Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [2]
“It looks good.” I’m about a foot taller than Doris, so I look down on her tiny curls, each one a perfect rosette of blue icing under a saran-wrap tent.
“It’d better. I suffered for this look. I sat under that dryer over to Ethel’s for two hours on Saturdee ’cause of the humidity. She sprayed my head so bad these curls is like tee-niney rocks. Feel.”
“They’re perfect,” I tell Doris without touching her head.
“Etta all ready for the big show?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“We hope they win this year, on account of no one from Big Stone ever wins.”
“Didn’t the Dogwood Garden Club win on Club Quiz?”
“Yes’m. But that was a good ten year’ ago. And they was grown-ups, so I don’t think you can count ’at. Wait till you see who these is from. I nearly done dropped my teeth, and you know that ain’t easy, ’cause I glue ’em in good.”
I pull the tiny white card bordered in crisp pink daisies out of the envelope. It reads: Knock ’em dead, Etta. And remember, the cardinal is the state bird of Virginia. Love, Uncle Theodore.
“That there Tipton is a class act. He ain’t never gonna be replaced in these parts,” Doris announces as she tips her head back to let the rain drain off her cap. “Sometimes we git a ferriner in here that makes us set up and take notice. How’s he doin’ at U.T.?”
“He says he’s got the best marching band in the nation.”
“Now if they’d only start winning them some ball games.”
As Doris makes a break for her station wagon, I open a box. There, crisp and perfect, is a wrist corsage of white carnations. Nestled in the cold petals are three small gold-foil letters: WIN. I inhale the fresh, cold flowers. The letters tickle my nose and remind me of the homecoming mums that Theodore bought me every year during football season. For nearly ten years, Theodore was band director and Junior Class Sponsor at Powell Valley High School. He chaperoned every dance, and I was always his date. (Parents appreciated that an experienced member of the Rescue Squad chaperoned school dances.) Theodore always made a big deal of slipping the corsage onto my wrist before the game. Win or lose, the dance was a celebration because Theodore’s halftime shows were always spectacular. Besides his unforgettable salute to Elizabeth Taylor prior to her choking on the chicken bone, my favorite was his salute to the Great American Musical, honoring the creations of Rodgers and Hammerstein. Each of the majorettes was dressed as a different lead character, including Maria from The Sound of Music and Julie Jordan from Carousel. Romalinda Miranda, daughter of the Filipino Doctor Who Was on the Team That Saved Liz Taylor, was the ingenue from Flower Drum Song. Theodore pulled her from the Flag Girls; there was a bit of a drama around that, as folks didn’t think that a majorette should be drafted out of thin air for one show just because she looked like she was from the original cast. Once the controversy died down, the Miranda family basked in the glory of the celebration of their Asian heritage. (Extra points for my fellow ferriners.)
I gently place the boxes on top of my tote bag full of things we might need for the television appearance. Extra kneesocks. Chap Stick. Comb. Ribbons. My life is all about collecting things for my family and then putting them back. Lists. Hauling. And I’d better never forget anything. Even Jack relies on me for tissues when he sneezes and quarters for the paper. Sometimes I wonder if all these small details add up to anything.
Big Stone Gap Elementary is a regal collection of four beautifully appointed beige sandstone buildings, built in 1908. In mining towns, the first place the boom money goes is to the schools; Big Stone Gap was no different. There is at least an extra acre of field for the kids to play in, a glorious old auditorium (with footlights), and a newly refurbished cafeteria (since Billy the Hero). I wait at the entry fence as my own mother did for so many years.
As the bell sounds and the green double doors swing open, the kids pour out onto the wet playground like beads from a sack. Etta stands at the