“Boys,” Delia said as she hung up the phone, “your mother, and probably your father if he can get away, will be here for dinner tomorrow. I imagine you’ll be grilled tonight. If you would care for a little wisdom from the ancient, I suggest you don’t try to promote the project but simply answer questions as calmly as possible.” The boys nodded respectfully. This confirmation of her status as ancient, while not unexpected, wasn’t particularly comforting.
“Sarah, I hope your parents will be able to come too. I think it would be a good idea if we all got together and talked things through before going much further.” David and Donny returned with a snack tray.
“Meanwhile why don’t you four take Donny and go to the museum. Spend the day, take notes, and explain what is going on to Donny. Take the snacks with you.”
Telling Ramona about the sewing machine project was much less difficult than Delia had imagined. Ramona was, after all, the one who had been presiding over the emptying of supply containers. She knew things weren’t going well for the lot, and she understood that the Ring of Fire had changed things. What she didn’t understand was how things had changed, or what she was expected to do about it. Her biggest concern—terror really—was that as an adult she would be put in charge of something. That Mom was still in charge came as quite a relief.
June 22, 1631: Delia Higgins’ House
The Partows had, over some strong objections, left Rachel at home with Heidi. The Wendells had brought Judy the Younger. While there was some discussion of the sewing machine project over dinner, it wasn’t till after dinner that the pitch got made.
“You four,” said Delia, grinning, “take Donny and Judy into the sewing room, so your parents and I can talk about you behind your backs.”
The kids retreated at speed. Which impressed their parents.
It can be uncomfortable, but still gratifying, to have a casual acquaintance spend a couple of hours telling you how great your kids are, and how much they respect you, complete with quotes of things you have said to them while convinced they weren’t listening.
Uncomfortable, because it’s really easy to remember changing diapers—they make an impression, after all—and forget some of the changes the intervening years have made. They sneak up on you. Are my kids really that bright, hard working, and mature, and why didn’t I know about it? Gratifying, because you want to believe they really are what you raised them to be, and it’s nice when someone else tells you that you did a good job. With teenagers, it’s especially nice when you find out that they actually listen to you.
At least Fletcher and Judy Wendell and Kent and Sylvia Partow found it so, probably because of those concrete examples from Delia:
“I never understood how the federal reserve worked till I heard Sarah’s discussion of the Fed Fairies.”
And:
“My family have owned that Singer since before I was born. I have repaired it countless times, and I have learned more about the how and the why of its inner workings in the last few days than I had learned in the preceding fifty-nine years, mostly from Brent and Trent. I’ve watched Brent sketch out a machine to build a part of the Singer—one that I am sure will work—and then seen Trent tear apart the design and add or change details that make it work better. It’s been a privilege to watch the kids work.”
* * *
For the next four days, as the parents had time to look them over, the kids showed their parts of the proposal to their parents.
Kent Partow, a tallish heavyset man with sandy brown hair and brown eyes, was impressed by the work and the skill his twin sons had put into the designs. He told them so, briefly: “Basically a good job, boys.”
He then spent the rest of the four days when not busy at work or sleeping telling them in detail each and every place where their designs fell short. The focus of his criticisms didn’t have much to do with things that would actually keep the designs from working. He readily admitted there weren’t many of those. No, he dealt with ways that their designs made extra work for the person making the machine, or the person who would be using it.