“Good morning, Harriet,” Mama said. “Have a cup of hot coffee.”
“Oh, thank you kindly, Georgia, but I won’t be but a minute. I’ll take you up on that coffee another mornin’, for sure.” She started opening the box. “I’ve been sortin’ through all the wonderful donations, gettin’ the children ready for school, and I realized something.”
“What’s that?” Mama asked.
“Folks have been wonderful,” she said, lifting things out of the box. “But even with my brood, we’re gonna have more than enough. So I’m glad to be able to give as well as take—here are some things for Stella and Jojo.”
Stella eased herself up to the table, her eyes growing wide and wider still as Mrs. Spencer pulled out one, two, three, four dresses, looking to be just Stella’s size, and two pairs of leather shoes, along with assorted trousers and shirts for Jojo.
“Shoes!” Stella exclaimed. “Shoes, Mama! Can I wear them to school? And new dresses, too! Oh, this is better than Christmas!” When her mother, beaming, nodded, Stella slid the black pair with the dark laces on her feet. They were a perfect fit. “Oh, boy! I’ll be able to run so fast in these!” she exclaimed. “Thank you, Mrs. Spencer. Thank you so much!”
“I figured those would be about your size,” Mrs. Spencer said, smiling as she watched Stella dance around the room. “You deserve something pretty.”
Stella’s mother grasped Harriet’s hands. “I can’t thank you enough, Harriet. Blessings out of tragedy. Imagine that.”
Mrs. Spencer’s smile grew wider. “There’s one more thing down in the bottom of this carton,” she said. “Could you help me lift it out, Stella? It’s a mite heavy.”
“Yes’m.” Stella scurried over to help, delightfully aware of the clatter of her shoes on the hardwood floor. When she looked into the box, she inhaled sharply.
“What’s that you got there, Harriet?” Mama asked.
Stella slowly pulled the awkward object from the box. “Oh my! Oh, Mama!” she gasped. “It’s a typewriter!”
Mrs. Spencer explained, “I’m not sure who donated it. But we have no need and no room for such a thing, and, well, you helped Hazel with her story, so I thought perhaps you liked to dabble in writin’. I hope you can make good use of it. A bit of writing paper came with it also.”
Stella was struck speechless, until her mother gave her a be polite! look, and she managed to say, “Thank you so much, Mrs. Spencer! I never used one of these before, but I’m gonna do my best to figure it out.”
“I’m glad,” Mrs. Spencer replied. “We can never repay you for what you did for our Hazel, but it sure makes me happy to see the joy on your face.” She turned to leave, but not without grabbing Stella and hugging her fiercely. Stella could barely breathe—Mrs. Spencer was not a tiny woman—but she hugged her back with equal measure.
“So, whatcha gonna do with that?” Mama asked after Mrs. Spencer was out the door.
Stella ran her fingers gently over the round black letter keys, pressing the S for Stella part of the way down, watching the type bar rise up toward the roller. Her mind was racing. Was this what newspapers used? She thought about the clippings in the cigar box—and shucks, even the papers on the wall—and thought, maybe . . . maybe . . .
Could I? Would this help? she wondered.
“You think what I write is good enough?” she asked her mother.
“What I think don’t matter,” her mother said, holding up and then refolding Jojo’s new shirts. “Now get on out of here before you’re late.”
At school that morning, each of the Spencer children showed up with a fresh, clean outfit, and wearing an amazing assortment of new shoes. And it seemed no one could stop talking about the fire.
“That was the scariest sight I ever seen in all my born days,” Herbert Spencer said.
“You’re only ten. How many days have you been around?” joked his brother Hugh.
“It was cold that night, but the air was so hot,” Carolyn remembered, rubbing her arms.
“I cried,” Claudia admitted.
Stella sniffed the air. “I can still smell the smoke—it’s like it’s painted the whole town with that gray, choking smell.”
“I’ve still got the smell in my hair and ashes under my fingernails,” Randy said, looking at his hands.
Jojo mused, “Who knew we had so many buckets sitting around here in Bumblebee?”
Helen Spencer sniffled a little. “All my books got burned up,” she said sadly.
“But I didn’t,” Hazel said quietly.
“And we are very glad of that!” Helen told her sister, grabbing her hand and squeezing it.
At last Mrs. Grayson cleared her throat and called the children to attention.
“Saturday night was a terrifying experience, children,” she began. “We have all been touched in some way by what happened.”
Claudia raised her hand. “Why are some people mean and some people nice?”
“I don’t rightly know,” Mrs. Grayson admitted. “But my job is to teach all of you to be the best people you can be.”
Herbert made a fist. “You sure I can’t punch anybody in the knee, for payback?”
Stella could tell Mrs. Grayson was trying to stifle a laugh when she said, “Sorry, but no, you can’t do that.”
Now Hazel raised her hand. “If my daddy builds us another house, will the bad men burn that one too?”
Mrs. Grayson paused. But then she said deliberately, “No, Hazel. I feel sure that you will be safe in your new house.”
Stella wasn’t certain Mrs. Grayson felt as confident as she sounded. But how do you answer a question like that from a six-year-old?
“Did you choose the entries for the newspaper contest?” Stella asked, trying to change the subject.
Mrs. Grayson’s face lit up. “Yes, I did! I mailed them on Friday afternoon. Making that announcement was next on my list of things to do today.”
“Hey, did my essay make it?” Tony asked. “It was called ‘The Snake in the Garden of Eden,’ ” he added with a grin.
“It was more about the serpent than about Adam and Eve, Anthony,” Mrs. Grayson replied with a smile. “Though I must admit I’ve never really looked at that story from the snake’s point of view.”
“I think snakes are slick,” Tony said, playing with the sound of the letter S as he spoke.
“Indeed.”
“So whose papers did you choose?” Carolyn asked impatiently.
“Well, first let me tell you something,” Mrs. Grayson began. “Everyone did a fine job. I value every single story and poem and drawing that was prepared by a Riverside School student, but as you know, I could only choose three to represent us.”
Stella sat quietly, daring to be hopeful.
“Our high school contestant will be Helen Spencer, who wrote a clever story called ‘Bucky and the Beaver.’ ”
Everyone clapped politely, the Spencer children especially pleased.
“Our middle grades’ entry,” Mrs. Grayson continued, “was written by Carolyn Malone. She wrote about the loss of her baby sister. Her essay is very brave.”
Stella bowed her head. Her essay hadn’t gotten picked. She knew it. She knew it. She just wasn’t good enough. She was happy for Carolyn, but still . . .
“And our final contestant, representing our littlest people, is Claudia Odom, who wrote a sweet and funny poem she calls ‘Cornbread and Cows.’ Let’s give Helen, Claudia, and Carolyn a big round of applause and wish them the very best in the competition.”
Stella’s arms felt as if she’d been toting watermelons all day—everything about her felt heavy and slow and glum. So she was really glad when everyone had stopped clapping and cheering.
Seemingly utterly unconcerned that his essay hadn’t been chosen, Tony asked, “So when do we find out who won?”
“The winners will be announced just before Thanksgiving,” Mrs. Grayson told them all.
“What’s the prize again?” Carolyn asked
with a tentative smile.
“The selected entries will be published in the Carolina Times”—Mrs. Grayson paused for effect—“and the first-place winner will receive twenty-five dollars!”
The entire class gasped. “You didn’t tell us about the prize money!” Johnsteve said.
“I did that deliberately,” Mrs. Grayson replied. “A person should write for the love of language, not for financial gain. Your writing can be compared to a cake. The money is simply the icing.”
“I sure do love me some icing!” Tony said, licking his fingers while his friends laughed.
“Twenty-five dollars!” Stella murmured. She was feeling so low she felt like she belonged under her desk. She could have helped her father buy seeds and tools for next year’s crop, a couple of new chickens, or maybe that sewing machine for her mother! Then she stopped herself. Helen Spencer should win. Helen and her family had lost everything.
Stella closed her eyes, thinking of the rich chocolate icing her mother whipped up and slathered on a warm layer cake. For sure, the icing made all the difference, but Stella wasn’t sure how to make her writing like creamed sugar.
33
A Patchwork of Memories
Mrs. Grayson rapped on her desk. “Enough about the twenty-five dollars. Look, we’re all a little high-strung today. How about if we do a little storytelling instead of geography?” Sighs of relief came from every direction.
“Let’s circle up on the floor.” She adjusted the ash pan, stoked the fire, and closed the lid. Stella had to admit she was glad her teacher had closed the grate—nobody wanted to be seeing flames of any sort this morning. “Are y’all ready?” Mrs. Grayson asked.
“Yes, M’am,” the children replied.
Stella glanced at Jojo, smiled, and tried to cheer herself up.
“How many of you have a patchwork quilt that your mama or your grandmama sewed herself?” she asked.
Almost every hand went up.
“You know, children, quilts, like stories, are part of our heritage, part of our culture. Some quilts even tell stories. Our past is a patchwork of memories and tales. You all keep that forever tucked in your pockets, you hear?”
“Yes’m.”
Stella thought about that. Each of the families in Bumblebee was sort of like a piece of a big old quilt—their very own patchwork already woven together.
“For example,” the teacher went on, “the story I’m about to tell you was sewn into a quilt my own grandmother made, so it’s very special to me.” She paused and gave them a curious smile. “Did you know that African people used to have the power”—she paused—“to fly?”
“That’s not possible,” Johnsteve interrupted.
“It’s a story!” Carolyn retorted. “Now be quiet and listen before she makes us do state capitals or something.”
Mrs. Grayson continued, “Flying was a gift given to the people because they cared for the sky and the earth and the animals. Men would soar in the heavens each night, just to talk to the eagles. Women, who glided on streams of air, wove pillows from the clouds. Men taught their sons the secrets of flying, and women taught their daughters, so the knowledge was passed from ancestor to descendant. It was a glorious time.”
Stella looked out of the window wishfully. Clearly the passing down had stopped long ago.
“But it so happened that a whole generation of the African people were captured and removed from their land. And in time, their memories faded, the memories of the glistening beauty of the great blue heron, the rosy pink feathers of the flamingo, the powerful wings of the red-necked falcon. And because of their bondage, the connection between parent and child, between elder and newborn was destroyed. And the people lost the knowledge of how to fly. Or so they thought.” Mrs. Grayson halted for a moment and drank a sip of water from a mug on her desk.
“Don’t stop!” Hazel said, leaning forward.
“Patience, little one,” Mrs. Grayson said, then she continued. “Slavery was hard, children. The people had to work from sunup to sundown. They had to pick, cut, plant, carry, cook, clean, wash, rake, hoe, dig, clear, build, and more. Every day was a struggle. Every day was full of unhappiness and pain. There was no joy.
“Now it came to pass that a young woman was living on one plantation, a woman of strength, a woman with dreams. Her name was Zalika, which in the Swahili language means ‘born to royalty.’ She constantly looked to the sky. She was able to predict the moment the sun would peep above the horizon, and the instant the land would fade into night. She had named every cloud, even though no two were ever the same. She knew when the sky would pour down rain upon them, and when the sun would burn their backs. She memorized the flight patterns of the birds as they soared above, studying them every single day.
“One hot summer day the man who called himself her master got very angry with Zalika. He screamed horrible words to her. Zalika refused to respond. She gazed at the sky instead. That made him even angrier, so he got out his whip to beat her.”
“Whip?” Randy asked. “I don’t think I want to hear this.”
“Let me finish, Randy,” Mrs. Grayson replied. “Trust the tale.”
Randy shifted in his seat, arms folded across his chest.
“So, on this day,” Mrs. Grayson continued, “young Zalika, who had never known even one day of joy in her life, decided she would not be beaten again.”
“Goodie,” whispered Claudia.
“The man raised the cruel leather whip above his head. His arm trembled with rage. His lips twisted with anger. His eyes filled with hatred. But Zalika would not even look at him—her eyes were focused on the turquoise sky. The full force of the man’s arm came crashing toward Zalika. The tip of the whip curled like a serpent’s tail. And it crashed down, down, down . . . down upon the hard-baked earth. Zalika was gone!”
Even Stella’s eyes went wide.
“The man who called himself her master looked around in astonishment,” Mrs. Grayson said. “Then he heard peals of laughter above his head. Shrieks of joy. He looked up and saw Zalika in the sky. She was flying! She fluttered and floated and hugged the clouds she had named, and flung them toward the sun. And she laughed, oh, how she laughed!”
“The memories of the ancestors, long buried within her, had emerged majestically. The other slaves looked up to the sky and saw Zalika flying, and the memories came flooding back to them as well. ‘Come!’ Zalika said. ‘Come with me!’
“And so they did. One by one, they looked to the heavens and their feet lifted from the ground, their bodies swayed in the breeze. One by one they shed the abuse and pain and enveloped themselves in the memories of the ancestors. Every single one of them took to the sky and drifted away. And they never came back.”
Stella cheered and clapped at the end of the story with everyone else. Mrs. Grayson got up, stretched, and told the class, “Looks like it’s going to be a good day after all.”
Stella walked over to the window and looked out. The sky was so blue that morning. So very blue.
34
typeing typing
this is my very first writting with the typewritttter typeriter typewriter I roll the paper in carfully tap out each lettr and words appear like majic on the page i have to hit this handle on the roller and it moves to the next line i am very slow and i keep messsing messing up
mama just showed me how to put a period at the end of a sentense and how to do do capitol capitaletters. Hold the shift key. Type a ltter. Undo shift key. Type more.
where is the comma and the questionnn mark found them,,,,???
How do you fix misteaks mistakes? theres no eraser.
how do newspaper people do this?
People type whole books? Must take yearsss.
even though my essay did not get piked picked for the contest I thimk think my writting is getting better.
But not my typeeing for sore. sure.
35
Walking Up to Freedom Land
Tuesday, November 8, was brisk
and cold. Stella’s fingertips stung as she washed up quickly and dashed back inside to the warmth of Mama’s fireplace. Her father was out in the barn, forking hay to the mule, taking care of the chickens for her, and milking the cow.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get up in time to help you make the fire, Mama,” Stella said, wrapping her fingers around a hot mug of apple tea.
“Doin’ for my family is my job,” her mother said simply. “Drink your tea.”
“Is Papa gonna vote today?” Stella asked.
Her mother closed her eyes. “Lord, help us. Yes.”
“Mama, what if . . . well . . . what if the Klan decides to burn down our house? Or . . . do something worse?” Stella asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
“I have no idea. It’s been spooky quiet since the Spencer fire. No threats. No midnight riders. It’s the silence that scares me.”
Stella clutched the mug tighter and blew on her tea. When her father burst back into the house in a rush of frigid air, Stella’s mother jumped up.
“What’s got you so itchy, Georgia?” Papa asked as he pulled his chair up to the fire.
“It’s Election Day. My husband thinks he has to vote. Jojo has a cold. I ripped my best apron on a nail. I spilled the bacon grease. There are crazy people who want to hurt my family. Houses are getting torched. I worry about what my children will eat this winter. Take your pick!” she replied sharply.
“Honey, I’m sorry. I know it’s rough. But I’m doing this for you, for Jojo and Stella, for all of us.”
“Humph,” his wife said, reaching for the broom. She began swiping it roughly across the floor. The spotless floor, Stella noticed. “Tell that to the undertaker!”
“I gotta do what I gotta do, Georgia.”
“Why?” she pressed. “It’s not like Mr. Roosevelt needs your vote. Everybody hates Hoover because of the Depression. The newspaper says Roosevelt can’t lose.”
“But I can,” Papa replied softly.
Mama gave the floor a huge thwack. “Who knows what’s gonna be waiting for you there at the voting place?”