Ramona Forever

“G
uess what?” Ramona Quimby asked one Friday evening when her Aunt Beatrice dropped by to show off her new ski clothes and to stay for supper. Ramona's mother, father, and big sister Beezus, whose real name was Beatrice, paid no attention and went on eating. Picky-picky, the cat, meowed through the basement door, asking to share the meal.

Aunt Beatrice, who taught third grade, knew how to behave toward her third-grade niece. “What?” she asked, laying down her fork as if she expected to be astounded by Ramona's news.

Ramona took a deep breath and announced, “Howie Kemp's rich uncle is coming to visit.” Except for Aunt Bea, her family was not as curious as Ramona had hoped. She plunged on anyway because she was happy for her friend. “Howie's grandmother is really excited, and so are Howie and Willa Jean.” And so, to be truthful, was Ramona, who disliked having to go to the Kemps' house after school, where Howie's grandmother looked after her grandchildren and Ramona while the two mothers were at work. A rich uncle, even someone else's rich uncle, should make those long after-school hours more interesting.

“I didn't know Howie had a rich uncle,” said Mrs. Quimby.

“He's Howie's father's little brother, only now he's big,” explained Ramona.

“Why, that must be Hobart Kemp,” said Aunt Beatrice. “He was in my class in high school.”

“Oh, yes. I remember. That boy with the blond curly hair who played baseball.” Mrs. Quimby motioned to her daughters to clear
away the plates. “All the girls said he was cute.”

“That's the one,” said Aunt Bea. “He used to chew licorice and spit on the grass to make the principal think he was chewing tobacco like a professional baseball player, which was what he wanted to be.”

“Where's this cute licorice-chewing uncle coming from, and how did he get so rich?” asked Ramona's father, beginning to be interested. “Playing baseball?”

“He's coming from—” Ramona frowned. “I can't remember the name, but it sounds like a fairy tale and has camels.” Narnia? Never-never-land? No, those names weren't right.

“Saudi Arabia,” said Beezus, who also went to the Kemps' after school. Being in junior high school, she could take her time getting there.

“Yes, that's it!” Ramona wished she had remembered first. “Howie says he's bringing
the whole family presents.” She imagined bags of gold like those in
The Arabian Nights
, which Beezus had read to her. Of course, nobody carried around bags of gold today, but she enjoyed imagining them.

“What's Howie's uncle doing in Saudi Arabia?” asked Mr. Quimby. “Besides spitting licorice in the sand?”

“Daddy, don't be silly,” said Ramona. “I don't know exactly.” Now that she was the center of attention, she wished she had more information. “Something about oil. Drills or rigs or something. Howie understands all about it. His uncle earned a lot of money.” The Quimbys were a family who had to worry about money.

“Oh, that kind of rich,” said Mr. Quimby. “I thought maybe a long-lost uncle had died and left him a castle full of servants, jewels, and rare old wines.”

“Daddy, that's so old-fashioned,” said
Ramona. “That's only in books.”

The conversation drifted off, leaving Ramona behind. Her father, who would earn his teaching credential in June, said he was inquiring around for schools that needed an art teacher, and he also told about the problems of the men who worked in the same frozen-food warehouse where he worked on weekends at below-freezing temperatures. Mrs. Quimby told about two people who got into an argument over a parking space at the doctor's office where she worked. Aunt Bea talked about a man named Michael who had invited her to go skiing and was the reason she had bought new ski clothes. Beezus wondered aloud if Michael would ask Aunt Bea to marry him. Aunt Bea laughed at that, saying she had known him only two weeks, but since this was January, there were several months of skiing left and there was no telling what might happen.

No more was said about Howie's uncle that evening. Days went by. Uncle Hobart didn't come and didn't come. Every evening Mr. Quimby asked, “Has Old Moneybags arrived?” And Ramona had to say no.

Finally one morning, as Ramona and Howie were waiting for the school bus, Ramona said, “I don't think you have a rich uncle at all. I think you made him up.”

Howie said he did too have a rich uncle. Even little Willa Jean, when Ramona went to the Kemps' after school, talked about Uncle Hobart and the presents he was bringing. Ramona informed Howie and Willa Jean rather crossly that her mother said it wasn't nice to talk about other people's money. They paid no attention—after all, he was their very own uncle, not Ramona's—and went right on talking about Uncle Hobart this and Uncle Hobart that. Uncle Hobart had landed in New York. He had actually telephoned,
live and in person. Uncle Hobart was driving across the country. Uncle Hobart was delayed by a storm in the Rockies. Ramona wished she had never heard of Uncle Hobart.

Then, one day after school, Ramona and Howie saw a muddy van parked on the Kemps' driveway.

“It's Uncle Hobart!” Howie shouted, and began to run.

Ramona took her time. Somehow she had expected Uncle Hobart to arrive in a long black limousine, not a muddy van. She followed Howie into the house, where the famous uncle turned out to be a medium-young man who had not shaved for several days and who was wearing old jeans and a faded T-shirt. He was holding Willa Jean on his lap. The warm, sweet smell of apple pie filled the air.

“Down you go, Doll,” said Uncle Hobart, lifting Willa Jean to the floor and grabbing
Howie in a bear hug. “How's my favorite nephew?” he asked, and held Howie off to look at him while Mrs. Kemp hovered and Willa Jean embraced her Uncle Hobart's knee.

Ramona was embarrassed. She felt she was in the way because she was not related. She sat down on a chair, opened a book, but did not read. She studied Uncle Hobart, who didn't look rich to her. He looked like a plain man—a big disappointment.

Willa Jean let go of her uncle's knee. “See what Uncle Hobart brought us,” she said, and pointed to a pair of objects that looked like two small sawhorses, each holding a red leather cushion. Willa Jean sat astride one. “Giddyup, you old camel,” she said and informed Ramona, “This is my camel saddle.”

“Hey, a camel saddle!” said Howie when he saw his present. He imitated Willa Jean. After a few more giddyups, there was nothing
more to do with a camel saddle except sit on it.

Pooh, who wants a boring old camel saddle, Ramona wanted to say, at the same time wishing she had a saddle to sit on these winter days when she liked to read by the furnace outlet.

Finally Uncle Hobart noticed Ramona. “Well, who's this young lady?” he asked. “Howie, you didn't tell me you had a girlfriend.”

Both Ramona and Howie turned red and somehow felt ashamed.

“Aw, that's just old Ramona,” Howie muttered.

To Ramona's horror, Uncle Hobart began to strum an imaginary guitar and sing:

Ramona knew right then that she did not like Uncle Hobart and never would. She had heard that song before. When Grandpa Day lived in Portland, he used to sing it to tease her, too. “I'm not Howie's girlfriend,” she said in her most grown-up manner. “I have to stay here until my mother is through work. It is”—could she get the words out right?—“strictly a business arrangement.”

Uncle Hobart found this very funny, which made Ramona dislike him even more.

“Cut it out, Uncle Hobart,” said Howie, a remark much appreciated by Ramona, who pretended to read her book while inside she churned with anger. She was
glad
she didn't have an Uncle Hobart. She was
glad
she didn't have any uncles at all, just Aunt Beatrice, who never embarrassed children and who always came when the family needed her.

“Did you bring us any more presents?” asked Willa Jean.

“Willa Jean, that isn't nice,” said Mrs. Kemp, smiling because she was so happy to have her youngest son home at last.

“Willa Jean, how did you guess?” asked Uncle Hobart. “Come on out to the van, and I'll show you.”

“Me, too?” Howie quickly forgot his annoyance.

“Sure.” As he went out the door, Uncle Hobart said, “It's great to be back in a country full of green grass and trees.”

Ramona heard Howie ask, “What do camels eat if there isn't any grass?”

When they returned, Ramona lost her struggle to be interested in her book. Uncle Hobart was carrying a small accordion.

“Grandma, look!” Howie was wheeling what appeared to be part of a bicycle. “It's a real unicycle!”

“Is it broken?” asked Willa Jean. “It has only one wheel.”

“Hobart, whatever were you thinking of?” Mrs. Kemp frowned at the unicycle.

“I was thinking of the unicycle you wouldn't let me have when I was Howie's age,” said Uncle Hobart. “Now, Mom, don't you worry about a thing. I'll help him. He's not going to break any bones.” He set the accordion on the floor by Willa Jean. “And this is for you,” he said.

Willa Jean eyed the accordion. “What does it do?” she asked.

“You can play music on it,” answered her uncle. “It's a Viennese accordion. I bought it from one of the men I worked with and even learned to play it a little.”

“Isn't that lovely, Willa Jean?” said Mrs. Kemp. “Your very own musical instrument. We'll put it away until you're old enough to learn to play it.”

“No!” Willa Jean put on her stubborn look. “I want to play it now!”

Uncle Hobart took the accordion and began to play and sing:

Ramona stared at her book as she thought mean, dark thoughts about Uncle Hobart. He stopped playing and said, “What's the matter, Ramona? Don't you like my music?”

“No.” Ramona looked the uncle in the eye. “You're teasing. I don't like grown-ups who tease.”

“Why, Ramona!” Mrs. Kemp was most disapproving. “That's no way to talk to Howie's uncle.”

“Now, Mom, don't get excited,” said Uncle Hobart. “Ramona has a point. I was teasing, but I'll reform. Okay, Ramona?”

“Okay,” agreed Ramona, suspecting he might still be teasing.

“Uncle Hobart, Uncle Hobart, let me play it,” begged Willa Jean.

The uncle placed Willa Jean's hands through the straps at each end of the accordion. “You squeeze in and pull out while you press the little buttons,” he explained.

Before he could give any more instructions, Howie grabbed his uncle by the hand and dragged him outdoors. Mrs. Kemp, sure that bones were about to be broken, followed. Ramona watched through the window. Uncle Hobart hopped on the unicycle and, waving to his audience, pedaled to the corner and back. “See, nothing to it,” he said. “Once you know how.”

“Hobart, where on earth did you learn to ride that thing?” his mother called out from the front steps.

“In college,” answered her son. “Come on, Howie, it's your turn.” Holding the unicycle upright with one hand, he helped Howie
mount the seat over the single wheel. “Now pedal,” he directed. Howie pedaled; the unicycle tipped forward, setting Howie on the sidewalk.

Indoors, Willa Jean struggled with the accordion, too heavy for her, and made it give out a loud groan, as if it were in pain.

“No, not that way,” Ramona heard Uncle Hobart say. “It's like riding a bicycle, only instead of balancing sideways, you have to balance back and forth at the same time.”

With a flushed and determined face, Howie mounted the unicycle again. If he learns to ride it, maybe he'll let me ride his bicycle, thought Ramona, who longed for a bicycle, even a secondhand, three-speed bicycle. Howie tipped over backward into his uncle's arms. The accordion squawked. Ramona felt rather lonely, left out and in the way.

“Hobart, do be careful,” shouted Mrs.
Kemp above the squawk and screech of Willa Jean's playing.

Ramona could see that learning to ride a unicycle was going to take time, so she turned her attention to Willa Jean and the accordion.

Willa Jean set her gift on the floor and sat down on her camel saddle with a scowl. “It's too big and it won't play music.”

“Let me try.” Ramona was sure she could make music come out of the accordion. It looked so easy. She slipped her hands through the straps. The only song she could think of was, unfortunately, “Ramona.” She pumped and pushed the buttons, only to produce the cry of a suffering accordion. She tried pushing different buttons while she pushed the bellows in and out.
Hee-haw, hee-haw
. This was not the music Ramona had in mind. “Maybe your uncle can show you how when he has more time,” she told Willa Jean as she
set the accordion down carefully on Howie's camel saddle.