nicknamed Dr. Hamp because he was a doctor, but a doctor of books not medicine. They lived on a hill above Deal’s General Store, in a house that Dr. Hamp had built himself, filled with bookshelves floor to ceiling and old books from the library in Philadelphia, where Dr. Hamp and Mrs. Dennis were from. Everyone on the mountain was allowed to come in and borrow what we wanted and take the books home or read them right there in the fat overstuffed chairs that could fit three of us if we sat close and snug.
On the first day of school, Johnny Clay found a seat in the back with Daryl and Lester Gordon and Hink Lowe and the other boys who were older and liked to stretch their legs out into the aisle and stare out the windows, and I sat up front behind Rachel Gordon and Alice Nix and the others in the sixth-grade class. Everyone buzzed and chattered and Mrs. Dennis let us talk on and asked us how our summers were.
Then she walked up and down the aisle and passed out lined pieces of paper, laying one on every desk. “I want you to write down your life dreams,” she said. Some of the kids just sat there staring at the paper, like Davey Messengill, who never thought much beyond lunch or recess; and Janette Lowe, who couldn’t read or write even though she was a year older than me; and her brother Hink, who couldn’t seem to pass the seventh grade and who everyone knew would be a down-and-out just like his daddy. The Lowes had been mountain trash for generations and, according to Sweet Fern, they weren’t about to change when it suited them so well.
At the back of the room, Johnny Clay was bent over his paper, writing. When he was old enough, I knew he planned to hitch a ride on the rails and travel around the country, picking fruit and mining gold. He was going to be a cowboy out west, and when he got to California, he was planning to look up Tom Mix and William S. Hart and get a job riding horses in films. Johnny Clay said Mr. Hart would have to hire him because we had the same last name and were probably family. When I asked to go with him, he said I was too young but that maybe he’d send for me one day.
Rachel Gordon and Alice Nix sat side by side, as always, matching blue ribbons in their hair. I guessed they would write something about being dutiful wives and mothers. And I guessed that aside from my brother, I would be the only one who didn’t write “to be married and have children,” or “to help my daddy with the farm,” or “to buy that new bait line I saw down at Deal’s.” Personally, I thought these were stupid dreams, but Daddy Hoyt was always saying that what was ugly to one was beautiful to another, and it was a good thing or else we’d all want to live in the same place and do the same kind of work.
I picked up my pencil and wrote, “I would like to one day be a singer at the Grand Ole Opry.” Afterward, I crossed it out and wrote, “I plan to one day be a singer at the Grand Ole Opry.”
I sat and reread the line over and over again. It was one thing to dream it; it was another thing to write it down where someone else could read it. By now everyone knew I had been to the Alluvial Jail and that I was a bad and wicked person, that I had backslid so far that it didn’t matter if I was saved or not and that I was surely going straight to hell, just like my daddy had warned me. I wondered what Mrs. Dennis would think of what I’d written and if she would laugh at it. I thought of Mama and how she never laughed, no matter what I said. I thought of writing something else instead, but I didn’t know what it would be. I folded up the paper and shoved it into the pocket of my dress.
Everyone else passed their papers forward and then Mrs. Dennis told us what a good class we were and how much she was looking forward to the months ahead.
One week later, as school let out for the day, everyone ran for the door and freedom. I collected my pencil and my lunch bucket and hurried to catch up with Johnny
On the first day of school, Johnny Clay found a seat in the back with Daryl and Lester Gordon and Hink Lowe and the other boys who were older and liked to stretch their legs out into the aisle and stare out the windows, and I sat up front behind Rachel Gordon and Alice Nix and the others in the sixth-grade class. Everyone buzzed and chattered and Mrs. Dennis let us talk on and asked us how our summers were.
Then she walked up and down the aisle and passed out lined pieces of paper, laying one on every desk. “I want you to write down your life dreams,” she said. Some of the kids just sat there staring at the paper, like Davey Messengill, who never thought much beyond lunch or recess; and Janette Lowe, who couldn’t read or write even though she was a year older than me; and her brother Hink, who couldn’t seem to pass the seventh grade and who everyone knew would be a down-and-out just like his daddy. The Lowes had been mountain trash for generations and, according to Sweet Fern, they weren’t about to change when it suited them so well.
At the back of the room, Johnny Clay was bent over his paper, writing. When he was old enough, I knew he planned to hitch a ride on the rails and travel around the country, picking fruit and mining gold. He was going to be a cowboy out west, and when he got to California, he was planning to look up Tom Mix and William S. Hart and get a job riding horses in films. Johnny Clay said Mr. Hart would have to hire him because we had the same last name and were probably family. When I asked to go with him, he said I was too young but that maybe he’d send for me one day.
Rachel Gordon and Alice Nix sat side by side, as always, matching blue ribbons in their hair. I guessed they would write something about being dutiful wives and mothers. And I guessed that aside from my brother, I would be the only one who didn’t write “to be married and have children,” or “to help my daddy with the farm,” or “to buy that new bait line I saw down at Deal’s.” Personally, I thought these were stupid dreams, but Daddy Hoyt was always saying that what was ugly to one was beautiful to another, and it was a good thing or else we’d all want to live in the same place and do the same kind of work.
I picked up my pencil and wrote, “I would like to one day be a singer at the Grand Ole Opry.” Afterward, I crossed it out and wrote, “I plan to one day be a singer at the Grand Ole Opry.”
I sat and reread the line over and over again. It was one thing to dream it; it was another thing to write it down where someone else could read it. By now everyone knew I had been to the Alluvial Jail and that I was a bad and wicked person, that I had backslid so far that it didn’t matter if I was saved or not and that I was surely going straight to hell, just like my daddy had warned me. I wondered what Mrs. Dennis would think of what I’d written and if she would laugh at it. I thought of Mama and how she never laughed, no matter what I said. I thought of writing something else instead, but I didn’t know what it would be. I folded up the paper and shoved it into the pocket of my dress.
Everyone else passed their papers forward and then Mrs. Dennis told us what a good class we were and how much she was looking forward to the months ahead.
One week later, as school let out for the day, everyone ran for the door and freedom. I collected my pencil and my lunch bucket and hurried to catch up with Johnny
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