Free Brett McCarthy by Maria Padian

day.” He chuckled. Ignominious. I had no clue what that meant. When he wasn’t imitating a lobsterman, Mr. Beady sounded like a professor. He was being even more annoying than usual this evening.
    “Good night, sweetie,” Nonna said, blowing a kiss in my direction. “Come by in the morning, and we’ll get started.” I nodded, heading out. It was dark already, and as I pulled the door shut against the warm glow of the kitchen light, I heard Nonna speak.
    “Beady, what does a pancreas do?”

re•con•sti•tute
    Frugality is practically a religion in Maine. Even those who can afford full price at the mall brag that they bought it for peanuts at Goodwill. And yard sales…the Promised Land of the Thrifty…are a pretty big deal and fairly competitive.
    Even by Maine standards Nonna’s Super-Sized was wildly popular. An annual Mescataqua event, actually. More like a wacky block party, or a science fair on steroids, than a garage sale.
    For starters, she didn’t sell anything useful. The pros always stayed away. That’s because they knew they wouldn’t find a single item that anyone in their right mind would want. No treasures or bargains, no practically new bicycles, no vases, bookcases, or ski boots. Still, most of Mescataqua came.
    That’s because Nonna specialized in what she called “reconstituted” items. My dad says when he was a boy, “reconstituted” orange juice was a big thing.
    Reconstitute:
to restore to a former condition by adding water.
Like powdered milk.
    With Nonna’s items water played a minor role. But duct tape was key. Superglue. Nails, screws, soldering equipment. Anything it took to stick egg cartons onto wooden dowels, or join lengths of rusty pipe, or attach bedsprings to the bottoms of old boots. A little tape here, a little hinge there, and presto! A Ping-Pong catapult. Or pogo boots. Or a hamster hotel. Reconstituted from promising pieces of cast-off stuff she’d collected all year, and irresistible to your average child.
    I loved the annual Super-Sized. Mr. Beady, Michael, and I would stay up late the night before, hard at it in the garage, arguing over things like why the Teddy Bear Carousel powered by the NordicTrack ski machine flywheel kept getting stuck. Diane, who always worked it with us, would help with the bake-sale component. She was hopeless at construction (she couldn’t even
unwind
duct tape, let alone attach it to anything), so she always ended up in the kitchen, where she and Nonna turned out pan after pan of fudge brownies and choco-coconut dream bars.
    Diane would also make her signature treat: madeleines, little French cakes baked in a specially molded pan. Nonna loved them but, true to form, was hopeless at making them. That’s because madeleines don’t contain one bit of chocolate, and Nonna could work her magic only if chocolate was involved. Diane, however, was a madeleine whiz.
    On Super Sized mornings my parents would appear with hot chocolate, coffee, and Dunkin’ Donuts. They never really got involved in the Super-Sized. Just spectated from afar. I think they appreciated that it was one of Nonna’s special things.
    But not this year. You’d think they were flies on sticky paper, the way they hung around. They’d shut the whole operation down early the night before, just when Michael and I were trying to put the final touches on the Ped-o-Sled (an old Flexible Flyer that we’d rigged up with fat tires, a seat, and pedals, perfect for pedaling over a snow-covered frozen lake).
    “Let’s wrap it up,” Mom had said. “Nonna needs a good night’s sleep.”
    There was an edge to her voice, and I got the impression that she didn’t approve of the Super-Sized this year. She kept making comments to Dad about “overdoing it” and “not necessary.” I could tell she was getting on Nonna’s nerves.
    When I arrived at the Gnome Home kitchen the morning of the sale, Nonna was slicing brownies into Super Sizes and wrapping them in