One afternoon Ramona was on her knees on the kitchen floor working on her picture when Beezus came home from school, dropped her books on the kitchen table, and said, “Well, it’s come.”

Ramona looked up from the picture of Glenwood School she was drawing on the roll of shelf paper taped to the floor. Mr. Quimby, who had a dish towel tucked into his belt for an apron, turned from the kitchen sink. “What’s come?” he asked. Although it was late in the afternoon, he was washing the breakfast dishes. He had been interviewed for two different jobs that morning.

“Creative writing.” Beezus’s voice was filled with gloom.

“You make it sound like a calamity,” said her father.

Beezus sighed. “Well—maybe it won’t be so bad this time. We aren’t supposed to write stories or poems after all.”

“Then what does Mrs. Mester mean by creative?”

“Oh, you know….” Beezus twirled around on one toe to define creative.

“What are you supposed to write if you don’t write a story or a poem?” asked Ramona. “Arithmetic problems?”

Beezus continued to twirl as if spinning might inspire her. “She said we should interview some old person and ask questions about something they did when they were our age. She said she would run off what we wrote on the ditto machine, and we could make a book.” She stopped twirling to catch the dish towel her father tossed to her. “Do we know anyone who helped build a log cabin or something like that?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Mr. Quimby. “We don’t know anybody who skinned buffalo either. How old is old?”

“The older the better,” said Beezus.

“Mrs. Swink is pretty old,” volunteered Ramona. Mrs. Swink was a widow who lived in the house on the corner and drove an old sedan that Mr. Quimby admiringly called a real collector’s item.

“Yes, but she wears polyester pant suits,” said Beezus, who had grown critical of clothing lately. She did not approve of polyester pant suits, white shoes, or Ramona’s T-shirt with Rockaway Beach printed on the front.

“Mrs. Swink is old inside the pant suits,” Ramona pointed out.

Beezus made a face. “I can’t go barging in on her all by myself and ask her a bunch of questions.” Beezus was the kind of girl who never wanted to go next door to borrow an egg and who dreaded having to sell mints for the Campfire Girls.

“I’ll come,” said Ramona, who was always eager to go next door to borrow an egg and looked forward to being old enough to sell mints.

“You don’t barge in,” said Mr. Quimby, wringing out the dishcloth. “You phone and make an appointment. Go on. Phone her now and get it over.”

Beezus put her hand on the telephone book. “But what’ll I say?” she asked.