to my cousin Billy later.  

“Ya know, I wish sometimes I could have my own farm.  But I wouldn’t grow beans or cotton or stuff.  Eww, I missed one,” she spat out a black mass of candy.  Lunch for the ants.

“What would you  grow?”  I asked.  What could you grow that wasn’t what was already here?

“Candy,” she said looking over to Mr. Suttons field as the sun beat down overhead.

“How in the world would you grow candy?”

“Well, I’d plant it acourse,” she said holding up a jelly as evidence.

“That’s just stupid, “ I said.

Why ya gotta always ruin the fun Georgie? Cantcha  just play along?”  She crumpled her bag closed and sat silent.  I felt bad, but it was hard to tell when she knew what she was saying was play and pretend or if she believed in it whole hearted.  Not to spoil our good afternoon, I played along.

“Ok, what kind of candy would you plant?”

Her head popped up, her eyes suddenly full of excitement.  “Well acourse I’d plant jelly beans in Mr. Suttons soy field.”  She pointed south west over the creek.  

“But not the black ones,” I said.

She shook her head, her face serious. “No ma’am not the black ones.  Rows of red and orange and yellow, you know, rainbow.  And going fast down 41 on the other side it’d look like, what you say, cord-roy rainbow britches. “

I laughed.  I remembered coming down here after harvest the rows looked like the ridges in my corduroy overalls that I had worn until the butt was smooth like velvet.

“But not only jellies mind you,” she went on. “ Over in the Thomason’s farm, I’d have me some cotton candy growing.  That field look like pastel puff balls. Make a fortune at the fair.  And the apple groves could be given caramel instead of water.  Sprinkle them with some nuts at harvest time and we‘d have some candy apples ready for Halloween.”

“What about your fields?”

“Oh that’s easy. I’d just start watering the corn with sugar water.  That way when its ready I’d have some kettle corn.  And my cows would only start making chocolate milk, ‘cept Berta.”

Berta was the only albino Jersey in the herd.  “Let me guess, she give vanilla shakes.”

Mary Ellen giggled, “Nope, strawberry, like the color of her nose and eyes.”

I joined in her giggling.  “That sounds really great Mary.  But can the fish in the creek be Swedish fish?”

“No, silly.  This is Missouri.”

Walking back to the house made me really miss the Bi-State bus.  Sure, it smelled like feet and armpits towards the end of the day, but it beat walking under the sun and dodging road kill.  There were more interesting things to stare at too.  Instead of rows of crops and ugly lawn geese dressed up for upcoming holidays, I had plenty of people to ponder about.  I always found it entertaining when some homeless guy rode the back of the bus.  He would have his sign proclaiming his misfortunes.  Old vet, lost job, disabled or whatever story scribbled on the back of tattered cardboard.  Despite his dingy clothes, I wondered how bad off was he really? Their nails would always be clean, they had every pearly tooth in their head.  No five o’clock shadow and their shoes had clean laces and full treds.  Mom sometimes bought me shoes from the family thrift secondhand store.  She would wash them up, buy laces from the Dollar tree, but they always had worn down treads.   I never accused him of lying or cheating people out of their change.  I always just wondered.   

Turning up the driveway to the house, I could see Uncle Jim riding the mower back into the shed.  I had to admit Uncle Jim had the greenest front yard, mom swore he used frog poo as fertilizer.  But I had no time to ponder his lawn maintenance.  I had made it just in time to wash up. Not, bad, I thought.  Three out of five rules followed today.  Maybe I won't get another "Talkin too". Aunt Marcy opened the front door. 

"Get in here Georgia Ann and wash up.  Suppers ready," she let the front door slam shut with a bang.  One day it will fall off the hinges, maybe hit her in the foot. I hurried inside to wash my face and hands.  Cleanliness is next to godliness or some bs like that.  Billy had beat me to the downstairs bath so I rushed the stairs two at a time.  Hopefully I hadn't stepped into anything ungodly, I didn’t want to scrub the floors again.  I didn't want any reason to be talked to or even acknowledged, and last to the table sparked up a speech of the importance of time. After scrubbing the dirt off my nose and wiping down Aunt Marcy's puke pink sink, I ran downstairs almost tripping the second to last step.

 "Mama, Georgia Ann is running in the house again," Billy shouted from the bottom.  I stuck my tongue out at him and continued to the kitchen.  Aunt Marcy was busy taking the meatloaf out of the oven, so crisis was adverted.  I set the table without being asked and sat quietly in my chair until the rest of the family joined.  Uncle Jim came through the back door, the screen slamming shut. I swear with all these rules of proper behavior, closing a door properly sure missed out on priority.  I wish I could make them stand there and open and close the door til it sticks in their country bumpkin brains.   He washed his hands under the kitchen faucet and turned to Aunt Marcy.  She leaned her face forward expecting maybe a small peck on the cheek.  Instead he wiped his hands on her pretty daisy print apron.  Everything in the kitchen had daisies or yellow on it.  Walking in on a bright morning was sure to cause some one an epileptic seizure. 

"Ya didn't add those fancy onion things did ya?"  Uncle Jim asked. 

"No Jim, I made it like you like it," She put the meatloaf on the table and fiddled with its placement as if it was the centerpiece for a holiday meal.  "Just meat and tomato sauce." 

"Good," he plopped down at the head of the table like the dictator he was.  "Ya need to stop trying to fancy stuff up.  Its just meatloaf.  A loaf of meat, tomato sauce and Heinz sauce.  Simple is better for ya.  Keeps digestion easy, good for the gut."  He slapped his barrel belly twice and popped the tab to his Pabst.  

 "Yeah, Mama, simple,"  Billy said, slapping his gut the same. 

they were simple.  Simple ideas, simple dreams.  Simply doing the same chores, Simply praying everyday.  Simply living.  No wonder why mom left.  Saint Louis was not by far as big and busy like New York or Chicago, but it wasn't simple.  It was diverse and exciting if you knew where to look.  Concerts in the park or tattoo and piercing down the street.  Streets named after states you where dodging bottle rockets in the day and sometimes bullets at night.  Local art studios or music festivals at Tower Grove Park.  Ted Drewes ice cream and playing around a broken fire hydrant.  Italian at lunch and Thai food for dinner. And that was all in the first week of summer.  Here, it felt like people sought out the excitement and diversity.  It was something new, to be poked at, made fun of then simplified.  Even the Mexican joint was a victim.  By poplar demand, they added fried chicken and baked potatoes to the menu.  They stopped carrying Corona and its Blue ribbon all the way.  And who would ever dream of apple pie at Chang's Wok?  Maybe simplified isn’t the term.  Assimilate seems to fit better