Twinkle Fiddles

Chapter Nineteen

"Family is our soil; ingenuity is our seed. Determination is our water, and prosperity our harvest. Today we are joyful for these that make us strong. God bless our farms. God bless North Carolina, and God bless the United States of America."

It was a moving conclusion to an inspiring speech. As a dual citizen of Canadian birth, Julie was apolitical. To be on stage with a sitting governor was an honor, an unexpected twist of a hectic month. Dressed in her black, formal, pant suit, Julie was the last in the row to shake the governor's hand. The applause and standing ovation from the local growers continued as he left the stage.

The barn smelled of tobacco, a reminder of the autumn harvest, now gone from its drying time in the rafters. Hay bales served as seats for the local families that had gathered, but many stood as space was a premium. The portable tripod light towers the press had added were turned off as the event ended quickly. The governor was on a tight schedule with a stop at nearby Lenoir Community College, before the entourage returned to Raleigh.

Bill's attention was fully drawn to the boys from Carolina Harvest, LLC. As he shook hands and passed congratulations, Julie heard a woman's voice. "Dear, you mind giving me a hand with this?"

Julie saw a simply dressed older female, trying to lift herself, on one of the folding chairs. She was on the side of the stage. With each step up, she'd lose her balance. If she hadn't been so sweet looking, it would have been comical. "Dear, if I could just lean on a shoulder, I think I can get it," she requested.

A North Carolina state flag was hung vertically from its in-sewn grommets. It rested on nails that helped hold tobacco in the rafters only months earlier. The flag was worn and weathered, made from battened wool, not nylon. Cotton lettering highlighted the state insignia. "Jeff thought it'd be a good idea for this to come out today. I wanted to put it back where it goes, if you don't mind."

"Here," said Julie, "let me get that for you."

Julie kicked off her formal high heels. She climbed as tall as five feet two could reach, while the older woman steadied the chair for her. Julie balanced carefully on tip-toes with her black stockinged feet. Despite her shorter stature, she lifted it carefully off the nails. The aged thread made the nearest grommet loose. The flag smelled musty and old. She inhaled an odor of mothballs, like a grandmother's attic chest. She draped the flag over her shoulder before delicately stepping from the chair.

"I'm Julie, Julie Price," she said as she extended her free hand.

In a heavy Eastern North Carolina drawl the older woman stated, "Well, nice to meet you. I'm a Jones."

"Good to meet you too, Ima."

The older lady looked puzzled. "No, I'm a Jones, as I live here. You're on the Jones farm. I'm a Jones. Name's Nancy, Nancy Jones, I'm Jeff's momma."

Julie was feeling embarrassed after calling her "Ima," while trying to recall in her notebook which farm boy Jeff Jones was. Julie sat in the chair to reattach her shoes. "Jeff, of course," Julie remembered. "Jeff developed this concept while at State, right?"

Nancy flipped the flag back to Julie, as if asking for help folding a bed sheet that had spent the afternoon dancing on a clothesline. The two women folded the flag to a triangle before walking from the barn toward the antebellum farmhouse.

Equipment was scattered in random locations, mainly close to the barn, but others seemingly where last used. An aged, brown colored, leaf loader with multiple platforms sat near a 1970's, rusted, Blue Bird, school bus. Only the first two rows of seats remained. The entire back of the bus was a flatbed with wooden side rails. The roof and sides of the bus had been removed after those two rows. A front headlight was darkened, obviously not working. Julie could smell a potpourri of old grease and oil, and diesel deposits as she walked close to the bus.