I said, handing Jason a regular-sized mason jar. Jason grabbed it and set it up on the shelf carefully. “Sweet or garlic?” Jason asked. I checked the label on the side of the jar where Mom’s perfect handwriting identified the correct item. “Garlic,” I said. Canning was something my mother had grown up with, something she fell back on when she was stressed. When Mom and Dad’s realtor found a house in Madison that had all the modern conveniences (and a yard big enough for a batting cage) but also the root cellar from the original farmhouse, Mom took it as a sign. The last of Dad’s signing bonus more than covered the down payment. For Jason and me, though, the cellar was a hated spring chore—taking inventory and organizing so Mom could begin to plan her purchases at Madison’s overflowing farmer’s markets. Jason pushed a jar over to the left, raising a wave of dust from the rickety wood shelf. I coughed. “Damn.” I waved my hand. “Sorry,” he said. “Doesn’t anyone ever clean those?”
