“Too late! We’re Team Lovejoy’s Books, remember? I signed us up weeks ago.”
Four on the Fourth—a 4K road race on the Fourth of July—was a big tradition in my new hometown. Nobody loved a holiday like Pumpkin Falls did, and nobody had more holiday traditions. Some were normal enough—twinkle lights on Main Street at Christmas, for instance—others, like the annual Halloween Pumpkin Toss, which dated back to before the Revolutionary War, were not. Our Fourth of July race was the oldest of its kind in New England and drew huge crowds of runners. Just about everyone in town got involved one way or another. Most of the local businesses sponsored a team of runners, and whoever’s team won got to display the trophy (the big silver pumpkin we’d taken our relatives to see at Mahoney’s Antiques) until the following Fourth of July. The winner also got the money raised by the race’s entry fees. Well, they didn’t, but their project of choice did.
Each spring at the town meeting, two finalists were chosen from a list of proposed Pumpkin Falls beautification projects, and those became the projects that the Four on the Fourth teams competed to fund. I knew this because my brothers and sisters and I had been forced to attend the meeting.
“This is democracy in action, kids!” our mother had told us on our way to the town hall that night. She’d gone back to college after our move to Pumpkin Falls, intending to become an English teacher. The American History for Educators class she’d taken with Professor Rusty had her bubbling over with patriotic spirit. “There’s nothing more American than a town meeting. Consider it part of your civic education.”
I’d heard Gramps and Lola talk about town meetings before, but they hadn’t sounded very interesting. And mostly they weren’t, if you asked me, which nobody ever did. There were a bunch of boring reports on stuff like budgets and tax revenues, and discussions about things like sewage treatment (eew!), graffiti, and the pros and cons of licensing a food truck. One of the top agenda items at the meeting we attended was a proposal to install parking meters on Main Street, which sparked a surprisingly lively debate. Surprising because seriously, who got worked up about parking meters? Pumpkin Falls, that’s who.
Ella Bellow, who used to be the postmistress until she retired last January, had been elected town moderator and ran the meetings. Ella loved being in charge of things even more than my dad did. She had more energy than should have been legal for somebody her age. Giving up her job as postmistress seemed to have given her a new lease on life, too. Instead of retiring to Florida, as everyone in town had thought was her plan, she’d stayed put, opened a knitting shop, and become involved in town politics. She was busier and bossier than ever.
“As always, only two worthy causes will be chosen from this year’s proposed list of beautification projects,” Ella had announced that night. “Of course, I can’t pretend to be impartial about one of the projects,” she added coyly, flinging the fringe of her sparkly blue knitted shawl over her shoulder. Ella used to dress mostly in black, but she’d been wearing brighter colors since opening A Stitch in Time. My father had dubbed her new shop “A Snitch in Time,” thanks to Ella’s favorite sport, which was gossip. “It’s a scandal, the shape that the Pumpkin Falls Grange is in!”
I nudged Hatcher. “What’s a grange?”
“You know, that old building on the edge of town where they put on plays and stuff.”
“My father was a founding member of the Pumpkin Players,” Ella continued, “and he’d be as shocked and saddened as I am if he saw what poor stewards we have been of that historic building. Back in its heyday it was one of the crown jewels of this town. I should know; I practically grew up within its hallowed halls!”
“During the Jurassic era?” whispered Hatcher, which made me giggle and earned us a stern glance from my father.
After Ella finished trying to convince everyone to vote for her pet project, Mr. Henry, the children’s librarian at the Pumpkin Falls Library, leaped to his feet.
“The Pumpkin Falls Grange is a worthy cause, of course,” he said. “The arts are vital to the health of a community, as are its open spaces”—he tipped his red baseball cap at Reverend Quinn, who was slated to speak next on a project with the überthrilling title “Revitalizing our Village Green”—“but what could be more important to the future of Pumpkin Falls than its children? And providing them with an attractive, modern space in our library, which is undeniably one of the gems of our community, is an investment in that future. Let’s use this year’s earnings to revitalize the children’s room!”
Ella Bellow tried and failed spectacularly to keep a neutral face. I could tell she was itching to snatch the microphone back from Mr. Henry.
“May I remind you all,” she snapped, finally doing just that, “that the Pumpkin Falls Grange is even older than the library—”
“Jurassic Ella,” Hatcher whispered again, more quietly this time, so as not to attract my father’s attention.
“—and therefore more historic.”
“Your point is interesting,” Mr. Henry conceded, deftly plucking the microphone away from her again. “However, age alone does not equate with value.” The two of them continued in ping-pong fashion until Scooter Sanchez’s father, who was assistant moderator, had to step in and ask them to wind things up so that other people could speak about their proposed projects.
The meeting ran late. Pippa fell asleep on the floor. My sister Lauren read not just one but two books, and my mother finished knitting an entire sock. Unlike my brothers who at least had their cell phones to distract them, I’d left mine at home and was stuck having to listen to Reverend Quinn try to whip up some enthusiasm for repainting
