Pamela Ferguson - Sunshine Picklelime

PJ Picklelime was born during lunches of cheese-and-pickle sandwiches and breakfasts of toast and lime marmalade with Debra Duncan Persinger, PhD, while we crafted our anthology Sand to Sky: Conversations with Teachers of Asian Medicine, published in 2008. Both Debra and I had the sort of crazily untamable hair that was once the despair of our respective mothers. When I joked about our hair as a perfect birds nest, out popped PJ and chapter one. Thank you, Debra, for stirring my imagination.

My appreciation also goes to Susy Kiefer of Basel, Switzerland, for her chocolate knowledge and the opportunity to step into the kitchen of her favorite Kaffi Zum Knig, owned by the Gilgen brothers, to observe Peter Gilgen engaged in the fine art of truffle making.

Thank you, Jennifer Arena of Random House, for your inspiring editing and for helping me bring out the very best of PJ. Thank you, art director Tracy Tyler and illustrator Christian Slade, for your super interpretations.

Im equally blessed with wonderful agents: Edythea Ginis Selman (New York), David Grossman (London), and Ruth Weibel (Zurich)all of whom have given me years of encouragement and support.

My great soul sisters Bernadette Winiker, Sophie Keir, and Nancy Casey have given me incredible support through decades of writing and teaching and have offered insightful advice through several drafts of my books.

My appreciation goes to Miriam Hood of Austin, Texas, who was the first person PJs age to read a draft of the work and whose enthusiasm spurred me to develop the characters. I am equally grateful for the sharp feedback from Cici Todeschini (Rome), Angela Neustatter (London), Gary Smith (Toronto), Deborah Lyons, PhD (Austin), and Teri Rodriguez (Austin).

Finally I thank my dear neighbor Tina Huckabee for her friendship and comments as she read the work chapter by chapter. We all mourned the death of her daughter Shoshana Weintraub (19922006), who gave so much of herself to our community. Part of the proceeds of Sunshine Picklelime will be donated to Austins Town Lake Animal Center in Shoshanas memory, to honor the years she volunteered there, along with Tina and Steve and Aaron Weintraub.

Only a person who has lived as richly as Pamela Ellen Ferguson could create such a lush work of fiction. She was born in Mexico, grew up in Britain and South Africa, and has lived and worked in over a dozen world capitals. A former journalist in Londons Fleet Street, she is now an award-winning international instructor in Zen Shiatsu, and her books for adults, both fiction and non-fiction, have been translated into several languages. She lives in Austin, Texas, surrounded by a garden with cacti as tall as trees. Sunshine Picklelime is her first book for children.

picklelime and lemon pie

PJ Picklelime lives in a village very close to you. Meadows are knee-deep in wildflowers in early springtime. Summers are hot and dreamy when golden peaches the size of melons hang from the trees. Snow drifts like powdered sugar down the mountainside in winter.

PJ lives in a cottage with stone walls and stone floors that keep the family Picklelime cool in the summer and slowly absorb warmth from the sun to keep the family cozy in winter. The Picklelimes have barrels outside to catch rainwater in spring, summer, and autumn and snow in winter. A barrel on the roof pipes sun-heated water directly down into the shower below.

Families from all over the world live in PJs village because a computer company on the other side of the mountain brought people in from Africa, the Middle East, Asia, Europe, and North America.

PJ looks different from other kids, as she was born with a crop of thick, black curly hair, inherited from the darker side of her mothers family. Oh, shell lose that, said neighbor Shanti Patel over the fence one day. But PJ never lost her hair, and it continued to grow each year like a wild bush around her head, even wilder when winds heavy with salt came off the nearby ocean. Every time her parents tried to cut it, PJ covered her hair with her hands and screamed out loud until they put down the scissors.

PJ, no one can see who you are under all that hair! said her mom.

Think of the money we could get if we sold PJs hair to the pillow makers, said her dad.

PJ clapped her hands to her ears so their words just sounded all muffled and marshmallowy. My hair has a job, she insisted. You dont understand. My hair has work to do. She wouldnt tell her parents exactly what that work was.

You see, one day she had found a tiny little bird, a yellow warbler, peeking unhappily between the branches of the yellow Lady Banks rosebush that had burst into bloom to fill an entire corner of their back garden.

Why do you look so sad, little friend? PJ asked, stroking the birds yellow breast, which was a shade creamier than the roses that clustered around it.

Because I cant warble, cheeped the bird. Listen to my silly voice. All the other warblers left me behind when they flew south. They said I couldnt be a warbler because I couldnt warble, so I had to find my own way. But I dont know where to go!

I have plenty of space for you, said PJ. She made sure her parents werent watching from the kitchen window, then she bent over and parted her hair to make room for the tiny bird.

But the bird hesitated. Ive never lived in hair before, only a nest made of twigs and branches and old string and wool and bits of this and bits of that.

Well, lets say my hair is a new kind of nest, ready-made and waiting for you to move in. You dont even have to pay rent, PJ told the bird.

So the little bird hopped off the branch of the bush and landed in PJs hair. PJ let go of her curls and they sprang around the warbler protectively, thick enough and black enough to hide his yellow feathers.

This is different, said the bird. Soft and springy! I think Im going to like this!

Just one problem, said PJ.

Whats that? cheeped the bird. He dipped his head to burrow through PJs curls.

Theres no bathroom on board. Youll have to fly in and out. Make sure its when were alone and before you go to sleep. If my parents see you, theyll make you go away. This is our secret, OK?

OK. Done! said the bird.

Now, the next thing we need to work on is your voice, said PJ.

My voice? cried the little bird. But I dont have one. Thats why the others left me behind!

Nonsense, said PJ. They were just too impatient. Would you like me to teach you how to sing?

How can you? Youre not a warbler!

No, but I know how to sing! PJ said.

Well , said the little bird.

Then lets get started. PJ didnt want to waste any time. Now, you have to fly back into the roses while we work. I cant talk to you when youre buried in my hair since I cant see you or hear you properly.

With a tiny flutter of wings, the little bird untangled himself from PJs curls and flew into a cluster of roses a few inches from her nose.

Perfect. PJ smiled. You match the flowers! No one can see you except me. OK, first things first. Whats your name?

I dont know. Im just the yellow warbler who cant warble, said the bird.

Hmmm. PJ thought for a moment. What name would you like?

Something sweet? asked the bird.

Lemon Pie? PJ suggested.

The little bird giggled so much, roses bounced around him.

Right, Lemon Pie it is. Now then, Lemon Pie, lets start with your breath. Dont think about your voice. Just your breath. Breathe in, two, three, pause, then breathe out, two, three. Lets try that together. Breathe in, two, three, pause, and breathe out, two, three. Wasnt that easy?