Free The Fence My Father Built by Linda S. Clare

someday. After that, I began to categorize and reshelve everything in my life. Here, I thought, was a great opportunity. As soon as the superintendent found out I was available, he would surely hire me.
    “I’ll have the kids around here begging for John Donne instead of plasma TV,” I said aloud to Jim.
    The pig stared at the tube. “See what I mean? TV just turns us all into zombies.” Jim was as responsive as Nova, although less sullen.
    My daughter sat at the dinette table, painting each of her nails a different color. The bottles of polish stood open, brushes atilt, filling the kitchen with the biting smell of acetone. Shades like midnight blue and metallic green suited her; even the bright yellow gloss had a melancholy look to it. She pursed her lips and carefully stroked each fingertip, as if this was the only thing in life worth doing.
    “Planning to come with us to the cookout tomorrow?” I asked her so she’d feel more like she was making her own decisions.
    “And do what? Hang with geeks? Duh.” Nova let out one of her famous sighs and blew lightly on her fingertips. She could be a pretty girl, even beautiful, if she ever gave up hating the world. At least she wasn’t wearing all black yet, although I was halfway afraid to praise her for it.
    “If you stay here Uncle Tiny and Jim will drive you nuts. You know how they love those Green Acres episodes.”
    “He's not going?” Her breath again hissed out, louder than before. “Fine. I guess I could show for a little while. Teach the losers how to be cool.”
    “You’ll be cool, all right, and don’t embarrass the rest of us. You know what I mean.”
    “My hair? Come on, it's no big deal.”
    “Wash out that gunk, and I’ll forget that you didn’t do the dishes yet.” I’d insisted the children take over that chore from Aunt Lutie, which was an unpopular decision to say the least.
    Nova pushed away from the table and held her fingers up in the air. “My nails are wet. How can I do dishes?”
    “Whatever.” I smiled. Sometimes I was more like her than I thought.
     
    T hat afternoon the Tabernacle Ladies, as I called the loosely knit group, assembled at our place for a planning session for the upcoming fall bazaar. Gladys Mason and several others trouped into the living room, where Lutie had set the dinette chairs in a semicircle. They arranged themselves, and I sat next to a large woman named LaDonna Johnson, whose electric blue polyester blouse whooshed with her every move. She was taking notes on a small spiral-bound pad. Aunt Lutie sat in her recliner, holding court and wielding her usual authority.
    “Frieda, will you open us in prayer today?” Lutie smiled at Frieda, a mousy shy woman. Frieda looked at her feet. “Come on,” Lutie urged, “the Lord perks right up when he hears you praying.”
    This was going to be a long afternoon. I tried not to look bored and bowed my head politely as dear Frieda started in. The moment she opened her mouth, though, she was transformed from wallflower to warrior. I was impressed, in spite of the God-sized chip I still had on my spiritual shoulder. Somehow, Frieda's prayer lightened me, if only for a moment. I wondered if Nova, who had refused to come out of the bedroom, would feel the sincerity of Frieda's efforts through the trailer's thin walls.
    After the “amen,” Frieda returned to her quiet self, and Lutie opened the meeting. It was mostly the kind of talk you’d expect from a bunch of church ladies: How many tote tables they’d need and how much to charge for the privilege of selling pies, canned goods, and a myriad of crafts and handiwork. LaDonna was breathless as she outlined her plan for keeping the quilts and the crocheted afghans clean and dry after last year's “ fee-asco ,” she said.
    “And Linc told me at the end of last season he’ll be upping the rent again,” LaDonna continued. “Maybe we ought to move the whole kit and caboodle back over to the church.” She sighed.