Strawberry Girl

STRAWBERRY GIRL

LIOS LENSKI

WINNER OF THE NEWBERY MEDAL

FOREWORD

Few people realize how new Florida is, or that, aside from the early Indian and Spanish settlements, Florida has grown up in the course of a single man's lifetime. In the early 1900's, the date of my story, Florida was still frontier country, with vast stretches of unexplored wilderness, woodland and swamp, and her towns were frontier towns thirty and forty years later than the same frontier period in the Middle West.

After the Seminole War, 1835-1842, Angle-Saxons from the Carolinas, Georgia and West Florida drifted south and took up land in the lake region of Florida. Then began a bitter struggle with the environment. Their descendants, in the second and third generation, were, in 1900 and the following decade, just prior to the coming of the auto- mobile, living in a frontier community, with all its crudities, brutalities and cruelties. The "Crackers" lived a primitive life, an endless battle went on---a conflict with nature, with wild life, and with their fellow men. Their life was replete with drama, and being people of character and dignity, they lived it, and still live it, with vigor.

Like their antecedents in the Carolina mountains, the Florida Crackers have preserved a flavorsome speech, rich in fine old English idiom--word, phrase and rhythm. Many old customs, folk songs and superstitions have been handed down along with Anglo-Saxon purity of type, shown in their un- usual beauty of physical feature, and along with their staunch integrity of character.

Here then, in the Florida backwoods, a world exists, which few people, town residents or northern tourists, see, realize or even suspect. Many who see it fail sadly to understand it. Here is a real and authentic corner of the American scene, a segment of American life. In this series of regional books for American children, I am crying to present vivid, sympathetic pictures of the real life of different kinds of Americans, against authentic backgrounds of diverse localities. We need to know our country better; to know and understand people different from ourselves; so that we can say: "This then is the way these people lived. Because I understand it, I admire and love them." Is not this a rich heritage for our American children?

My material has been gathered personally from the Crackers themselves, and from other Floridians who know and understand them. I have visited in Cracker homes. I have made many sketches of people, animals, the natural surroundings, their homes--

plans, furnishings and details. I have come to know, understand and respect many of these people, and to number them among my friends. All the characters in my book are imaginary, but practically all incidents used were told to me by people who had experienced them. Many were too dramatic for my purpose and had to be softened; some had to be altered to fit into my plot. To merit the confidence these people spontaneously placed in me has been a rich experience indeed.

I have consulted the
WPA Florida Guide Book The History of Polk Country, Florida in the Making
by Stockbridge and
Perry; Palmetto Country
by Stetson Kennedy;
Four Centuries of Florida Ranching
and other volumes.

I wish to extend m)· thanks to many Florida friends. among them members of the Sorosis Club in Lakeland, for their generous help.

Lois Lenski

Thar goes our cow, Pa!" said the little girl.

"Shore 'nough, that do look like one of our cows, now don't it!"

The man tipped his slat-backed chair against the wall of the house. He spat across the porch floor onto the sandy yard. His voice was a lazy drawl. He closed his eyes again.

"She's got our markin' brand on her, Pa. A big S inside a circle," said Essie.

The man, Sam Slater, looked up. "Shore 'nough, so she has. "

"She's headin' right for them orange trees, Pa," said Essie.

"Them new leaves taste mighty good, I reckon," replied her father. "She's hungry, pore thing!"

A clatter of dishes sounded from within the house and a baby began to cry.

"You'd be pore, too, did you never git nothin' to eat," said the unseen Mrs. Slater.

There was no answer.

The sun shone with a brilliant glare. The white sand in the yard reflected the bright light and made the shade on the porch seem dark and cool.

"She might could go right in and eat 'em, Pa," said the little girl. Her voice was slow, soft and sweet. Her face, hands and bare legs were dirty. At her feet lay some sticks and broken twigs with which she had been playing.

Pa Slater did not open his eyes.

"Pa," Essie went on in a more lively tone, "Iffen that cow laps her tongue around the new leaves, she'll twist the bark loose and pull it off. Do we not stop her, she might could eat up all them orange trees."

The man spat, then resumed his dozing position. "I don't reckon so," he said slowly.

"Iffen she goes in that orange grove, them new folks will……"

The legs of the man's chair came down on the porch floor with a thump. He opened his eyes. "What new folks!"

"Them new folks what moved in the ole Roddenberry house," said Essie.

"New folks in that big ole house! Who role you!" His staring gray eyes fixed themselves on the pale blue ones of his daughter.

"Jeff done role me," said Essie. Although she was only seven, she was not afraid of her father. "They been here most a month already. They come in a big wagon. They moved in while you was away, Pa. We watched 'em unload."

"You did, eh!" growled Pa Slater. "You let 'em see you!"

"No." Essie smiled knowingly. "We hid in the palmettos, Pa. We got us a tunnel to hide in."

Her father grinned back at her. "Who be they!"

"Jeff says . ."

Mrs. Slater, within, interrupted. "Name's Boyer. The man's a Caroliny feller."

"Why ain't you done role me!" Cause you been gone away for so long."

"Got kids!" asked Slater.

"Regular strawberry family, jedgin' from the size of it--six or seven young uns, I reckon."

Mrs. Slater's reply was followed by the clatter of dishes and the crying of the baby. A smaller girl, about five, came out and climbed up on her father's lap.

"They got a gal .. ." began Essie. She looked at her father's frowning face and paused. In her mind she carried a bright picture of the new Boyer girl whom she hoped to have for a friend. She did not want it spoiled.

"Pa, our cow's done gone in their grove," she said again. "I'll go chase her out." She started down the steps.

"You come right back here and set down, young un," called Slater. "Let that cow go where she's a mind to." He tipped his chair back again lazily and closed his eyes.

"She might hurt them orange trees," ventured Essie, "and make trouble for us, Pa."

"'Then they'll know they got neighbors!" Pa spat, and a wide grin spread over his face.

"Trouble!" he added softly. "You mighty right, gal young un. That skinny little ole cow's jest bound to make trouble!"

It was a bright morning in early April. Birds were chirping and singing in the shady trees. A barelegged ten-year-old girl came out on the front porch. She watered the plants in the lard buckets there. She picked off a dead leaf or two. "Ma!" she called. "The pink geranium's a-bloomin'. Come see it. Hit shore is purty!"

Mrs. Boyer came out, drying her hands on her apron.

"Come down here, Ma, and look," begged the girl. The woman came down the steps and stood at her side. The girl's brown hair was braided in two braids, looped up. Her eyes were big in her pointed face. She looked much like her mother.

"Ain't them right purty, Ma' I lest got to come our first thing in the mornin' and look at 'em."

"Purty, yes!" agreed her mother. "But lookin' at posies don't git the work done." She hurried back up the steps.

"Did I get some blue paint and paint the lard buckets, Ma, they'd look a sight purtier, wouldn't they!"

"Blue lard buckets!" laughed the woman. "Never heard of sich as that!" She disappeared in the house.

The girl took up a long broom made of brush--branches from a tree--and swept the yard clean. Its hard smooth surface felt good to her feet. Then she knelt in the path and began to set a row of bricks at an angle, to make a neat border. "I'll plant my amaryllis bulbs in the flower bed right here," she said to herself.

She stood up, her arms akimbo.

"Land sakes, somebody's comin'!" she called. "Ma! Callers!"

"Law me!" cried Mrs. Boyer, peeping out. "The Slaters! and my breakfast dishes not done."

The girl stared at the little procession.

Mrs. Slater, tall, thin and angular, carrying her baby like a sack of potatoes on her hip, was followed by the two little girls, Essie and Zephy. Some distance behind, as if curious yet half-unwilling to be one of the party, came a lanky twelve- year-old boy wearing a broad-brimmed black felt hat. The woman and children plowed the loose, dry sand with their bare feet. With each step forward, they seemed to slip a trifle backward, so their progress was slow. Bushy scrub oaks and a thicket of palmetto grew on the far side of the rough path, while a forest of tall pines rose in the distance.

The old Roddenberry house was not old enough to deserve to be called old. It had been built in the 1880's, the earliest type of Florida pioneer home. Deserted by the Roddenberrys after the Big Freeze of 1895, it had stood empty for some years, but showed few signs of neglect. The sturdy pine and cypress wood which had gone into its making were equal to many more years of Florida sun, rain, wind and heat.

The house was a simple one, but by backwoods standards a mansion. It was a double-pen plank house, with an open hall or breezeway in the middle. On one side was a bedroom, on the other the kitchen. Behind were two small shed rooms used for sleeping quarters. Wide porches spread across front and back.

The Slaters approached the picket fence timidly, staring with all eyes. Mrs. Slater opened the gate.

"Howdy!"

The girl in the path spoke first.

"Hey!" came the feeble response.

The girl tipped her head and smiled. "My name's Birdie Boyer," she said. "Come in and see Ma."

She led the way onto the front porch and across the breezeway. The boy did not come in.

"Can I borrow a cup o' sugar, madam!" inquired Mrs. Slater.

"Shore can!" said Mrs. Boyer heartily. "Any time you need somethin', you call on me and welcome. That's what neighbors is for. Mighty nice to be near enough for neighborin'."

They sat down stiffly. An awkward silence fell.

"We had sich a heap o' work to do, to git this ole place fixed up," began Mrs. Boyer. "We aint what you might call settled yet.

Them Roddenberrys ..."

"They got froze out in the Big Freeze," said Mrs. Slater. "They went back to wherever it was they come from. All their orange trees got bit back to the ground by the frost. Ain’t no use messin' with oranges here. Hit's too cold in the winter- time."

But the trees were seedlings," said Mrs. Boyer, "and they've come up again from the roots. When we git 'em pruned good and the moss cleaned out, they'll make us a fine grove.

"I got me a orange tree," said Birdie, "'bout so high." She raised her hand to a height of about three feet. "I planted a bunch of seeds from an orange once. This seedling was the strongest --it come from the king seed. We brung it along with us and I planted it where the water drips from the pump. Soon I'll be pickin' my own oranges!"

"Yes, soon we'll be pickin' oranges to sell," added her mother.

"To sell!" asked Mrs. Slater in surprise.

"Yes, ma'am. We're studyin' to sell oranges and strawberries and sweet 'taters and sich and make us a good livin'."

"Sell things! Messin' with things to sell!" said Mrs. Slater. "Then you'll purely starve to death. Why, nothin' won't grow here in Floridy. The only way we-uns can git us a livin' is messin' with cows and sellin' em for beef."

"We're studyin' to always have us a few cows too, and cowpen the land. We git real benefit from our cattle, usin''em for beef and fertilizer, and for milk and butter too," said Mrs. Boyer.

"Why, them scrubby little ole woods cows don't give enough milk to bother with milkin' em," laughed Mrs. Slater.

"Where we come from," said Mrs. Boyer slowly, "we feed our cows."

'Feed 'em!" Mrs. Slater laughed a shrill laugh. "With all the grass they is to eat! Where you folks come from anyway!'·

"We come from Marion County last month," said Mrs. Boyer. "We come there in a covered wagon from Caroliny 'bout ten year ago."

Silence fell. Mrs. Slater's girls stared, tongue-tied, at the new girl.

"What's the matter with 'em, ma'am, they don't talk!" Birdie asked their mother.

"Ain't nothin' the matter with 'em but meanness, snapped Mrs. Slater.

Birdie took the little girls by the hand and led them out to the back porch. Here, her little brother, aged two, was playing in the water in the basin on the wash-shelf. A comb hung by a string from the porch post.

"What's that!" asked Essie, pointing.

"What--this! Why, a comb!" exclaimed Birdie. "Lemme comb out your hair."

"We ain't got us a comb, but Ma uses a shucks brush sometimes," said Zephy.

The two little girls sat down on the top step. Birdie began to comb out their short, straggly hair. Combed smooth, it looked soft and pretty, curling up at the ends. In the bright sunshine, it shone like warm, glistening silver. Birdie brought the washbasin and washed their thin, pale faces. Their features were fine, their eyes blue as cornflowers.

"What's his name!" asked Essie, pointing to the little brother.

"Robert, but we call him Runny," said Birdie. "We all got us pet names. My big brother's names Bihu, same as Pa, so we jest call him Buzz. My other brother's Daniel Alexander or jest plain Dan. My big sister's Dixie Lee Francine--we call her Dixie.

My little sister's Dovey Eudora-we call her Dovey or Dove--she's asleep now. Me--I'm Berthenia Lou, but Pa calls me Birdie,

'cause he says I look like a little bird. Sometimes he calls me his little wren."

The lanky boy had ventured round the house and now stood staring.

"What's your name!" asked Birdie.

"Jefferson Davis Slater," he said gruffly.

"Purty good name," said Birdie.

"All but the Slater," said the boy, biting his lips.

Was he ashamed of his family! Birdie wondered. "What they call you—Jef?"

"Naw. Shoestring--'count of I'm so long and thin. Never couldn't git no fat to my bones."

"Shoestring!" laughed Birdie. "That shore is a funny name!"

"Shore is!" agreed the boy, smiling. "I answer to Jeff, too."

Birdie took the mirror off the nail in the wall and held it in front of Essie. "See how purty you look!"

The little girls had never seen a mirror before.

"Oh!" they exclaimed. "Lemme see me in it!" They stuck out their tongues at their reflections and laughed.

Shoestring sat down. Birdie reached over and ran the comb through the boy's tousled black locks. Soon she encountered snarls. "Rats' nests!" she cried, jerking.

"Ow-w-w!" cried Shoestring, backing off. "Don't you dare rake me with that ere currycomb no more!"

The comb and mirror were not the only wonders. When Mrs. Boyer showed Mrs. Slater over the house, she exclaimed: "Sich fine fixin's you-all got!"

"They got a bed-liver on their eatin' table, Ma," said Essie.

"Hit's a table-cloth," explained Birdie.

As Shoestring stared at the red and white checks, his face turned sullen. Then he burst out: "Guess oilcloth's good enough for anybody."

"I mean!" sniffed his mother.

Mrs. Boyer took down a pretty flowered plate from the shelf.

"Don't bother to show me no more of them fancy things," said Mrs. Slater, backing away. "Guess we seen enough of your fine fixin's. Guess we know now how biggety you folks is, without seein' nothin' more."

"But, ma'am," begged Mrs. Boyer, "I didn't mean no offense. "

The Slaters marched out through the breezeway without further words.

Mrs. Boyer quickly filled a cup with brown sugar and ran after them. "Here's the sweetenin' you come to borrow, ma am!

But Mrs. Slater did not turn back or offer to take it. Down the path she strode, her baby squalling and bouncing on her hip, as she dragged the little girls along. Shoestring stalked behind, his hands deep in his overall pockets.

"We got some right purty-lookin' plants," cried Birdie desperately. She pulled off a geranium slip and ran after Mrs. Slater.

"Hit's a right purty pink, this geranium is, and Ma's got a Seven Sisters rose ..."

Mrs. Slater shoved the gate open. It had an old flatiron hanging on a chain for a weight. It closed behind them with a loud bang. The Slaters plowed the sand with their bare feet and vanished in the palmetto thicket.

Birdie went back to her mother, who was standing on the porch. She looked at the cup of sugar in her mother’s hand and the geranium slip in her own.

"Reckon we can give 'em to her next time she comes," she said.