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Lizzie helps her grandma on washday and gets rewarded with a tea party in this historical story celebrating family tradition and hard work.
Shep does not allow a squirrel in his territory. Grandma is gone a long time. When she comes out, I see she has put on a fresh apron. “Come in now,” she says. “We have company.” When we go in, there is Lucy with Belinda Lavinia. I am f labbergasted. “How did you get here?” I ask. “Your pa walked the both of them over,” Grandma says. “They came in the back way.” “Sit down now, the four of you,” Grandma says. “Oh, Grandma! This is as good as having our tea party in the barn. This is a real
grown-up doll tea party.” There are gingersnaps on a plate and roses in a jelly jar in the middle of the table. And tiny snickerdoodles on a yellow plate. Grandma sees me looking. “Your ma sent the snickerdoodles with your pa,” she says. She brings her teapot and fills our cups with milk and a little tea. “Pearl tea,” I tell Lucy. “My favorite.” I am happy but choked up, the way I get when something is too nice to hold inside. I pick up the yellow plate. “Grandma,” I say. “I love you. “Have a
Grandmothers—Fiction.] I. Sneed, Brad, ill. II. Title. PZ7.B91527Was 2014 [Fic]—dc23 2012040347 On Saturday I walk to Grandma’s house to help her do the wash. She needs me till Ma can come again. I’ve brought Amelia Cordelia, my doll, with me. I’m not very happy about coming today because I’m missing our doll tea party. “I’m sorry,” I tell Amelia Cordelia. “I know you were looking forward to the party with your friend.” Amelia Cordelia smiles. She always smiles. She is a very good-natured doll.
Grandma opens her door and kisses my cheek. She says hello to Amelia Cordelia. “How’s your ma?” she asks. “Our baby’s coming soon,” I say. The kitchen is full of steam from the copper boiler on the stove. There’s a smell of lye soap. “Are you ready for work, Lizzie girl?” Grandma asks me. “I am.” I set Amelia Cordelia in a kitchen chair and roll up my sleeves. Shep, Grandma’s dog, rises from his warm spot by the stove and hobbles beside us. He’s sixteen years old and has the misery in his
my pink doll tea set with its teeny cups and plates was all ready. Ma and I had baked snickerdoodles, small so they would fit our plates. “Stop day dreamin’, pet,” Grandma says. I give myself a little shake. We examine the whites. These are the Sunday go-to-meeting clothes and must be spotless. I find a big brown stain on Grandpa’s best shirt and rub it on the washboard. Rub, and rub, and rub. Grandma glances over. “Molasses,” she says. “That man can’t get enough of molasses on his bread.”