CHAPTER 24
The snowflakes looked pretty falling from the sky, but when they hit the car, they turned to slush, and the windows started fogging up something fierce. Grandma kept wiping them clean, but it didn’t seem to help clear up the window—or her bad feelings about riding in a car.
My window fogged up so much I didn’t even know where we were until Granddaddy stopped the car and Grandma reached in the back seat to get the eggs we were delivering to Mr. Green, the grocer. She looked at me. “You joining me?”
“Coming,” I said right as she opened the door and the blast of cold air hit me.
“I’m heading over to the grain elevator.” Granddaddy kept the car running as he talked. “Gonna see what Emory says about that hybrid seed corn.” I understood that meant Granddaddy was considering more of Daddy’s ideas for the farm, and that made me happy. The other day, I even heard them talking about saving up the coffee can money for a down payment on a tractor.
The bell on the door jingled as Grandma and I walked into the shop. And wouldn’t you know, Big-Mouth Berta was the first thing I saw, sitting on a bench by a window.
She didn’t look up as I walked by with Grandma to drop off the eggs, but when Grandma started shopping for her rations, I glanced back at Berta. Seeing a big mess of yarn next to her lap, I got curious, so I moved closer.
“What ya got there?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she answered, grabbing the yarn in her arms and dropping a crochet needle onto the floor.
“Are you . . . crocheting?”
Berta looked close to tears as she sat back down. “Yeah. I mean . . . no. I’m trying to teach myself. But it’s not working. I just don’t know how to do it.”
And seeing her sitting there so clueless with a tangle of yarn, I started to see her as something other than Big-Mouth Berta. I took a deep breath, repeating what Daddy had told me not long ago. “Nobody knows anything . . . till they know it.” And before I knew it, I heard my mouth add, “Want me to show you how?”
She looked up at me like she was surprised I’d offered. I might have been surprised too. “Would you? I mean . . . you don’t have to. But if you’re bored or something . . . that would be nice.”
I looked over and saw Grandma smiling and nodding at me. So I sat down on that bench next to . . . Berta.
“First, you have to untangle this yarn,” I told her, trying to find part of it that didn’t look like a bird’s nest.
She shrugged. “I think it came that way. Gonna have to tell Daddy not to buy this kind anymore.”
When we finally managed to get it pretty near untangled, I showed her how to make a loop of yarn to get started and then how to hold the hook. And after a few minutes, I crocheted a chain and then had her do one. Before long, I’d taught her how to do a whole row. Had to admit she picked it up pretty fast.
Her tongue stuck out a bit as she worked—I could tell it wasn’t in a mean way, but more like she was concentrating so hard she was biting her tongue for focus. Her hands picked up speed with each stitch.
“I always wanted to do this,” she told me. “My mama crocheted me a blanket before I was born. I love that blanket.”
“Why didn’t you ask her to teach you?” I asked.
Berta stopped working and was quiet for a minute. “Didn’t you know?” she finally said. “My mama . . . she died.”
“I . . . I didn’t know that. When?”
Berta looked me straight in the eye when she answered. “The day I was born.”
“I’m real sorry,” I said, looking right back into her eyes. “My mama died too.”
“I know.” She nodded. “I’m sorry too.” She started crocheting again, and that was that. No meanness. Just the two of us sitting side by side, knowing there was no need to talk about something sad we had in common that neither one could change.
By the time Grandma had finished up paying for her groceries, Berta had added a few more rows.
“I think you got this crocheting thing figured out,” I said, standing up.
Berta looked at her work and nodded. “I guess I do. Why, I think my rows are looking even better than yours now.”
I just shook my head, never minding the fact she was right. Guess there were still parts of Berta that weren’t going to make it easy for me to forget my nickname for her.
But then, as I walked over to Grandma, Berta hollered, “Don’t forget to get your valentines! The party’s tomorrow. I’m bringing sugar cookies for everyone.”
I wasn’t planning to ask Grandma to buy any valentines, what with her always telling me about the war rations and times being tough. But I have to admit, after a week of gluing lace, paper hearts, and doilies all over that big box Miss Beany brought in to hold valentines, I’d been thinking about it.
Guess for once Berta’s big mouth actually helped me, since Grandma answered, “That’s right—you need some penny valentines for your friends. Go pick out the ones you want.”
“Can I?”
Grandma smiled. “Yes, you may.”
I looked through some of the sheets of valentines in the store. Some were too mushy and lovey. And some were just silly, like a puppy saying, “Doggone it, I like you,” or a tank with a soldier asking, “Do I have a fighting chance to have you for a valentine?”
And then I saw a sheet of valentines that were all about farm animals. The one I liked best had a lamb on the front that said, “Wool you be mine?”
Bet Ricky would think that was funny.
After we settled up with the grocer, we headed out to meet Granddaddy. Berta was still sitting on the bench, concentrating so much on her crocheting that she didn’t seem to notice us leaving. But wouldn’t you know, right when we opened the door, mixed with the jingle of the bell, I heard Berta say, “Thanks for helping me.”
On the way home, I thought about Berta, sitting there all sad one minute and then bragging the next.
Granddaddy always says we shouldn’t try to figure out who people are until they show us. But what are you supposed to do when somebody shows you so many different things about themselves you just can’t figure ’em out at all?