Ann Martin - Mary Anne's Book

"I only want what's good for you," she said. "That's what my father always says," I told her. -

"I've said some terrible things about your father since you've been here. And none of them are fair. I'm sorry."

"I haven't been a very good guest," I admitted.

"It's a difficult situation. In many ways we're strangers to one another."

"My mother is a stranger to me, too," I told her. "I came here to find out more about her. But when I ask questions about her, you change the subject. Also, I'm shy. I hate meeting a lot of new people - and besides cooking, that's all I've done since I've been here."

"Well, my goodness." Verna had stopped crying and seemed very interested in what I was saying and not a bit upset by it. "Tell me more. I want to know everything that's on your mind. What else has bothered you?"

"I hate cooking," I admitted. "I love eating and I think you're a great cook. In a letter my mom wrote me before she died, she said that you were a fabulous cook. And she's right."

"In that letter did she tell you she was a terrible cook herself?" Verna asked.

"No. Was she?"

"She was! Alma loved sewing, knitting, and other handiworks. But she had no talent for cooking."

"I love sewing, too. How else am I like her?"

"I guess I'd have to come to know you better to be able to tell you that," my grandmother said. "Would you like to look at your mother's scrapbook?"

"Will it upset you?"

"I'd like to look at it with you, Mary Anne," she said.

When I asked where books were, when she blurted out, "I have the most wonderful idea!" Her eyes sparkled and she looked happy for the first time since I'd arrived.

"What?" I asked.

"When your mother died, I was working on a quilt as a surprise for her twenty-fifth birthday. It's made up of scraps of cloth I'd saved over the years from things she'd outgrown -like her baby blanket and clothes. There's even a swatch from the fabric we used to make her wedding gown. The quilt was to be something

she could pass along to her own child someday." She paused before going on. "I stopped working on it when she died."

"What's your idea?" I asked in a whisper.

My grandmother took my hand in hers. "I think you should help me finish it. We could

both work on it. If we put our minds to it, we could finish it before you go back."

"I'd love to.!" I exclaimed. "Oh, Grandma, could we? Could we really?"

"That's the first time you've called me 'Grandma,'" she commented.

"I know," I said. Of course we both started crying again.

Over the ten days. that remained of my stay, Grandma and I - finished the quilt. I did other things, too. I went on a date with a very boring guy and baby-sat for some neat, but very active, children on a neighboring farm. Grandm.a did the cooking - all delicious -and I concentrated on the quilt.

The day before I went back East was the first -day of the Annual Farm Fair. As we were getting ready to go, I reminded Grandma to bring her blackberry jam for the judging. "I don't think my jam is at its best this year," she said.

"Uh-oh. That's because I helped, isn't it?"

"If you call that help," she joked. "No," she

went on, "I think this year I'd like to share a

blue ribbon with you. How about we enter

Alma's quilt?"

"Yes!" I shouted. "Oh, yes."

I rushed upstairs and brought down the quilt. Grandma said that whether we won the prize or not, the quilt was a winner. A winner for her and me, because it symbolized my mother, and our grandmother-grandaughter relationship.

When I left Iowa the next morning I wondered when I would see my grandmother again. And I felt sad for all the years that I hadn't known her.

When I was back in Stoneybrook I told my father about my trip and how much I loved getting to know my grandmother. He looked concerned. "Do you want to live with Verna?" he asked.

"Dad, no!" I shouted. "You're my father. I love you. How could you even think that?"

My father smiled. "I'm glad you're home," he said.

"Me, too."

The following afternoon my grandmother phoned to tell me that we'd won first prize for our quilt. "The next time I see you I'm going to give you the quilt," she said. "But I want to keep, that blue ribbon."

I could picture my grandmother alone in her house. I knew she was lonely for her husband, her daughter, and her grandaughter.

"Grandma," I said. "I think you should keep the quilt, too. You did most of it. I just finished it off. Besides, I want you to have it to remember my mother and me."

There was a pause. "Thank you," she said. "You know that it will be yours someday."

"I know," I said softly.

We talked a little bit longer. I told her that my family and friends had met me at the air-

- port. And about the date Logan and I were going to have that night. But there wasn't really much else to say. And I was supposed to be at a Baby-sitters Club meeting. "I'll write you a letter," I promised.

"That would be nice," she said. I could hear the sadness and loneliness in her voice. I looked at the clock. Five-fifteen.

"I have to go to a meeting of that club I told you about," I said.

"Then you better go," she said.

"'Bye, Grandma."

"'Bye, Mary Anne."

I finished my autobiography a couple of days before it was due, so I handed it in early. While my friends were working all weekend to finish the stories of their lives, mine was already on Ms. Beicher's desk. I had no one to hang out with. I was glad I had a baby-sitting job at the Rodowskys' on Saturday afternoon.

Thinking about my life so far and writing about it was harder than I thought it would be. It reminded me of how much I missed having a mother. Writing my autobiography also reminded me what a great parent my father is and how well he's raised me On his own. (Except for the year or so that my grandparents took care of me. I know now that they did a great job, too.)

When I first started to write about the 'time I failed the vision test at school on purpose, I thought it was a pretty serious story. I used to think of that incident as this terrible thing.

I'd done that I'd never tell anyone about. By the time I finished writing that section of my

autobiography I realized it was a funny story

and that I hadn't committed some awful crime.

Sometimes I guess I take myself too seriously.

I never told my father I'd failed that test on

purpose.

Now I think he'll think it was pretty funny,

too. After all, he's the dad who understood

that if I was really upset about dancing in

public, I shouldn't be in the recital. And he

knew how to handle my goof-up when I in

vited both him and Mimi to the Mother's Day

tea party.

Before I left for my baby-sitting job at the

Rodowskys', I went to my dad's study and

knocked on the door. "You in there, Dad?"

"Yeah, come on in."

He was sitting on the couch, reading the

newspaper and looking Saturday-afternoon

relaxed. "What's up?" he asked.

"I was wondering if you'd like to read my

autobiography when I get it back?"

"Only if you make an A," he teased. My

dad is always so worried about hurting my

feelings that he immediately added, "That's a

joke."

"I know, Dad."

"Well, you always make A's," he said with

a grin, "so I guess I'll have to read it. Are you going to show it to Dawn?"

"Maybe," I replied. "When she comes for Christmas."

The phone rang. "Will you get that?" he asked.

I went to his desk and picked up the phone.

"Hello, Spier-Schafer residence."

"Hello, Spier, this is Schafer," said -a cheerful voice on the other end.

"Dawn!" I shrieked. "Dawn, we were just talking about you."

"What'd you say about me?"