With the Might of Angels
Page 12
When I glanced at Daddy, he looked like he’d just won a prize at the fair. He was so pleased. Mama, too. And Goober — he’d found a church fan and was waving it and singing. He had the tune right, but had changed the words to “No more cheese for me!”
I sang, too, but I was not ready to say good-bye to buttered toast and mac-and-cheese.
Monday, November 29, 1954
Diary Book,
First day back to school after turkey and pie. I dragged my feet to the breakfast table.
Dry toast didn’t help. Daddy drank his coffee black. Goober filled his oatmeal bowl with cider.
When Daddy and I walked to school, Waddle was waiting in her usual spot. Dawn’s blue curtain made it hard to see her fully. But the streetlamp’s light showed off the double rings that formed Waddle’s raccoon mask.
Waddle’s fur’s gotten thicker, her tail bushier. She looks thick, too. Big around the middle, storing fat to keep warm for the cold months ahead. Winter’s not far off. “Nice coat,” I said to my raccoon friend.
Even by afternoon, I had to wear mittens for clapping the erasers. I smacked them together with a fury to get it over with quickly. White pooof rose all around me, from the chalk dust, and from the steam that spewed warm into the icy air as I coughed.
Saturday, December 4, 1954
Diary Book,
It snowed lightly during the night. Powdered sugar on our grass. Goober had his coat and mittens on already when he brought me my pogo stick. “Teach me, Dawnie.” He shoved the stick at me. “Show me. There’s no more dirt. The stick won’t get stuck. It’s all white now.”
“It’ll be slippery,” I said.
But Goober was right. The ground was hard enough to make the pogo go. With winter coming, I knew this would be one of the last times I’d be jumping on my pogo stick, so I gave Goober another lesson, with the snowy ground beneath us.
First I showed Goober how to jump on, then off the stick, two feet at a time.
“Watch me. On — off.” I demonstrated for Goober, who hardly let me finish, he was so eager.
Goober copied me. “On — off!” He did good on the first try.
We worked our way up to five full bounces. Goober was able to jump a little bit forward. “Am I flying, Dawnie?”
“You’re flying good, Goob.”
“On — two, three, four — off!” Goober was all smiles, even though the spring on my rickety pogo stick was squeaking the whole time.
A few tries at pogo-flying were enough for Goober. When his nose started to run, he was ready to go inside.
I’ve set my pogo stick in my bedroom closet, where it’ll sleep till spring.
Sunday, December 5, 1954
Diary Book,
I woke up this morning to the promise of winter.
We don’t get lots of snow in Virginia, but when snow covers all the houses and trees, and spreads a quilt thick enough for making snow angels, I’m the first one to sing about jingle bells.
Yolanda came over after church today, bringing gingerbread baked by her ma. We made up a song about the snow, and sang it together:
Fluffy silver stuff, stuff, stuff
Makes a ball of puff, puff, puff
Will it be e-nuff, nuff, nuff?
Yolanda and I giggled and giggled. She saw for real that I am not uppity.
Monday, December 6, 1954
Diary Book,
The milkman came today, early, before the sun, like always.
He left the six glass bottles of milk in our tin collection box on the porch.
Oh, did I want some milk with my oatmeal!
At cafeteria time, I was tempted to drink from the Sutter’s milk carton that comes on our lunch trays. Miss Billie delivered me from temptation by not putting the milk on my tray. She also left off the pudding, and gave me a burger without cheese. If I didn’t think the kids at Prettyman would ridicule me, I’d have brought my lunch in the Peach Melba pail with the bow on top.
Later
Ever since the boycott started, our phone has been ringing more than before. When Mama answers, no one speaks. Tonight eight calls came, with silence on the other end of the line.
Tuesday, December 7, 1954
Diary Book,
Here is my Christmas list.
It’s called Dawnie Wants.
1. Dawnie Wants a new pogo stick.
2. Dawnie Wants Daddy to get a new job.
3. Dawnie Wants a glass of milk and some mac-and-cheese.
4. Dawnie Wants to be Bell Ringer.
And here is the rest of the Dawnie Wants list, for my eyes only.
5. Dawnie Wants to kick Bobby Hatch in the teeth.
6. Dawnie Wants Mrs. Elmer to slip on a wet floor and break her collarbone.
7. Dawnie Wants Theresa Ludlow to wake up with warts.
Thursday, December 9, 1954
Diary Book,
Back came the milkman to take the bottles from Monday, and to deliver new milk. It was so cold outside that the milk probably didn’t spoil. Still, the man in the Sutter’s truck set out six bottles of fresh temptation. Is it ever hard to not drink that milk!
Friday, December 10, 1954
Diary Book,
The telephone has been ringing all evening. Only three of those calls have been from people we know. The rest were hang-ups. We only have one phone. It’s on the wall next to our refrigerator. With all the ringing, our phone seems to jangle the whole house.
I can tell by the way Mama’s snapping for us to keep out of her kitchen, and to fold the laundry faster, and to do our homework, and to get ready for church on Sunday, that she’s agitated.
Goober’s getting on Mama’s nerves. I just know it. He’s annoying me, too. Walking in fast circles, pretending to answer a telephone, repeating, “Hello … hello … hello …”
Finally, this evening, Mama took the phone off the hook so that we could eat supper in peace. But Goober wouldn’t let up.
“Hello … hello … hello …”
Except for saying grace, we ate with hardly any words between us.
Goober kept on.
“Hello … hello … hello …”
Finally, I couldn’t take anymore. I yelled at Goober almost near to cursing. “Goober, shut the heck up!”
Saturday, December 11, 1954
Diary Book,
Mama and I went to the post office in town today to mail Christmas packages to my aunt Karen, Mama’s sister in Tennessee. We ran into Miss Nora, Roger’s loud mother. Mama was cordial.
“Happy holidays, Nora,” she said.
Miss Nora was not feeling the joy of the season. “It’s hard to be happy when you can’t use cream to make eggnog,” she huffed.
“Try canned milk,” Mama suggested.
“Try sending Dawnie back to Bethune,” Miss Nora huffed.
Mama was working hard to stay nice. “Nora, it’s too late for that now. Besides, nobody’s making you boycott Sutter’s.”
Miss Nora held tight to her parcels. “My boy Roger has twisted my arm. I’m just glad we’ve kept him at Bethune. You’re courtin’ trouble, Loretta,” Miss Nora said. “I would not want to be standing in your shoes now.”
“Believe what you believe,” said Mama. “I believe my shoes are walking in the right direction.”
I couldn’t help but turn my eyes to what Miss Nora was wearing on her feet. She had her nerve! Those were the ugliest shoes ever. They looked like warty toads, with shoelaces.
I would not want to be walking in them.
Sunday, December 12, 1954
Diary Book,
Who put Miss Nora on hospitality duty at our church’s front door?
Seems she invited one of her friends to join her in putting me down.
Miss Laura, a lady from our church sewing circle, stood next to Miss Nora as we filed into the entry at Shepherd’s Way.
This must be the season of ugly feet.
Miss Laura’s shoes were as black as my Vaselines, but no kind of shi
ny. She must have picked them up from the giveaway pile on the Wicked Witch’s front curb.
Mama nodded to both women. “Ladies, good morning.”
Miss Laura’s greeting was as sharp as her shoes. “Well — hello to the too-good-for-the-rest-of-us Johnsons.”
Not that again.
Reverend Collier started services by asking everyone who was participating in the Sutter’s boycott to raise their hands.
Some hands went up right away. Many stayed down. But after a moment, all hands were raised. All of them! Roger had both hands raised.
That made me want to raise both my hands.
So I did.
Monday, December 13, 1954
Diary Book,
Today we were sent home with two flyers from school. One announcing something called the “Bell Bake Sale,” the other reminding students about final tests for the semester. The Bell Bake Sale is to raise money for a new bell that will be stationed outside the school building on the front lawn. The flyer showed a drawing of the bell. That is a big bell. It’s housed in a brick well, and swings from an iron hinge. The handle for ringing the bell is as big as the grip on a butter churn. Just by looking, I can tell that bell rings loud enough to slice the clouds.
I reminded Mama about my miserable eraser job and about the Bell Ringer job I really want. As soon as she read the flyers, she put on her apron. “I’ll start baking, you start studying,” she said.
Soon our kitchen table was covered with sugar, bowls, textbooks, tablets, flash cards, and flour.
I asked, “How we gonna make sugar cookies with no butter or milk?”
“Canned milk and Crisco oil,” Mama said.
Canned Crisco Sugar Cookies. That sounded yuckier than yucky. If one person bought one of my cookies, I’d be lucky.
“But, Mama —”
“But nothing, Dawnie. Let’s get started.”
Mama wasted no time. She mixed the ingredients, kneaded cookie dough. I memorized state capitals.
Then we switched. I got busy with the rhythm of our rolling pin. Mama worked with me on algorithms.
We baked enough cookies to feed all of Hadley. We let the Math facts flow. We sprinkled and studied. And tasted and tested. The Canned Crisco Sugar Cookies were sweet and good.
As I write this, I’m exhausted, but ready for the Bell Bake Sale and any bonus test questions thrown my way on semester finals. And — I’m ready for that bell. That big, beautiful bell.
Tuesday, December 14, 1954
Diary Book,
One of the great things about a bake sale is that nobody knows who’s baked what. My Canned Crisco Sugar Cookies stood among all the baked goods for the Bell Bake Sale. I didn’t tell a soul that those glittery cookies came from Mama’s kitchen. If I haven’t learned anything else at Prettyman, I’ve learned that the kids at that school will do whatever they can to undercut me.
I watched with silent satisfaction as those cookies sold. Since Mama and I had made so many — and since they were the tastiest cookies ever — they earned the most money for our school. It made giving up milk and butter worth it.
My end-of-the-term tests went well, too. I whipped through state capitals from Boise to Nashville. Fractions — easy. Word problems — no problem.
Mr. Lloyd, our principal, announced the successful sale of so many sugar cookies, and told the whole school the bell was on order and would arrive by spring.
I came home with an empty cookie tray and a mind filled with knowing my stuff.
Wednesday, December 15, 1954
Counting
A Poem by Dawnie
Counting days till Christmas.
Counting days till spring.
Counting days till Dawnie Rae gets a new bell to ring.
Thursday, December 16, 1954
Diary Book,
Today’s erasers spewed enough chalk dust to coat my tongue. Thank goodness Mama’d kept some of our cookies at home for all of us to enjoy.
I licked the red-and-green sugar crystals off two cookies. It was their sweetness that let me taste how unfair the bake sale was. My cookies had earned the most money to help buy the school’s new bell, but I can’t ring the bell.
P.S. I haven’t seen Waddle for some time now. Daddy told me that raccoons don’t truly hibernate in winter, but they do sleep more, and only come out a little bit in cold weather. I wish I were a raccoon.
Friday, December 17, 1954
Oh, Diary Book!
I’m writing so fast. And shaking. And my head hurts. I can hardly believe today.
Goober came to Prettyman to meet me after school. He’d come on his own. Another one of his surprises! I was leaving out the back way, which cuts to the street quicker. I spotted Goober far off at the place where Prettyman’s playing field ends and the railroad tracks begin.
I could hardly believe what I was seeing. Goober was waving with both arms. He had my pogo stick in one of his hands, waving that, too. He jumped onto the pogo’s pedals, pumping, then falling off, then trying again. From where he was, I could hear the squeak of the pogo stick’s rickety spring.
He called out to me, “Look, Dawnie! Look at me! I can pogo, even when there’s a whole mess of snow!”
I raced to him. “Goober, what are you doing here? You’re not supposed to come out past our fence without first asking Mama or Daddy or me, not ever! And you’re not wearing a hat or mittens.”
I was super-angry at Goober, but I worked hard not to show it. He cries when I yell at him. The last thing I needed was for Goober to cry.
I yanked him off school property as fast as I could.
I have to wonder — are we wearing some kind of magnet that pulls the Hatch brothers to us? We were two blocks past Weedle Lane, and there they were! Again. The three of them — Bobby, Cecil, and Jeb!
I can’t even write all what they said. I don’t want to remember it, so I won’t put it on paper. But I will tell you this — only because if I don’t, I will break open from holding on to today as an ugly memory.
The Hatch brothers threw Goober down in the snow. Bobby punched Goober twice. Once in the stomach, then once in the nose, until it started bleeding. Then all three boys ran off.
The wet on my face from crying was stinging my skin, and making a frosty film from the wintry air. I sniffed once, hard. I didn’t want Goober to see me really crying.
I helped Goober up. He was yelping from the pain, and rubbing at his nose. I pressed my scarf to the place where his bloody nose still dripped.
Mama was right about Goober. He sees the world in his own way. I tried to encourage Goober to put his head back to stop the bleeding. But he was too fascinated with the snow.
“Look, Dawnie, look. Do you see it?”
“See what, Goob?” I said softly.
“It’s pretty, Dawnie. It’s red, like a flower. Like a rose with white all around it. It’s so bright in all the white-white.”
“Yes, Goob, I see it.” I couldn’t keep from crying, no matter how hard I tried.
Later
Mama gently rubbed salve on the inside of Goober’s nose, and on the outside place where Bobby Hatch had punched him.
Goober let out a tiny moan. He flinched, then was silent.
Daddy held me while we watched Mama dab witch hazel.
That night I did some punching of my own. It started with my baseball mitt.
I rammed my mitt onto my left hand, then punched into its fold, hard, with my right.
Bam! Bam! BAM!
Something slammed at me right then, ’cause the punching grew to an all-out attack with my fist. I couldn’t stop.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
My punching hand got redder and redder and started to hurt me bad. But the BAM! BAM! BAM! kept coming.
Both my hands were shaking with a rage. Soon all of me shook. I roped both my arms tight around myself. A throb pulsed into both my fists, till I fell asleep on top of my bedcovers.
Saturday, December 18, 1954
Diary
Book,
Goober’s gone somewhere I can’t reach. He’s locked himself off in a place that’s deep inside him, and has slipped down a silent hole. He won’t talk. This morning I unfolded our checkerboard, set it up with peanuts as playing pieces.
“Goob, wanna play?”
Goober rocked in his seat at the kitchen table, eyes looking past me to where only he could see.
“Leave him be,” Mama said.
Sunday, December 19, 1954
Diary Book,
After what happened to Goober, Mama and Daddy have put my pogo far back in our cellar’s canning closet. They said it’s too dangerous to leave it in my bedroom closet, where Goober can find it.
“You’re not to play with that stick, or even go near it,” Daddy said sternly. “Do you hear me, Dawnie?”
I understood why Daddy was being so strict, but winter passes quicker when I can at least see my pogo stick.
Mama said, “You can take it back out in May for your birthday. You are not to look for it before then.” She was firm. “That stick stays where it is until the eighteenth of May.” “Yes, Mama,” I said.
May is forever from now. The eighteenth of May is more than forever away.
The only thing I can do is wait.
Monday, December 20, 1954
Diary Book,
I tried to make Goober laugh tonight before bed, but it was no use. I put my curlers on each of my bare toes, and danced the Slop. He didn’t even crack a smile. He watched me dance, though, with a quick flick of his eye following my sloppy toes.