From under the back porch, behind the push-lawn mower, I organize a posse of cowboys to stop the cattle rustlers from stealing the herd grazing under the lilac bush. My brother Mike sends dust down over my posse as he races out the back door across the porch and bounces over the porch railing onto his bike. “Mom is looking for you!” he tells me, racing out the driveway. I return my posse to their cigar box and crawl out from my hiding place. “Bring your wagon,” mom calls, “and a basket.” The basket means a trip to our garden up the street.
First, it's the broom treatment to get the dirt off my shirt and pants. Then it's the spit and hanky treatment to get my ears ready. “Why do you have to play in the dirt under the porch with an entire yard here?” Mom flips the wagon over to get the dirt out of it, too. Garden gloves and the butcher knife wrapped in a potato sack means the cattle rustlers will have to wait. “Put that in the house,” meaning my sketchbook, and then Mom yells, “Dust rags are under the sink,” to my sister Annie. My brother Francis and I call my sister Patricia, Annie, because we cannot pronounce Patricia.
Out the driveway and across the street to Katie Linster's. It's more than just a garden day as Mom volunteers to get a few things for the older neighbors. Mrs. Linster, being 100 years old, is one of those neighbors Mom looks out for. I am always left in Katie's kitchen with Sportie, her Jack Russell. He’s at Katie’s side window barking up a storm as we cross the street. Mrs. Linster has her list of things she wants ready, but it still takes half an hour and one cup of tea to get the list from her. There is goodbying in Katie’s garden before leaving for Mr. Kish's, to get his list. Another 15 minutes with Mr. Kish and then back to our side of the street and up to our garden. Mom hands me two brown paper bags and tells me 15 peapods in each and 10 green beans in one. The beans are for Mr. Kish. A basketball rests in with the swiss chard. Mom kicks it over the lilac bushes, then, without a pause, whacks the leaves from the rhubarb stems with the butcher knife. Spinach leaves and lettuce are for dad's favorite salad, alongside a couple baby carrots. Mom inspects things. From the garden it's onto St. George's Hall where a bake sale waits. The smell of sweet breads and cabbage rolls, along with other delights, fills the air for blocks.
The sounds of a dozen women cooking and pans being washed and refilled fills the hall. Laughter and calls for more onions. Grills sizzle as Romanian men grind meats hot from the grill. An aproned lady pinches my cheeks and speaks to me in Romanian as she pushes me out of the way. A man carries our basement kettle full of stuffed cabbage out to my wagon and takes the rhubarb mom just picked. Mom introduces me to one of the Cookie Ladies, who hands me a cookie. The Cookie Ladies are two spinsters who are on my brother's paper route. They always tip with a cookie. I've never seen so many people cooking, chopping onions and celery all from neighbor’s gardens. A man brings in a butchered pig from his farm as I watch. Out back, Mrs. Bank is showing the man where the pig will be roasted. As the back door opens I see men roasting meats over open fires.
It takes mom a while to say good-bye to everyone. Leaving with several loaves of bread in the wagon, Mom tells me the sale is to raise money to finish St. George's church. Half way home we pause at the Jungle brother’s garden. Mom doesn't answer my many questions. She is quiet just looking at the flowers. She points out the beauty of all the flowers in their garden. For several minutes she is quiet before lifting me up to see the whole garden.
Kneeing in the grass with an arm around me, she tells me flowers are God's gift of color. Look at the bees, they made honey for the bread we just got. I remember the sting I got from one hiding in the grass.
We dropped off Mr. Kish's bread and his green beans, and Katie Linster's peas and bread. “Maybe I'll plant some irises,” Mom said to herself, pulling the wagon up the driveway.
