Halfway to a Hundred

1: Preserved Mango Jam

Mama says to roll down the window shades.

We roll down the window shades when it's dry season, when the sun beats down relentlessly and the clouds stay clear, when the sand kicks up off the ground and blows through the town on hot afternoon winds.

When I woke up this morning, I felt dry, even though I was sweating.

I told Mama, and before even saying good morning, she quickly told me, "Roll down the window shades."

So I am standing on a chair, reaching up to the top of the window and untying the years-worn cloth.

I let it fall over the window, releasing a cloud of sand from dry seasons passed, then tie it.

When we roll down the window shades, it gets very dark inside the house, but it stays cool, and the hot sands can't blow in.

"It's closed," I call out.

"Good," says Mama, walking into my room. She digs her hand into the pocket of her dress and pulls out three bills. "Go out and buy supplies," she says, and hands them to me.

Normally, she would buy supplies for dry season, but today I know she's busy.

My four-year-old sister, Connie, has a fever, and needs all the attention she can get.

Daddy can't help because he is out selling his cakes in the city.

I nod to Mama, then walk to the front doorway, which she's already covered with a cloth. When Daddy comes back, we will tie it down.

I tie a hood up over my head, stuff the bills in my pocket, then head out into the baking streets to find what we need.

We do not have a lot of money—the three bills Mama gave me were probably a month's pay—and when dry seasons comes you have to spend wisely to get as much as you can at a time.

The key to getting through dry season okay is to make as few trips outside as possible.

When you stay inside, you're safer.

Outside, you're vulnerable to anything from severe sunburn and heatstroke to blindness and permanent breathing issues.

Dry season is scary.

I don't know why we can't move somewhere else.

Like a jungle.

The sandstone beneath my bare feet is hot in the morning sun as I untie the family's shopping wagon from the post near the house.

I can tell that this dry season is going to hit hard and fast. So early is it but the ground is already baking, and not a drop of moisture is in the air.

I head down the path into the town.

It's the same scene as every year: people working around their houses, tying cloths over windows, shuttering up doors. I see people with loads of bread and vegetables, and I see people with wagons full of water.

A woman pushes two street dogs into her house. Normally, you'd leave them outside because they are dirty and eat your food, but we don't want them to die in the storm, so during the dry season we take them in.

I spend the first bit of my money on one sack full of flat bread and two bags of rice, then I spend a bit more on some meat, some on tons of corn, olives, and a few other vegetables, some on salt to preserve everything, and the rest on ten jugs of water and two boxes of powdered milk.

I start wheeling my way back to the house, satisfied that the shopping went so quickly, when I find a single coin just laying on the ground.

I stop, bend over, and pick it up.

"What can I buy with this?" I murmur to myself, looking around the bustling marketplace for anything else we may need. I want to make use of this single coin, no matter how small.

I see potatoes, berries, wine, dried fruits, all of which I have already.

And then it catches my eye.

Imported preserved jam, in small glass jars.

They have strawberry, blueberry, raspberry, blackberry, orange, mango, and several others that I can't see the labels on.

They're priced for one dollar each, which is exactly how much this coin is worth.

They're the only thing that I haven't bought that I could actually afford with one dollar, and I figure a jar of jam could come in use as a treat sometime in the dry season.

I pick out a shiny glass bottle of imported preserved mango jam, then put it in my pocket, take the wagon, and walk home.