Jen Ferguson - The Summer of Bitter and Sweet

ONE

This book is about an ice-cream shack, yes, but its also about the real traumas that teens face. There are discussions about and references to a violent sexual assault; an instance of intimate partner abuse; instances of racism and physical assault toward Indigenous and Black teens; discussions of drug use; underage alcohol use.

TWO

This book centers the traumas faced by Indigenous women, girls, and two-spirit people, and one narrative of the ongoing human rights crisis happening now in the colonial nations of Canada, the United States of America, and Mexico.

More broadly, this book includes discussion of generational trauma from residential schools, and the living, contemporary systems that overtook residential schools: the Sixties Scoop, the Millennial Scoop, and other instances of child welfare systems serving the needs of colonialism through mechanisms like birth alerts.

THREE

With the exception of one unnamed cow, who is humanely euthanized off the page, nothing happens to any of the other cows or the dogs or other animals, this I promise. Mooreen, the udderly delightful Cowntessa de Pasteur, and Homer are okay.

FOUR

Why do I tell you these things mere moments before the story begins?

Because: More than anything, I care about you. Your health, happiness, safety, and well-being matter more than reading this book.

If youre not ready now, thats okay. This book will always be here. If youre never ready, thats okay as well. If youre reading and need to stop, guess what, totally okay. And Im the author saying this, so believe me. I found healing writing Lous story, and if you do read it, I hope you find what you need too.

<3 Jen

RED: Winter isnt colorlessits full of shine, depth, and shades we often refuse to see. But many of us find winters long and dull. When the season opens at the Michif Creamery, we start with reds. They contrast loudly, wake us up, as spring announces itself with what seem like impossible buds on trees.

W ere a sight. Three pickup trucks traveling down the highway, each with one of the Creamerys picnic tables hanging over the tailgate. And me, in the lead, in my old bronze F-150, my best friend, Florence, laughing from her shotgun seat. Summer arrives to the prairies slowand stays for such a short time. But Florence and me, were tough enough. Weve wound down the windows all the way, because its tradition.

Last year this time, we were so giddy for summer, for freedom. Florence is trying to bring us back to that place. Her red hair whips around the cab like a storm. It tickles my arm, my cheek. Were singing along to the radiobad country music because, again, its tradition. If doing something two years running makes for tradition.

But its not the trucks and Florences wild hair causing us to stand out on Highway 16. Its one of the cattle dogs, with his orange-and-white coat, riding atop the picnic table Im hauling like hes surfing. Homers a characteran old man with the heart of a young pup. Hes the star of cleanup day.

Its not the best day of the season. Its not the worst. But its certainly a show.

When we approach the turn into the shacks lot, I slow down carefully, watching Homers dog-smile out the rearview to be sure hes ready for this. Its a balance, and keeping the balance is my job. Homer trusts me. We pull into the clearing, where the shack has sat all winter, and before I can park, an orange-and-white blur jumps off the truck, kissing the land with a little thud. He settles in for the day, in the shade against a stand of trees, where hell watch us, like he watches the cows. Coyotes, bears, and other predators dont get too close, not with Homer standing guard.

As we wait for my uncle Dom and my mom to arrive, Florence examines her freshly painted nails, all red like blood. Shes decked head to toe in black. Her skinny jeans are artfully ripped at the knees and across one thigh. Were giggling over the song lyrics pouring out of my speakerstrucks, girls, and ice-cold beers, like thats all there is to lifewhen Dom raps on the side of the truck and says, Lets get started!

Loading the picnic tables and the paint and all these supplies wasnt part of the job? I ask, climbing down.

Throwing his head back so his gorgeous brown hair flutters, Dom grins.

Once we unload the picnic tables, my mom lugs her massive beading kit from her truck. Shes brought the portable stadium seat alongthe one she drags to the pool when she watches me swim. Shes here to keep us company, not to work. Last week, she quit her hellish job at the 911 dispatch to dedicate herself to art. She spent the first fall we lived here learning the craft. Her fingers bled first, then callused over. Now, she beads while she watches TV, beads while she eats.

If she could, shed do it in her sleep.

Shes leaving me, leaving us for the summer. But shes here today. Teasing and cackling at me, or her brother, with entire lungfuls of air.

No one asks where Wyatt, my boyfriend, is this morning. And Im glad for that. Glad too, in a strange way, he hasnt shown. As we paint boards with a new layer of whitewash, Florence squeals with delight when drips stain her jeans. In September, shell wear these on her round-the-world trip, and people will think theyre designer. Weve already cleared the mousetraps and removed any spiders whove taken up residence by relocating them to the bush.

Next weekend, we open.

When my uncle Maurice joins us, hes bearing lunch. But instead of heading for food, Florence smears a big gob of paint from her palm onto mine. She smiles, radiant.

Gross, I say.

Follow me. With a paint-smeared grip she pulls me around back of the shack. Were butted up against the trees. Day by day, theyre turning vibrant green. The ground, too, is covered with spring growth, and errant rocks. Kneel.

I do.

She doesnt release my hand. Hers is warm, the paint between us turning sticky, like gluelike Florence is trying hard not to let me go. Not yet. When Florence insists we lie on our backs to reach under the shack, we do ithands still claspedeven though it takes some maneuvering. Under here, its cooler and the good rot of the undergrowth is strong.

Okay, now that our gymnastics routine is completeI give us a six out of ten, by the way, and the Russian judge merits it no higher than a three, in case you were wondering.

I grin.

Press your hand to the wood. Like me.

Why, exactly?

Youre asking why? After all that?

I shrug with one shoulder.

To mark our place, of course, Louie.

The rough underside of the shack sucks up paint, Florences print next to mine. A drip stains my cheek like a tear.

There, she says, quiet and not like Florence at all. Now well be here as long as this shack of yours stands. No matter where we are, well be here too.