Judy's Journey

by Lois Lenski

  Papa and Mama came running.

  “What’s the matter? What you done done? Anybody hurt?”

  “No,” said Judy. She whispered to Joe Bob. “Don’t tell yet. Let’s make ’em guess.”

  Papa and Mama put the groceries in the car. Papa’s face looked sad.

  “Looks like good farm country round here, but they must be small farms if they don’t use outside help,” he said. “That man I talked to said if he needs help, he jest calls on his neighbors. This is their peak season right now for about six weeks, for cucumbers and tomatoes. The other feller with him said there’s a big harvest of potatoes up in the St. Johns River section, south of Jacksonville.”

  Mama got out the map. “Up here somewheres,” she said, pointing with her finger.

  “We’d ought to make that in a day, if we keep goin’,” said Papa. He started the motor and the throbbing of the engine began to shake the car.

  “Better tell ’im,” whispered Joe Bob, “or he’ll go on past.”

  “Papa!” screamed Judy, trying to make herself heard. “Stop at Gibson’s four miles out. It says GIBSON on the mailbox. Watch for it—don’t go too fast.”

  “What for?” asked Papa, when the engine had quieted a little.

  “I got a job for you—outdoors too!” said Judy proudly.

  “A JOB?” laughed Papa.

  They were there in a few minutes. The mailbox said GIBSON in large letters.

  The first thing Judy looked at was the house. It was not one of the big white-pillared mansions she had seen in Alabama and Georgia. It was a weathered gray two-story farmhouse with a wide verandah running round three sides, set back from the road. The driveway was bordered with vine-and moss-draped oaks, and the yard was bright with flowering shrubs and bottle-bordered flower beds of phlox and petunias. Two huge clumps of oleander, coming into bloom, grew on each side.

  “I think it’s the nicest house in the world!” exclaimed Judy.

  There was Mrs. Gibson, brush-broom in hand, sweeping the sandy yard between the flower beds. And there was her daughter, Mary John, chubby and round, with blue eyes and yellow hair.

  “You made good time,” said Mrs. Gibson.

  “What’s all this?” asked Papa, bewildered.

  Mrs. Gibson explained that her husband had fallen from his tractor and broken his leg in two places, and was kept to his bed. He had three acres in tomatoes and two acres in cucumbers, both ready to be harvested, besides peppers and other vegetables coming along. She took Papa in the house to talk to Mr. Gibson, and when he came out again, he was all smiles.

  “Where did you say we should put up our tent, ma’m?” he asked.

  Mrs. Gibson pointed out a shady spot under a mossy live oak a short distance from the house.

  “Hit’s right near the well and the garden and the grove,” she said. “That’s a flowin’ well there—best water in the world —never stops runnin’. You-all can have all the oranges and vegetables you want. Just help yourself.”

  Mama was so surprised she was speechless. She had never met any one like Mrs. Gibson before—so brisk, energetic, untiring and kind. Mrs. Gibson treated people well and expected to be well-treated in return. Since her husband’s accident, she was managing the farm with the help of one man, Ollie Peters.

  To Judy it was like a dream come true.

  “Bessie Harmon told me folks born in Florida are called Crackers,” she said to Mary John. “Are you a Cracker too?”

  Mary John was shy. “I reckon I am,” she drawled.

  “My school in Bean Town had Crackers,” said Judy, “and other kinds too, from all over the country. One girl was from Connecticut.”

  Mary John smiled. “That was nice.”

  “How come you got a boy’s name John?” asked Judy.

  “I’m named for my Daddy,” said the girl.

  They were friends at once. Mary John gave Judy ‘slips’ from her mother’s plants and empty tin cans to grow them in. Judy started a flower bed in front of the tent.

  “Can I take them along with me when we go?” she asked.

  “Oh, but you’re going to stay here,” insisted Mary John.

  Mrs. Gibson asked the Drummond children to come in often for supper. They learned to sit down at a table and to eat with forks instead of their fingers or spoons. Sometimes Judy and Mary John watched Mrs. Gibson at her cooking or baking. Mrs. Gibson had a large, old-fashioned range and she would put two chicken pies and several pans of soda biscuits and crackling cornbread in the oven at once. She always had baked or boiled sweet potatoes on hand for the children to eat. Once Judy and Mary John mixed a cake and baked it. When it was done, the children had it to eat all to themselves. Judy had never known such a kitchen. It gave the word home a new meaning.

  Papa began work right away and he had plenty to keep him busy. But he was happier than he had been for a long time because he could be outdoors and because he had some responsibility of his own.

  The tomatoes and cucumbers had to be hauled in Mr. Gibson’s truck to the State Farmers Market in Oleander, where they were auctioned off to the highest bidder. But first they had to be picked. The cucumbers could not be picked in the morning because the dew on them would cause them to rust. So they were picked in the afternoon and the tomatoes were picked, green, in the morning. Ollie Peters showed Papa everything. The two men took turns driving the truck to the market each morning about eleven o’clock.

  Both crops came on with such a rush that Mama and the children went out in the tomato field to help pick. Judy missed Mary John, who was going to school every day, but she was anxious to help Papa keep his job. Lonnie and Cora Jane played in the paths or sat in the shade at the end of the rows, while Mama and Judy and Joe Bob picked.

  At first it was fun to fill up the baskets. But Ollie Peters shook his head when he saw the children tossing the green tomatoes.

  “Put each one down carefully,” he said, “so you don’t bruise it. Them buyers at the market are mighty fussy.”

  The baskets were heavy to move. The vines that had not been staked were lying sprawled on the ground, and that meant stooping. The green sap from leaves and stem stained their hands a dark green. The sun grew hotter as the days passed. Judy was always glad to see the truck go out of the field at eleven each morning.

  One day toward the end of April she went along with Papa, riding high up in the front seat.

  The market was a busy place. Under a vast open shed, hundreds of autos, trucks, horse- or mule-drawn vehicles gathered and waited in line. Over at one corner was the “auction block,” where the buyers began bidding, at twelve noon, on each lot brought in. It took a long time for Papa’s turn to come. Papa bought sandwiches and pop to pass away the time.

  “Do you have to wait like this every day?” asked Judy.

  “Shore do,” said Papa. “Suits me fine. I’ll tell you a secret, honey. If it wasn’t for this chance to rest in the middle of the day, I could never keep up with Mr. Gibson’s crops.”

  “But it’s outdoor work like you wanted …” began Judy.

  “Shore,” said Papa. “It’s fine, and if I don’t get tuckered out, we’ll git cash money ahead and a little nest-egg to put in Mama’s stockin’, just ’cause my little gal got her Papa a job.”

  Judy beamed with happiness. “I’d like to go to school with Mary John, but I won’t start till after the cukes and tomatoes are all sold,” she said. “I’ll keep right on pickin’ no matter how hard I git.”

  “Now, sugar, you needn’t over-do it,” said Papa. “When I git ahead a little, I’ll see that you go to school every day.”

  The line of cars began to move and Papa started the truck engine. Soon they came to the ‘block.’ A colored man lifted off a crate of cucumbers and another of tomatoes, and they were dumped out as samples. The auctioneer began ‘crying the sale,’ and the buyers walking about on the platform began their mysterious silent bidding—nodding, winking or whispering their bids. Judy could understand none of it, and
in a moment, it was all over. A slip of paper was handed to Papa and he drove to the other side of the building to unload and get the cash money paid for the load. He showed Judy a platform at the back where the green tomatoes were being graded, wrapped and packed for immediate shipment.

  Then they were on the road again for home. “Looks like we’d be gittin’ rain,” said Papa.

  “Why, the sun was shinin’ all the way in to town,” said Judy.

  A large black cloud had gathered overhead and the whole sky was overcast. The wind began to blow. A drizzle started, which soon turned to heavy rain. The wind increased, accompanied by lightning and a dull rumble of thunder.

  “The rain’ll be good for the cukes,” shouted Papa. “Ollie’s been sayin’ they’d git played out, if we didn’t have rain soon.”

  Judy couldn’t say anything, the wind was blowing so hard. She had never seen anything like it. Loose sticks and palm branches were blown high into the air. Trees were bent over to the ground and many of them snapped off. The rain came down in torrents, turning suddenly colder. She wished for her coat—her old winter coat that she had hardly worn twice since she came to Florida.

  The rain poured in through the open truck window and drenched her. It plastered her hair down to her head. She moved over closer to Papa, but that didn’t help much. Then it began to hail. The road ahead became covered with bouncing white balls of ice. All other cars seemed to have disappeared. Theirs was the only car on the road.

  “Hens’ eggs!” shouted Papa, laughing.

  But Judy couldn’t hear what he said.

  They reached home at last, but had to stop before they got halfway down the Gibsons’ driveway. Papa shut off the engine and they looked. A large palm tree lay across their path. The tent under the live-oak was squashed flat by a huge branch from overhead.’

  Judy gasped. “Where’s Mama?” she cried.

  “In the house, of course,” said Papa. He took Judy by the hand and ran with her to the Gibsons’ verandah. The door opened to let them in and was closed swiftly behind them, to keep the wind out. Mama and the children were all safe inside. Mrs. Gibson brought dry clothes for Papa and Judy to change to.

  The hail storm ended everything.

  “Eight hailstones hit every tomato,” said Ollie Peters, laughing, after the storm was over. But it was no laughing matter. The tomato plants were completely broken down and the cucumbers destroyed. Mr. Gibson’s loss was over a thousand dollars.

  “The first rain after a dry spell,” said Ollie, “we’re shore to git hail. Hit’s because the sand is so dry. Funny storm too—a little streak only half a mile wide, but it smacked us right in the face.”

  The Gibsons’ loss was so great, the Drummonds couldn’t say a word about their own.

  It took several days to dry the mattress out. The kerosene stove and the sewing-machine weren’t hurt except for rust. The tent was torn in two, but Mrs. Gibson and Mama sewed it up again. All the clothes got a soaking, but the sun came out and dried them.

  It was hard to say goodbye to the Gibsons or to know how to thank them. You couldn’t thank people for treating you like human beings. They would always be in debt to the Gibsons, the kind of debt they could never repay—the debt of kindness.

  Everybody was sorry the work had ended so soon. There was nothing to do but pack up and get started. Mary John brought over a big box of sandwiches and a sack of oranges for the trip. She brought half a dozen plants in small tin cans, to take the place of those destroyed in the hailstorm. She put a slip of oleander in Judy’s blue bottle and tied it by a string just inside the car window.

  With her arm around Mary John’s waist, Judy had one last visit to the kitchen that smelled of all the good things that had been cooked in it. She came out and took one last look at the flowers on the verandah and in the yard, and one last look at the Gibsons’ house. Then she threw her arms around Mary John and hugged her tight.

  Honk! Honk! Joe Bob was honking the horn.

  Judy ran to the car. Papa started the engine and the Drummonds were on the go again.

  CHAPTER IX

  Georgia

  “OH PAPA, CAN’T WE tote it in the trailer?” begged Joe Bob. “We’d git plenty milk if we had a goat and a cow,” said Judy.

  “One animal’s enough,” said Papa. “Besides, that heifer calf don’t belong to us. The owner’ll come and git it himself. Right here on the main road—everybody’s seen it.”

  The Drummonds were looking at a new baby calf that was sleeping in the corner of the rail fence. The jalopy engine was hot and Papa was letting it cool off.

  “Reckon I’ll have to push her back to that gas station,” said Papa, “and see if I can git that fan-belt fixed.”

  Papa unhitched the trailer and began to push the car along the side of the road. Mama steered and Judy and Joe Bob helped push. At last they got there. Two men were sitting on chairs tipped back against the building. Several pigs were wallowing in the dust and two cows were standing in the shade under the roof.

  “Whew!” exclaimed Papa, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “Nice shady place you-all got here.”

  “Yep!” said one of the men, spitting into the dust.

  “Been havin’ dry weather, I see,” said Papa.

  “Shore have,” said the man.

  “Can I roll my jalopy in under the shade?” asked Papa.

  “Pervided you don’t run over the livestock,” laughed the man.

  “Been havin’ trouble with my fan belt,” said Papa.

  Mama took the children inside and bought them some peanuts. There was no place to sit down inside, so she came out again. The children found sticks and started chasing the pigs.

  “Ju-dy! Ju-dy!” called Mama suddenly, but her voice sounded strange and weak.

  “Ju-dy!” called Papa sharply. “Take care o’ Mama. My hands are covered with grease.”

  Judy thrust the peanut bag in Joe Bob’s hands and ran to her mother’s side. Mama looked pale. “Git me a chair, gal, before … I faint .…”

  Judy looked swiftly. There were no chairs except those on which the two men were sitting.

  “Hey, mister,” cried Judy, “can’t you see my mother’s sick? Git off that chair and let her sit down!”

  Startled, the man got up and backed sheepishly away. The second man got up too. Mama slipped down on the nearest chair. “Water … a drink …” she murmured. Judy ran to a pump at one side of the building and filled a tin cup she found there. Mama sipped it and opened her eyes again. Judy pulled the other chair over and sat close to Mama.

  “Feelin’ better, Calla?” called Papa.

  “It’s jest the heat,” said Mama. “Soon’s we git goin’, I’ll be all right.”

  Papa worked a long time on the car. Judy picked up a newspaper that one of the men had been reading and fanned Mama’s hot face. After a while, she opened it and glanced idly through it.

  “Oh Papa, here’s an ad in big letters,” said Judy. “‘BEAN PICKERS WANTED, Charleston, S. C., April 15-May 15. Good wages.’”

  Papa cocked his head and listened. Judy put the paper down.

  Cars and trucks kept going past and often one would stop for gas. The tall man, who wore a black felt hat, set the gas-pumps going and put air in tires when it was asked for. Suddenly a large truck rolled by and the echo of a song sung by a number of people floated through the air.

  “What was that?” inquired Papa.

  “People singin’ in that truck,” said the short man.

  “Sounded like colored folks in the fields back home,” said Mama. “Enough to make a body homesick.”

  “They’re goin’ up north to work in the crops,” said the black-hatted man. “They’re bean-pickers—been pickin’ beans in Florida all winter. They go clear up to Jersey and New York State.”

  Another truck came by more slowly, to the sound of talking and laughing. The sides were high and the top was covered with a large canvas.

  “They got women and children in
there—whole families, squeezed in like sardines in a box,” said the tall man. “Top’s covered over to keep the rain off.”

  “In dry weather like this?” laughed Papa. “Looky there, it’s stopping.”

  The second truck had stopped a short distance away.

  “They most generally never stop,” said the short man, scratching his head. “They go whizzin’ right through—keep goin’ day and night, never stop to eat or drink or nothin’. Wonder what’s happened.”

  The Negroes were piling out of the truck, glad of a chance to stretch and walk about. The short man went down the road to see if the truck needed repair. Some of the people came to the gas station, to get drinks of water at the pump.

  Judy saw a little girl who made her think of Pinky Jenkins. She had bright eyes and her hair was braided in many tiny braids.

  “What’s your name?” asked Judy.

  “Rose Ann Davis,” said the girl. “I’s tired sittin’ on that narrow plank. No place to lay your head or go to sleep. My little brother, Ed Willie, he sleeps on the floor under the plank.”

  “Where you goin’?” asked Judy.

  “Dunno,” said Rose Ann. “Up north to work in the crops.”

  “You’re’ too little to work, ain’t you?” said Judy.

  “I’s seven,” said Rose Ann, “but I can pick five hampers o’ beans in a day. My Mammy likes to have me help her. I’s a good bean-picker.”

  The crew leader, in charge of the load, blew a whistle and the people hurried back to the truck. The garage man returned.

  “That’s worse than the way they used to haul cattle on the railroad trains,” he said. “They’re goin’ through to New York State. I pity ’em time they git there.”

  Papa looked at Mama. “Feelin’ better now, honey?” Mama nodded. “Ain’t we the lucky ones to have a car of our own?”

  They all climbed in the jalopy, rode to the trailer and after hooking it up, they started. On and on they went, passing pine woods, fields and settlements, and crossing frequent bridges.