Judy's Journey (2 page)

The Home Missions Council is doing good work among the migrants by providing health centers, child care centers, religious counseling and inter-faith church services. Their work was begun on the Atlantic seaboard in 1920 and was extended in a few years to the West Coast and then to the Middle West.

The characters in my book are imaginary, but the incidents used are taken from the experiences of living migrants. I am deeply indebted to the National Child Labor Committee and to the Home Missions Council for their generous provision of migratory material and for their invaluable counsel in helping me to present an accurate and truthful picture of the migrants.

The Song,
You Are My Sunshine
, the chorus of which I have quoted, is copyright 1940
—
Peer International Corporation. Used by Permission.

Lois Lenski

Greenacres,

Harwinton, Connecticut

October 27, 1946

“I am a part of all that I have met.”

A great English poet, Tennyson, once wrote this of a man, Ulysses, who had been all over the world and met many kinds of people, and seen how they worked and lived. And so we too are a part of all that we have met. Each person that we meet teaches us something that can make us kinder and more understanding of the people of our own country and the world.

“H
EY!
A
NYBODY HOME?”

A ten-year-old girl, big eyes in a pale face and stringy hair hanging loose on her shoulders, peered out of the open door. She wore overalls and her feet were bare.

A cold wind blew round the corner.

“What you want?” asked the girl in a frightened whisper.

“Where's your Pa?” asked the big man who stood there.

“Gone off,” said the girl. “Don't know where.”

The man did not offer to come in. Through the open door of the rickety, unpainted cabin, he could see that the place was empty. The walls inside were papered with old newspapers. Dirt and refuse covered the floor. The sight was unpleasant, so he turned away.

Outside, there wasn't much to see either. The house sat in the middle of a cotton field, where the dried stalks of dead cotton plants leaned crazily against each other. Splotches of white were sprinkled over them, mute evidence of a ruined unpicked crop. There were no farm buildings, no trees, no bushes—there was no green grass.

The man's car was in the narrow dirt lane that led in from the road. In front of the car stood a pile of furniture, heaped carelessly together.

“Ain't you folks got out yet? What you hangin' round for?” the man asked in a loud voice. “Come on out—no use your hidin' in there.”

The girl had disappeared. A scuffle was heard inside and a woman came to the door, holding a baby in her arms. She was thin and pale, her straight hair rolled in a knot on her head. Her eyes were soft and patient.

“Howdy, Mister Reeves,” she said in a dull voice.

“I done tole him Papa was gone off and we don't know where,” said the girl, appearing again with a younger girl beside her.

“I see Moses and Smoky moved your plunder out like I told 'em, Miz Drummond,” said Reeves.

“Shore did,” said the woman. “We're jest puttin' our vittles in a basket, sir .… We're most ready to go .…”

“Well, I can't wait all day,” said Reeves. “I give you-all your orders.”

The girl stepped forward.

“Now, Judy,” said her mother, “don't you say nary word to rile Mister Reeves.”

But Judy did not listen. She faced the man and said: “I reckon you think you own the whole world!” She set her bare feet on the rickety step and stuck out her tongue.

“I'm overseer for the Company,” boomed Reeves. “It's my job to make this land pay. I intend to put some one on it can take care of it, make the crops and make 'em pay!”

“You can have your ole fields and your ole cotton and your little ole piecy house as full of holes as a sieve and welcome!” snapped Judy. “But you can't have the sun nor the blue sky nor the moon 'n' stars, nor the sunset, so there!”

“I notice you-all got plenty time to set and study the sunset,” said Reeves. “Plenty time to set and do nothin'. Your Pa had plenty time to go huntin' and fishin', with cotton bustin' open right under his nose——”

“
Where's my puppy dog
?”

The sharp cry came from a boy who dashed round the house. He doubled up his thin little fists at the man. “What you done with my little ole puppy dog?”

“I told you you couldn't keep a dog on this place,” answered Reeves, “and I'd run it off the farm if you brung it here.”

“My Uncle Barney give it to me .…” The boy began to whimper. “He said I could keep it for my very own .…”

“What you done with Joe Bob's dog?” asked Mrs. Drummond in a fretful tone. “You ain't harmed the little bitty thing, have you, Mist' Reeves? The boy set such store by it, it'll cut him to pieces if you——”

“You jest went and killed it, I betcha!” said Judy. “You jest
like
to be mean. You're the hatefullest man this side o' Kingdom Come!”

Mister Reeves eyed the girl fiercely, backed away and said nothing.

“He ain't
said
he hurt your dog, sonny,” said Mama. Joe Bob began to cry.

“Come on, git out o' the house!” roared Reeves. “I'm sick of the lot of ye. Come on outdoors, you-all!”

“What's outdoors? What's the blue sky to us, even in wintertime?” said Mama. “We been livin' outdoors, what with all them big holes in the roof. Rain always leakin' through—I'm plumb tard o' movin' the bed every night to keep it out of the wet. All that terrible rain—”

“Can ketch a dishpan o' water over the stove ary time it rains,” said Judy.

“Holes in the roof big enough to throw a shoe through,” said Joe Bob.

“If we jest had some shoes to throw,” added Judy.

“Cold winter wind nigh blows the covers offen the bed,” said Joe Bob.

“We like to froze to death on them cold nights,” said Judy.

“Worstest house I ever seen,” said Mama. “We'll leave it and welcome. We can't worst ourselves much by leavin' such a place.”

They talked back to Old Man Reeves in loud voices. They took delight in shouting what a bad house it was. But their feet kept moving out of it—reluctantly. They remembered it was all the house they had. Even with holes in the roof and walls, it was home. Even if it didn't keep the winter cold out, it was home.

The baby began to cry.

“Lonnie's sick, my baby boy,” said Mama. Mama's voice was not defiant now. It was sad, as if she might start crying too. “No time to be movin' in winter when your baby boy's sick.”

“No fault o' mine,” said Reeves. “Been tryin' to get you folks out ever since settlement time. Why don't you take care of your kids?”

“Pickin' cotton all day, that's why,” answered Mama. “That's when Lonnie first took sick. Nothin' to eat but fatback and cornbread. You wouldn't never let us have a little garden patch.” It was true—the cotton field came right up to the house on all sides. Only the narrow lane was implanted.

“Teacher at school said we should eat garden sass,” piped up Judy.

“Teacher said we'd git puny if we didn't,” added her sister, little Cora Jane.

“Can't have good cotton land wasted,” growled Reeves. “Don't stand there a-talkin' all day. Git on out. I got a new family a-comin' in.”

“Lord help 'em!” said Mama.

“Come on then!” ordered Reeves.

They all followed at the man's heels.

“Judy, we left our coats,” said Mama. “Go back and fetch 'em, so we don't ketch our death o cold out here.”

The girl went into the house.

“Them kids went to school instead of pickin' cotton?” demanded Reeves. “Didn't I tell Jim Drummond to keep 'em outa school till pickin' was over? So that's why he didn't get no pickin' done before the rains started!”

Judy handed out the coats and they put them on.

“It rained and rained,” the girl said. “It rained so much we couldn't go back to school. The creek was flooded. I wanted to finish the Third Reader—”

“I liked my teacher,” said Cora Jane.

“'Twas rain ruint the cotton,” said Mama. “Can't blame it onto us. It rained and we couldn't pick. I'm right smart glad them young uns went to school when they had the chance.”

“You want 'em to git new-fangled notions from them teachers, I reckon,” said Reeves.

“'Bout what's good for young uns to eat?” put in Judy. “'Bout shuttin' up holes in your house to keep out the cold?”

Reeves walked out to the lane where their meager furniture was piled. There was a bureau with a broken mirror, a large iron bed, a table, a kerosene stove, a sewing-machine and various odds and ends. Reeves picked up a small piece of carpet that lay on top of a heap of bedding. He held it out at arm's length.

“Carpet, eh? Brussels carpet! With roses on it. Now what——”

He got no further. Joe Bob, like an enraged animal, jumped up and snatched the carpet out of the man's hand.

“Gimme that or I'll beat the stuffin' out of you!” the boy cried. He dropped the carpet and pounded the man with his fists.

“Git offen me, you little varmint!” shouted Reeves.

Just then the sound of a car could be heard in the neighborhood. The boy stopped fighting and they all looked off across the cotton field. The car was coming closer and closer, rattling and banging louder and louder.

“It's comin' here,” said Joe Bob.

“Shore is,” said Mama.

“It's Papa!” shrieked Judy.

With arms and legs flying, she was off down the lane. When the car came up, she was sitting in the front seat beside her father. On her face there was a satisfied smile.

“I was tellin' your folks they gotta get out,” said Old Man Reeves as soon as the engine stopped.

“I see,” said Jim Drummond. “Moved all our plunder out too, didn't you?”

“My colored boys done that. Gotta get the house ready for new family comin' in.”

“O. K.,” said Jim Drummond. “We're goin' soon as we can git loaded up. We're goin' where we'll never see the likes o' you again.”

“Oh where, Papa?” cried Judy. Papa looked
happy
. It was wonderful. Things weren't so bad after all.

“Hush up your mouth, gal,” said Papa. He turned to Reeves again. “We're a-goin' where the sun's a-shinin' and a man can make a crop of his own. We're lightin' out right away, the sooner, the better.”

Old Man Reeves seemed surprised and taken aback. He had been expecting an argument and maybe a fight.

“Where you off to, Jim, anyhow?” he asked amiably. “Where'd' you git the car? Latest model, eh? Roby Watson's got a tenant-house empty, but he won't treat you half as good as I been doin'. Where you off to?”

Papa just rubbed his chin and said nothing.

“Don't you wisht you knew!” sang out Judy spitefully. “There's plenty places to go to. It's a free country, I reckon.”

Joe Bob and Cora Jane began to dance up and down. “Don't you wisht you knew! Don't you wisht you knew! It's a free country, a free country.”

Still Papa didn't say a word. His silence made Reeves angry.

“I'd ought to knock you down,” the man began slowly, “for the way you've neglected this place and lost me the cotton crop and stole fertilizer and stuff and ain't worked the crops nor kept your part of the bargain. Lookin' to me to feed and clothe you and furnish you medicines for a sick family and then ruinin' the cotton crop.”

“I reckon we're about even, Reeves,” said Papa in a cold, hard voice. “You know what you been sayin' ain't true. 'Twas the rain ruint the cotton. For three years now I've worked my fingers to the bone for you and what do I get out of it? Nothin'. I'm worse off than when I come here. Mind how I never got that new wagon I wanted? Well, it's over now. I'm through bein' a sharecropper—lucky I got spunk enough left to clear out. Ever since you made away with my boy's puppy dog——”