A blaring alarm echoed loudly against the high ceilings of the workshop causing Theresa to jump and jab her index finger with a quilting needle.

“Ouch,” exclaimed Theresa turning off the annoying racket and slipping her wounded finger in her mouth. The clock read 2:30 p.m., indicating it was time to make good on her favor promised to Miss Stacy Hershey, a new high school teacher that Theresa had befriended a year earlier.

“I need your help,” Stacy had said. “You know Darcy Noble and Liz Valdez?”

“Purchased many Girl Scout cookies from them over the years. Still have an unopened box of Thin Mints in the back of my pantry…somewhere,” said Theresa. “What’s the problem?”

“I had them for creative writing last year. Both smart, excellent writers. Easily “A” students. But this semester in my journalism class, they’re only doing “C” work.”

Despite being long since retired from teaching the elementary grades, Theresa still loved children of any age, even the ones that came with challenges—which were most of them. The enthusiasm and curiosity of youth energized her as opposed to the assumptions and know-it-all attitude of adults, herself now included.

“Why?” asked Theresa.

“I’ll give you one guess.”

Theresa smiled. “Boys.”

CONTINUE HERE…

“Yes. And they’re bored as can be and turning in mediocre work. Just the bare minimum to squeak by.”

Theresa often helped her grandchildren with homework as well as needy young neighbors, always encouraging them to put their studies first and stay in school—usually an outdated mantra kids heard daily from most of their parents, but not all.

“They’ve partnered up on an interview assignment that’s due in a couple weeks, but I’ve seen no progress from either of them. I want them to be inspired. Would you consider being their interviewee? Do you have some good stories to share with them?”

Theresa cocked her head. “Why, yes, I do. I’d be happy to help.”

So, today was the day.

She groaned at the crimson smear across the fabric of her latest project—a pink and white quilt for a newborn’s crib. While dabbing the stain with hydrogen peroxide, her eyes grew misty at the thought of a first-born, precious little girl making her way into the world to join her new family. Theresa adored babies.

The deadline for the handmade quilt loomed, but it could be pushed back—again. She reasoned that exceptional craft took time, and her meticulous work with material, scissors, and a needle remained in high demand, not only with the tourists traveling through the small northern California town but also by friends of friends who came to know her unique quilting patterns and beautiful color ensembles—minus the blood.

Theresa fluffed her short silver hair, gathered her purse, and walked outside into the warm air. For the past month, when not fighting to stay up with quilting orders, Theresa and her daughter, Mary, stayed busy canning from the harvest of their gardens—their shelves filling with jars of plum jelly, dill pickle spears, and green tomato relish. There was still much to finish, but helping Stacy and the girls sounded important.

Theresa fished in her bag locating a half-finished pack of Benson and Hedges Menthol Lights. Better do it now. She didn’t want to promote that specific vice to the girls. Yet, by this time, they likely could tell by the deepening lines on her face. None of the expensive facial creams tried over the years worked to erase the ever-growing evidence. The habit began at twenty-three, following one of the most stressful periods in her life. Theresa imagined that story would be coming out in the interview, along with many others she hadn’t thought about in a while. After the strike of a match, she inhaled the calm. She’d work on stopping another day.

Not only did Theresa smoke, so did her beloved nine-year-old Plymouth Breeze gray four-door sedan. On the way to her meeting, it was hard to ignore the giveaway trail of bluish haze visible in the rear-view mirror. She chuckled. Maybe someday they’d quit together.

The small town coffee shop was cheery in its decor. Even though it was 2006, the red and white checkered curtains and glassed lithographs of Elvis Presley and James Dean attempted to offer a more nostalgic feel. Theresa sat savoring a cup of fancy java with just the perfect amount of froth floating on top—the foam being a delicacy one of the young employees had introduced her to a few months back.

If not for her enjoying a moment of stillness, the tardiness of the students might have irritated her—a pet peeve held over from her teaching days.

She gazed at the modern-day jukebox intended to appear as if it came right out of a fifties malt shop with its yellow and red colors and numbered buttons. Wake Up Little Susie by the Everly Brothers played. Theresa allowed her eyes to close, recalling how she struggled to dance to that song when she was in college. Both of her left feet tromping on her partner’s feet. And, that boy…

A merry jingle announced the entrance of new customers, and Theresa opened her eyes, saw the girls, and waved them over. They rushed to the booth and clambered in, plopping over-stuffed backpacks on the table.

“We’re so sorry, Ms. Clavin,” said Darcy. “Liz just got her license and she drives like a snail.”

“Hey,” responded Liz as she poked her friend with her elbow.

Theresa remembered being well in her twenties before obtaining a license to drive. “I’m glad you got here safely.” She looked at Darcy with her neat blonde ponytail and smartly applied makeup. “How’s your grandmother doing after her surgery?”

Darcy pulled a crinkled paper and pen from her backpack. “She’s getting better.”

Theresa nodded and addressed Liz. “And your mother? I see she’s expecting again.”

Liz sighed and scratched her scalp of multi-colored hair worn in a pixie cut. Thick eyeliner curled up slightly at the edges of her eyes, a small spec of a jewel donned the left side of her nose. “She’s at that throw-up stage.”

Theresa chuckled. “Ah, remember it well.”

“Thanks for agreeing to do this, Ms. Clavin,” Liz said. “The paper’s for our journalism class. We got to interview an old person about—”

“Liz,” exclaimed Darcy, horrified.

Liz covered her mouth. “That was way rude. Sorry.”

“I’m very familiar with the perception teens hold for the concept of age,” Theresa said. “A more appropriate description might be an elderly person, which probably means anyone over thirty to you two.”

Darcy grimaced. “Sorry.”

Theresa gave a dismissive wave of her hand, the comment not really bothering her. “What does Miss Hershey classify as old?”

The girls both shrugged.

“Over fifty?” Liz said, raising her voice in question.

This brought a smile to Theresa’s face. “Is she looking for anything in particular?”

“Um. Just a few significant stories from your growing up,” said Darcy.

“Ha. I’m still growing up.”

Two boys, mature in stature and sprouting whiskers, passed by the table, one winking at Liz. She smiled shyly in return.

Theresa noticed the exchange. “You like him, Liz?”

Darcy nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yeah, she does. He’s like the hottest guy in school.”

Theresa arched her eyebrows. She was now on a mission to educate these girls a little bit about boys. “How long does this paper need to be?”

“As long as we want,” answered Liz. “We’ve got until 4:30, then I gotta go pick up my sister. But, that should be enough time.”

Theresa didn’t try to stifle her snicker. “You want to know about my life in two hours…no, wait,” she consulted her watch. “Ninety-five minutes now?”

The girls gave blank expressions.

“How about this. I was born during a wildfire, my parents swapped spouses, I moved more times than I can count, I went to college, lived with a man thirty-five years my senior, gave a baby up for adoption, taught school, wrote for a newspaper, had two more children but raised many more. How’s that?” She held a straight face, waiting for a response.

They stared back at her.

“Um,” said Liz.

Theresa knew she had them hooked, softened her sarcasm, and leaned forward. “Tell you what. I won’t burden you with all the detailed ins and outs of my life, and if, after today, you think you have enough to write an A-worthy paper, then fine. But if not, I’ll agree to meet with you twice more this week and share a few rather interesting things. I’m going out of town next Monday.”

The students glanced at each other.

“And free coffee and dessert, my treat,” Theresa added.

Darcy and Liz nodded together.

“Alright then. Why don’t you both get something up front and we’ll get started.” They took the twenty-dollar bill Theresa slid across the table and went to peruse the menu.

“Do you want something to eat, Ms. Clavin?” called out Darcy from the counter.

“No, thanks,” said Theresa, honestly preferring a cigarette. Having not shared some of these experiences for a long time, she expected they would stir up some emotions, but it would be good for her to revisit them with young, impressionable teenagers.

Soon, her interviewers were back. Darcy carrying a steaming mug with a chocolate stir sticking out, and a giant chocolate chip cookie with one bite already taken. Liz with black coffee and a slice of crumbly apple pie. The girls settled in.

Darcy prepared to make notes on her paper. “Okay. We gotta find out a couple things first. Your full name and birthdate.”

“Theresa Susan Clavin. June twenty-seventh, 1936. Yes, that makes me seventy this year. I qualify as old.” She laughed.

Darcy handed the paper to Theresa. “And you gotta sign this saying it’s okay for us to write about you.”

Theresa scanned the paper, scribbled her signature, and returned it.

After Darcy tucked the permission slip back into her backpack, she and Liz opened their laptops and waited for Theresa to begin.

“There’s so much to tell, but I’ll start with a few stories from my early years.” Theresa gave a long exhale. “My father was a ranger in southern California. The day I was born, he was called off the fire lines to rush my mother fifty miles away to a hospital in San Diego. After I was delivered, by cesarean section, my mother was told she couldn’t have any more children due to being too small and having a blood issue.”

Darcy and Liz made notes on their computers in between bites of dessert and sips of coffee.

“Forestry rangers and their families were transferred quite often all around California. That meant always needing to make new friends. The forestry compounds were usually out of town, so there weren’t many other children around.” Theresa tilted her head. “And then World War II started.”