previously known as Sister Mountain renamed in his honour. After half a mile, a dirt track leads off the lane and it is here that we catch up with Polly and Kate. Kate is telling her all about Jojo Baxter but Polly can hardly hear her for the scent of pine. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply. Itâs so heady. She stumbles as she goes. Kate links arms with her. For support.
âAre these my Queens of Tarts?â
âHey Jojo!â Kate sang, loading all the tarts on to Pollyâs already laden arms so she could embrace Jojo. âHowâs it going?â
âGood, good. You must be Polly? Hi there, Iâm Jojo. Iâm starving and weâve hardly gotten started. Save my soul and send me to heaven: blueberry, cherry
and
apple?
Queens
of Tarts, queens!â
Polly fell for Jojo immediately and knew instinctively that theyâd see eye to eye â not least because they were absolutely the same height.
There were people and pine everywhere. By the time Polly had laid the pies on one of three trestles set up in a rambling shack on the edge of the clearing, the population on Jojoâs site seemed to have doubled. What a crowd! Adults and children and most ages represented therein. The site for the house had already been prepared in the form of a large, rectangular platform; children were scampering over it; women were pacing it, imagining the kitchen and my! what an awesome bedroom; men were analysing it with tape measures, spirit levels and the failsafe eye. There were three enormous wooden âAâ frames; one lay on the platform, the other two at either end. Nearby, stacks of pine in differing configurations were planked up in neat piles six foot high. A single sheet of white paper, tacked to one plank, had a list of ten, polite points. This was how you raised a house. As easy as apple pie.
This is America
, thought Polly, venturing nearer to the platform and absorbing all surrounding her as she went,
not just the pine and the fact that folk build houses for their friends in a day. No; alongside the pies and pumpernickel, the accents and the stunning scenery, this enormous sense of spirit embodies America, surely
.
Wasnât all of this a film? Harrison Ford?
The house raising might well have been staged just for an English tourist. But just as Polly was neither ignored or stared at, nor was she over-welcomed. She felt at ease. She was not a tourist, she was not at the cinema. People allowed her to occupy a space amongst them. She fitted in just fine.
All America is here: wholesome kids, caring women, buddy-buddy men, Boston beans baking deep in that pit over there, the childrenâs tree house with the Stars and Stripes. I hear terminology I wrongly thought would irritate me, I smell the gargantuan feast that will revive the pioneers mid-morning. I baked a pie. I smell pine. Iâm part of this. I belong.
The first âAâ frame was aligned, hauled and coaxed into its place with little ado.
âHold it right there, Ed.â
âEasy! Easy!â
âUp she goes. Sheâs up.â
âWay to go, guys!â
While the children now played in the trees and by the stream, the women chatted and marvelled and ensured that beakers were overflowing with fruit juice. The builders were all voluntary â Clinton and Jackson and a couple of other Hubbardton teachers amongst them. There were also Jojoâs friends and family who had travelled across the state, some even down from Canada, to be a part of the day. There were Jude and Ed, her hillbilly-looking nephews whose sensitive and polite demeanour was utterly at odds with their thick necks and thatched hair, their calloused, stout hands and seam-stretching thighs. Nearby, a couple of elderly men in great shape (who actually didnât look silly in their checked shirts and worn jeans), spoke about e-mail and software while they flung ropes about like dab hands. A goofy teenager set up a plumb-line and cried
âAre these my Queens of Tarts?â
âHey Jojo!â Kate sang, loading all the tarts on to Pollyâs already laden arms so she could embrace Jojo. âHowâs it going?â
âGood, good. You must be Polly? Hi there, Iâm Jojo. Iâm starving and weâve hardly gotten started. Save my soul and send me to heaven: blueberry, cherry
and
apple?
Queens
of Tarts, queens!â
Polly fell for Jojo immediately and knew instinctively that theyâd see eye to eye â not least because they were absolutely the same height.
There were people and pine everywhere. By the time Polly had laid the pies on one of three trestles set up in a rambling shack on the edge of the clearing, the population on Jojoâs site seemed to have doubled. What a crowd! Adults and children and most ages represented therein. The site for the house had already been prepared in the form of a large, rectangular platform; children were scampering over it; women were pacing it, imagining the kitchen and my! what an awesome bedroom; men were analysing it with tape measures, spirit levels and the failsafe eye. There were three enormous wooden âAâ frames; one lay on the platform, the other two at either end. Nearby, stacks of pine in differing configurations were planked up in neat piles six foot high. A single sheet of white paper, tacked to one plank, had a list of ten, polite points. This was how you raised a house. As easy as apple pie.
This is America
, thought Polly, venturing nearer to the platform and absorbing all surrounding her as she went,
not just the pine and the fact that folk build houses for their friends in a day. No; alongside the pies and pumpernickel, the accents and the stunning scenery, this enormous sense of spirit embodies America, surely
.
Wasnât all of this a film? Harrison Ford?
The house raising might well have been staged just for an English tourist. But just as Polly was neither ignored or stared at, nor was she over-welcomed. She felt at ease. She was not a tourist, she was not at the cinema. People allowed her to occupy a space amongst them. She fitted in just fine.
All America is here: wholesome kids, caring women, buddy-buddy men, Boston beans baking deep in that pit over there, the childrenâs tree house with the Stars and Stripes. I hear terminology I wrongly thought would irritate me, I smell the gargantuan feast that will revive the pioneers mid-morning. I baked a pie. I smell pine. Iâm part of this. I belong.
The first âAâ frame was aligned, hauled and coaxed into its place with little ado.
âHold it right there, Ed.â
âEasy! Easy!â
âUp she goes. Sheâs up.â
âWay to go, guys!â
While the children now played in the trees and by the stream, the women chatted and marvelled and ensured that beakers were overflowing with fruit juice. The builders were all voluntary â Clinton and Jackson and a couple of other Hubbardton teachers amongst them. There were also Jojoâs friends and family who had travelled across the state, some even down from Canada, to be a part of the day. There were Jude and Ed, her hillbilly-looking nephews whose sensitive and polite demeanour was utterly at odds with their thick necks and thatched hair, their calloused, stout hands and seam-stretching thighs. Nearby, a couple of elderly men in great shape (who actually didnât look silly in their checked shirts and worn jeans), spoke about e-mail and software while they flung ropes about like dab hands. A goofy teenager set up a plumb-line and cried
Similar Books
