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KIRSTEN MCDONALD
AUTHOR & ILLUSTRATOR
The Blue Horse
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Selma and I stood on the bottom rail of the fence watching the men set up the carnival.
Momma had warned us that there wasn’t money for tickets this year — just like there wasn’t money for little extras like strawberry sodas from Mr. Adam’s store — so Selma and I knew we wouldn’t be riding.
Still, we were excited because we knew it was almost time for us to climb over the fence and be part of the action.
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At last, Momma called us to the back porch. She handed me a small basket that rattled with jelly jar glasses and a big basket filled with pie-tin dinners and flour sack napkins. Selma got to carry the sweet tea jar and a ladle, and Momma was shooing us out to drum up business when I remembered to ask, “How much do we charge this time?”
Momma wiped her forehead with her handkerchief and said, “Tell them dinner is a dollar — half that it if they room with us.”
“What if they don’t got a dollar?” Selma asked as she licked the beads of water off the sides of the big jar.
“If they look real hungry, just take what they can give,” Momma answered, “And, quit licking the jar, Selma, or nobody will want a drop of that good tea.”
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