“Just explain what you want and see what she says,” said Mr. Quimby. “She can’t bite you over the telephone.”

Beezus appeared to be thinking hard. “OK,” she said with some reluctance, “but you don’t have to listen.”

Ramona and her father went into the living room and turned on the television so they couldn’t overhear Beezus. When Ramona noticed her father reached for the cigarettes that were not there, she gave him a stern look.

In a moment Beezus appeared, looking flustered. “I meant sometime in a day or so, but she said to come right now because in a little while she has to take a molded salad to her lodge for a potluck supper. Dad, what’ll I say? I haven’t had time to think.”

“Just play it by ear,” he advised. “Something will come to you.”

“I’m going too,” Ramona said, and Beezus did not object.

Mrs. Swink saw the sisters coming and opened the door for them as they climbed the front steps. “Come on in, girls, and sit down,” she said briskly. “Now what is it you want to interview me about?”

Beezus seemed unable to say anything, and Ramona could understand how it might be hard to ask someone wearing a polyester pant suit questions about building a log cabin. Someone had to say something so Ramona spoke up. “My sister wants to know what you used to do when you were a little girl.”

Beezus found her tongue. “Like I said over the phone. It’s for creative writing.”

Mrs. Swink looked thoughtful. “Let’s see. Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid. I helped with the dishes and read a lot of books from the library. The Red Fairy Book and Blue Fairy Book and all the rest.”

Beezus looked worried, and Ramona could see that she was trying to figure out what she could write about dishes and library books. Ramona ended another awkward silence by asking, “Didn’t you make anything?” She had noticed that Mrs. Swink’s living room was decorated with mosaics made of dried peas and beans and with owls made out of pinecones. The dining-room table was strewn with old Christmas cards, scissors, and paste, a sure sign of a craft project.

“Let’s see now….” Mrs. Swink looked thoughtful. “We made fudge, and—oh, I know—tin-can stilts.” She smiled to herself. “I had forgotten all about tin-can stilts until this very minute.”

At last Beezus could ask a question. “How did you make tin-can stilts?”