Free Down and Out in Bugtussle by Stephanie McAfee

discover things that might make me unhappier than I already am. Like the fact that I seem to live my life backward. I spent my twenties, when most people travel the world and chase their big fancy dreams, working at a job I didn’t love but that now I’d give anything to have back. My dreams have shriveled up. All I want is what I had this time last year because I’m sure I’d be more careful with it this time around. Don’t mistake me for someone with ambition. I’m not. Not anymore.
    I look out at the buttercups in the yard and think about GrammaJones. Maybe I should try to follow her model for living. Simple, with flowers blooming year-round. If she could see me now, she would surely tell me to get off my rump and stop thinking my life to death. I wonder where she got all of her crazy old sayings. From her grandmother maybe? I wonder if her grandmother was a gardener. If she passed along flower bulbs and secrets about happiness. I look back at the buttercups. Maybe they could make me happy, too. Perhaps I’ll find my soul buried out there in that dirt.
    For the first time in a long time, I feel a sliver of interest, a tad bit of intrigue. Could I make that garden grow? Could I restore it to its former glory? Could I get the weeds out? Could I keep the weeds out? Could I make flowers bloom year-round?
    I sit up, startling Buster Loo out of his slumber, and he goose honks and rolls over. My curiosity sprouts a twig of hope, and I jump up, run into the hallway, and look up at the attic door. Buster Loo, totally over being drowsy, bounds off the couch and follows me. He starts running in circles around my feet, barking like crazy. I reach up and grab the string, then slowly pull the door, easing the steps down until they’re resting on the carpet in the hallway. When I start to climb, Buster Loo stops barking and starts whimpering. I don’t know if he’s afraid that I’ll try to take him with me or if he’s more concerned about those rickety steps giving way and sending me to the floor in a hefty lump. Either way, he’s backing away as he would from a dog catcher.
    “Don’t worry, Buster Loo,” I tell him. “Mama will be right back.”
    The single bulb at the top of the steps is coated with dust and grime. I reach up and tug on the cord, surprised and delighted when dim light floods the attic. I shiver against the cool, stagnantair and then work my way up to where I can stand, careful to keep my feet on the wide boards. Even though I haven’t been up here in a while, I know what I’m looking for. I’m looking for a box.
    After my grandmother passed away, I had to pack up all of her personal stuff. I couldn’t bear to part with any of it, so I put it all in the attic of this house that she’d shared with my grandpa since before my dad was born. I make my way to the boxes in the far right corner and soon find the one I’m looking for.
    “Books!” I say, and cough at the dust. I drag it away from the slightly larger box right next to it. I haven’t looked at this stuff since the day I packed it and hauled it up here.
    I pull the book box to the attic door, thinking I must’ve been in a little better shape when I carted it up here nearly ten years ago. Of course I was! I was in my early twenties! When I push it to the edge of the opening, I see Buster Loo sitting at the bottom of the steps. When he sees the box, he takes off as fast as his little legs will carry him. I don’t see him again until I’ve wrestled the box down the flimsy steps and hauled it into the living room.
    “Probably should’ve checked the weight limit on those stairs before I did that,” I tell Buster Loo, who creeps out from behind the love seat to sniff the box. “But I made it.”
    I open the box and see Gramma Jones’s small collection of books.
Wide Sargasso Sea
,
The Sun Also Rises
, a few James Bond books. Finally, at the very bottom, I find what I’m looking for:
A
Guide to Beautiful Gardens in the South.
    “Maybe