Saint Louis Armstrong Beach by Brenda Woods

Author:Brenda Woods
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2011-07-23T00:00:00+00:00

We’d nailed the last board and Shadow and I were headed inside when Pops informed me that we had more work to do.

“What?”

“Gonna board up Miz Moran’s house for her.”

“Miz Moran told me she’s not evacuating no matter what.”

“We’ll see about that too.”

Tools in hand, we carted the wood to Miz Moran’s house. As expected, she was on her porch and met us with a frown.

“What’s that for?” she asked.

“You know dang well what it’s for.” Pops didn’t give her time to object. “You got a ladder, Miz Moran?”

“I might.”

Pops grinned. “Where is it?”

“Where are most folks’ ladders?”

“In the garage,” I answered.

Miz Moran smirked. “Smart child you got there, Valentine.” She paused, then continued, “I ran my son-in-law off last night when he came to board me up, but judgin’ by the look in your eyes, I spoze there ain’t nuthin’ I can say to get you to go on home and leave me be.”

“Spoze there isn’t,” Pops replied, and headed to the garage.

We were almost halfway through when Perry Tiberon came over to give us a hand. Until his fingers got crooked from arthritis, he played piano for King Daddy Saint at the Jazz Shack. Pops calls him one cool old white dude. Perry Jr., his grown son, who everyone calls Squirrel because he can shell and eat a bag of peanuts faster than anyone on earth, was right behind him.

Of course, before we could leave, Miz Moran offered us “A little somethin’ to eat,” which smelled so good, none of us could refuse. And our stomachs were fat and full when Mr. Tiberon pointed down the street. “Think we should board up old Doc Hunt’s house, Val?”

Old Doc Hunt, who had no kids and whose wife was dead, had recently been carted off to a nursing home. His was the biggest and prettiest house on the block.

Pops agreed, “I think we oughta.”

“Hard work makes time move with dispatch,” Squirrel commented as we hammered and sawed. Squirrel is a college professor with a Ph.D.

“And that means?” I asked.

“It makes time move quickly,” he replied.

Why couldn’t he just say that? I thought. But when I looked at my watch, I had to agree. No matter how he’d said it, Squirrel was right. The work had taken up all of the afternoon.

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