Anybody Shining (18 page)

Dear Cousin Caroline,

I don't believe I could dance another step in my life, not even if you paid me good money. Last night we danced till our toes was about to fall off. Us children got silly after a while, not so much dancing as running around the barn, just a-singing and a-yelling, chasing one another in a game of Crack the Whip. Usually the grown-ups will call for us to settle down when we get that way, but there was too much good cheer for bossing children around last night. We was allowed to be as high-spirited as we wished to.

Folks begin to gather at the barn around seven o'clock so they'd be ready for when the National Barn Dance radio show with your host George D. Hay started up at eight. It seemed like everybody in the world was there last night, even old Uncle Cecil Buchannan, who had come with some of his mostly grown grandbabies.

At eight o'clock, Daddy turned on the radio, and George D. Hay's voice come out saying, “Welcome, welcome, welcome! We're here in the old hayloft in Chicago, Illinois, for another Saturday night at the National Barn Dance!” Everybody whooped and hollered at that, especially us children. Then the sound of fiddles started up, and Uncle Cecil Buchannan got us dancing in a Virginia reel, calling out the steps. “Head lady and foot gentleman forward and back!” he shouted, and then, “Forward again with both hands round!”

Oh, we clapped and sung and stomped. But if I had my ears bent toward Uncle Cecil, I had my eyes glued to the door. Would Miss Keller and Miss Pittman come like Mama had asked them to? I wondered what Daddy would do if they didn't. He'd been feeling more kindly toward them after playing fiddle at the school for the Baltimore folks last Friday, and it would be a shame to see his goodwill go to waste.

Mama says a watched pot never boils, and I guess she must be right, for it was when I finally unstuck my eyes from the door and went to get a sip of lemonade that Miss Keller and Miss Pittman made their entrance. The reaction to them being there was mixed, as most everyone had heard from Thelma Maycomb and her mama about Miss Pittman's letter. Many leaned toward forgiveness, as the letter had been written some time ago and they felt the songcatchers' school had brought a gracious plenty to us. So there were greetings and hellos as they come in and looked for where to stand and who to speak with, but some whispers and icy looks, too.

Daddy himself went over to say hello, which I thought was neighborly of him. He had heard about Miss Pittman's letter, but he was inclined to not judge too harshly. “I reckon she might have felt taken aback when she come to our mountains, especially if it were to a rough bunch such as the Nidiffers and the Fowlkeses she first went to visit,” Daddy had said when James shared Will Maycomb's report. “And she might be right that we don't meet up to the world's standards. But as long as we meet up to our standards, then what's that to worry us?”

I was wondering if Miss Keller and Miss Pittman would join in the dancing. There was two types of dancing going on, the square dance in the middle of the room and the clog dancing on the edges. Some folks wore taps on their shoes that made it sound like tiny pistols was going off every time their toes hit the floor. I think both kinds of dancing are fine, and it depends on my mood as to which one I favor. Sometimes stomping your feet and jumping
around is mighty satisfying, but other times I like to swing around with a partner, even if it's just Harlan Boyd.

The radio show dancing went on for an hour, but neither Miss Keller nor Miss Pittman had tapped a single toe. With each step I took, I stomped a little harder, wishing I had the nerve to tell them a thing or two about being snooty and stuck-up and too big for their own britches. They might as well have not come at all if they wasn't going to join the party!

Oh, I was a-fuming and a-fussing in my own mind, and a few times I stomped on Harlan's toes and he yelped like a dog. “Ease on back, Arie Mae!” he'd cry. “We ain't at war!”

When the National Barn Dance show was over, Daddy turned off the radio. That meant it was time for him and Mr. Peacock and anybody else who brung a fiddle or a guitar or a banjo to get tuned up. The musicians huddled in a corner, leaning their heads together, plucking their strings, until everybody was on the same note. Chatter and laughter rose around
them as folks got ready for the second half of the dance. A few of the older boys slipped out, most likely to make mischief of one sort or another, and some of the young'uns piled up on bales of hay and fell fast asleep.

“We're gonna start out with ‘Cluck Old Hen,' ” Daddy informed the crowd once the band was tuned up. “Now, this is one of our favorites, and we hope it's one of yourn, too.”

You can't help but to dance to “Cluck Old Hen,” and all us children run to the center of the barn, even the younger ones who didn't know much about dancing and just liked to jump up and down. The grown-ups made a circle around us, clapping and a-stomping. “Cluck old hen! A-doodily-do,” they sang. “Cluck old hen, cock-a-doodily doo!”

Us children linked hands and made a skipping circle, singing, “Cluck old hen, cluck and sing, ain't laid an egg since late last spring!”

We was going faster and faster, and then someone broke into the circle next to me. Miss Pittman! She sung the words right along with
us, and when the song ended, she clapped her hands like she weren't ever going to stop.

“Oh, Arie Mae,” she said, her breath coming out hard. “Your daddy has converted me to the fiddle!”

And she danced every song after that, and guess what? That hair that's always pulled back so tight on her head? It started coming loose, and Lord, it was pretty the way Miss Pittman looked like a young girl, curls all around her face.

I think getting converted to the fiddle is just what Miss Pittman needed.

This morning we set off to church, all of us feeling tired and weary from dancing. But Mama is not a person who says, “Let's lay about this Sunday morning and forget about worshipping the Lord!” So off we went, and the whole way I was thinking about Miss Pittman. I reckon she's sorry for what she wrote, don't you? I reckon she might be feeling a little ignorant herself now that she
knows us as good as she does. It takes time to get to know people. You got to listen to their stories, and you got to tell your stories back. It all goes back and forth, back and forth, until one day you turn into friends.

Until that time, I expect it's best to keep your opinions to yourself.

I am still missing Tom something fierce and have written him two letters since sending him his book, telling him everything that has happened since he went off the mountain back to home. Now, Tom is somebody who likes to hear your stories and that's the truth. I am hoping that he's also the sort of person who writes back and tells a few stories of his own, unlike some other people I could name.

Signed,

Your Cousin,

Arie Mae Sparks

Dear Cousin Caroline,

I weren't expecting anything when I went to the post office this morning, but I hoped I might find a letter from Tom waiting for me. It has been ten days since I sent him his book. But, I reminded myself as I walked down the path, he is sick and might not be able to write a letter. It might be weeks and weeks until I hear a word.

Still, I was hoping. When Miss Ellie seen me walk in, she got such a big grin on her face, I thought it must be so! There must be a letter. Oh, my heart just jumped up and down, I was so happy.

“Arie Mae Sparks, looks like Santy Claus done come for you today!” she called out, and then she run around from the back of the counter, her arms filled with all manner of things!

“All that's for me?” I cried, counting two boxes and two envelopes. “How could that be?”

“Well, it ain't all for you,” Miss Ellie said. “One of them letters is for your mama. It's from Raleigh. Now, don't she got kin in Raleigh?”

“My mama's sister lives in Raleigh,” I said, and the little hairs on my arm stood straight up.

Miss Ellie dumped all that mail into my arms. “Well? Ain't ya gonna open it?”

I was afeared that if I even so much as looked at what I held, I'd melt into a puddle on the floor. “I reckon I'll take it home and open it there. Kind of hold on to the surprise for a little bit longer.”

“Oh, you ain't no fun, Arie Mae!” Miss Ellie said with a pout. “Well, I want you to come back tomorrow and tell me what you got, you hear?”

I run all the way home, still not letting myself look at who them packages and letters was from. “Mama!” I cried as soon as I reached our yard. “Mama! You got a letter!”

Well, Mama come running out of the house, Baby John in her arms, Lucille and Harlan on her heels. “A letter? Who on earth would be sending me a letter?”

“It's from Raleigh, Mama.”

Mama put her hand over her heart. “From Raleigh.”

“I got a letter too, but I ain't let myself look to see who it's from yet. And two packages.”

“Who's them packages from, Arie Mae?” Harlan asked, peering over my shoulder. “Anything good in 'em?”

That's when I looked and seen that one package was from T. Wells, 1306 St. Paul Street, Baltimore, Maryland! The other didn't have no return address. “One's from Tom,” I reported. “And the other one's a mystery. And I got a letter, too.”

“Let Mama read her letter first,” Lucille said, taking Baby John out of Mama's arms. “Mama, you sit down on the step right here and read. You can read it out loud.”

“I'm too nervous to read it out loud,” Mama said, sitting down on the top step. Careful as could be, she tore open the envelope. She pulled out two sheets of paper, and as soon as she seen the handwriting, she gasped. “It's from Anna!” she cried, and then she bust out sobbing.

“Read the letter, Mama!” Harlan told her. “You can cry all you want later.”

We all sat there on the steps, quiet as could be. I was dying to open my parcels and my own letter, but I thought Mama should go first.

“All right then, I'll read,” Mama said, wiping her nose with her apron. “It's from my sister Anna in Raleigh,” she began, and then she cried a little bit more before reading on. “She says she misses me so much and she feels terrible about not writing in ever so long.” Mama paused, cried, read some more and reported, “She says
she has read every single one of Arie Mae's letters, and they have made her homesick something awful . . . And that she hadn't shown any of them to Caroline until the day she wrote this letter, because up until then . . . until then Caroline didn't know she had any cousins in the mountains.”