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shall we?”
    While his brothers trudged off to the parsonage, Little Klein watched from the tree, LeRoy keeping guard underneath as Mother and The Reverend Missus toured the garden. When they got to the PICKLES sign, Cornelia paused. “You can’t grow pickles, dear.”
    Mother Klein bit back her instinctual reply, breathed deeply, and said simply, “It’s cucumbers, of course, but my youngest wanted a garden, too, so I let him choose something.”
    “Oh yes, you’re wise to encourage their ambitions. Why, my Barbara is the toast of Owatonna with her elegant dinner parties. Don’t you know I encouraged her from the start, letting her set the table when we had guests, fill the glasses, all kinds of grown-up responsibilities. I believe my Barbara owes a great deal of her prowess in the kitchen to childhood observation and prodding. Now, Esther, you’ve got a fine start here, but if I could offer some suggestions . . .”
    Little Klein dropped from the tree, whispered “Stay” to LeRoy, and attempted to cross to the house unnoticed. If there was one thing that put his mother in a bad mood, it was unsolicited advice.
    “There’s the cherub!” trilled Cornelia Clambush. “Come here and let me have a look at the little farmer.”
    Little Klein approached her slowly, glancing at the street, willing his brothers’ return.
    “I was just showing The Reverend Missus . . .” his mother was saying.
    “My Land! There’s no call for such formality! Call me Mrs. Clambush, dear.”
    Mother Klein started again. “Mrs. Clambush and I were just admiring the progress in your pickle garden.”
    “Thank you,” said Little Klein, seizing the opportunity to use a previous lesson on making polite conversation. “Corn would be nice, too. I was really hoping to grow corn.”
    Mother Klein smiled too widely and gave Little Klein the
That’s enough
eye. “Guess he was born to be a country boy. I was hoping you’d tell me more about your Barbara —”
    “Corn?” interrupted Mrs. Clambush. “Why, Mrs. Klein, you don’t need to plant an acre for the boy. One stalk here in this sunny spot will do. I’ll send the Reverend over tomorrow to help him get started.”
    LeRoy bounded over to Little Klein. “Shhh, boy,” he said as he looked from his mother to Mrs. Clambush, cautious in his hope for his own corn.
    “The boy can poke a hole in the dirt by himself just fine, thanks just the same,” said Mother Klein, the angry vein on her neck popping out as a warning no one but her boys could read. While Cornelia Clambush paused, deciding whether or not to be offended, Mother Klein recovered her decorum.
    “Of course, you and the Reverend are welcome to stop by anytime to check in on progress. Or for any other reason. I am Lutheran, though I have slipped in attendance and sometimes go over to the Methodists. Have you heard their new preacher? Really, I am a Conversationalist, one who converses with the Higher Up. I certainly have nothing but respect for you Episcopalians.” Mother Klein wiped her forehead with her sleeve.
    “We’re Presbyterian, dear,” corrected Mrs. Clambush, “but I’m sure the corn is nondenominational.”
    As the grown-ups went inside for iced tea, Little Klein, with LeRoy on his heels, raced to the garage for a trowel. He dug a hole in the discussed spot before Mother Klein could change her mind. He slipped into the kitchen, grabbed three forks, and stuck them in the ground around the hole, then tied string around the forks, marking the territory. He made a label, CORN , and sat waiting for his brothers, LeRoy at his side.

Little Klein longed to fish with his brothers but was considered a drowning risk by his mother. Days of sighing about the wait for his corn to grow, though, frayed Mother Klein’s patience, so as a distraction she let the Bigs take Little Klein to the river at last.
    “Keep LeRoy close,” she cautioned, unaware of LeRoy’s unusual swimming affliction.
    The Bigs tied a