Welcome to Tuesday Tales. This week we’re writing to the prompt ‘lemon’.
In Fat and Sassy we’re back to the late 1940’s, after our brief foray into 1958 last week. (Isn’t writing fun? It’s like time travel, without the hassle of a space convertor – or whatever one would use for time travel.)
Return to TUESDAY TALES here for more snippets using lemon.
Bea was standing at the kitchen table, running left over roast through the meat grinder. A small bowl of pickles sat on the table waiting its turn through the grinder, spreading its fragrant sweetness through the room. “You ready for a sandwich? The fixins’ll be ready in a few.”
Children ringed the table, watching Bea work, anxious to taste the results. Mae was in position at the sink, washing plates.
“Shore thing. Looks mighty tasty.” Pulling out a chair, Casey sat and reached for the bag of Bar-B-Que chips. “Guess who I ran into at the hardware store?”
“No telling. The mayor? Brother Cline?”
“No. Bill Stoddard.”
Mae turned, holding the soapy rag up, “The man from the packing house that gave me my dolls?”
“Yes’m. He’s the one. He asked about all you chillin’s. I told him you still treasure those dolls.”
“How’s he doing?” Bea asked. “He shore was kind to us when we lived behind the packing house.”
Casey paused as he bit into a chip before answering. “He’s doing well. Said he had an offer to go with Upland Lemon Growers. But he doesn’t think he’ll take it. He said it’s more money, but that it’s almost not worth driving over the hill to Upland every day. He said he’s been with Glendora Citrus Association for so long that it would feel like leaving family.”
“We’ve shore met some nice people with all our moves back and forth across the country.” Bea picked up the pickles and started running them through the grinder. “I miss back home. But I shore like the winters better here. Sure beats shoveling snow and being chilled to the bone.”
“I like all the orange groves here,” Ida piped up. “I like the smell when the trees have all the flowers all over them.”
“Me too,” Helen agreed. “I walk by the groves on the way to school and take deep breaths of the orange blossoms.”
“All the orange trees are nice here,” Bea said. “But I shorely wish they didn’t have to use those dad-gum, nasty smudge pots.”
“Now, Mother,” Casey said, “you know they need those to save the citrus crops. Those pots are a blessing to the industry. Without the citrus in the area, we’d all be a lot worse off than we are. There’s a lot of jobs going to those groves and packing houses.”
“That’s a fact. But yore not the one who has to clean up all the black smoky mess that fills the house on the nights they fire up those pots. That smudge creeps in through every surface and covers everything in its path. I’ve even rolled towels and laid in the windowsills to try to help keep it out and it doesn’t help much.”
“Least ways they don’t need to fire up the pots every night. Only when it gets cold enough.”
Bea picked up a large spoon and mixed the ground roast and pickles. “Hand me that loaf of bread, Prissy.”
Ida handed the bag across the table to her mother. “I’m ready for a sandwich.”
“Yore Daddy first. Then you chillin’s get yore sandwich.”