The Wooden Nickel

by Alisha Paige

  The Wooden Nickel

  by

  Alisha Paige

  Copyright © 2011 by Alisha Paige

  Cover design by Tamra Westberry

  Book design by Alisha Paige

  Edited by Grapevine Press

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the copyright owner, the author and the publisher. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination and dreams of the author and have no relation to anyone dead or alive, to anyone bearing the same name or names or resemblance. No scene or event in this book was inspired by a true life event or based on fact. This entire work is a work of fiction, invented by the author. All characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in the name of fiction. The author acknowledges the trademark owners of various products referenced in this fictitious novel, which have been used without permission. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Alisha Paige

  Visit my website at www.alishapaige.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Second Printing: December 2011

  Dedication

  Dedicated to the real Cliff and Louise, my beloved grandparents who have shaped my entire life and in loving memory of Poppy who was a paratrooper in WWII and survived in a German foxhole on German chocolate when he injured his foot in battle.

  And in memoriam of all the lives lost during the Holocaust when Hell came to Earth. May God protect us from ever having to endure such pain and misery ever again.

  One

  “What’s this, Grandma?”

  Seven year old Eric held the wooden music box in his chubby hands. A smile crossed her weathered lips. Eric laid the box upon her shaking hands. Wiping a thin layer of dust off the glass top, she opened it slowly. The rusty hinges creaked in protest. There it lay, just as she remembered it half a century before, wrapped in a piece of blue satin. Carefully, she unfolded the tiny square of indigo cloth. Picking it up, she fingered the tiny wooden object. Most of the words were faded now, but she could still see the buffalo clearly.

  Like waking a hibernating bear, she ran a crinkled finger over his back where the wood stood out. A remote wrinkle in her brain sparkled as memories of the old buffalo nickel came alive again, taking her back to those long days of childhood, first love and desperate longing.

  “Is it fake money?” he asked, scrunching up his freckled nose as he studied her face.

  “No, not really. At one time this wooden nickel was just as good as any ole’ quarter, back in its day.”

  “Not no more, though?” he asked, touching the nickel. His grandma placed it in his hands. With a serious face, he flipped it over, studying it.

  “No, not anymore. But, it’s a part of history.”

  “You mean like history we study in school?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of history? We’re studying about the Pilgrims and Indians right now. That kind of history?”

  “No, honey. This history happened much later. In my lifetime.”

  “Wow. You’re so old that they used to have wooden money?”

  She laughed at him as he held the wooden nickel in his open palm. “For a time they did, but only a very short time.”

  “What time was that?”

  “It was called The Great Depression.”

  “Oh,” he breathed softly. “I think I’ve heard something about that before. People were very poor and by the name I think they were very depressed about it.”

  Taking the wooden nickel from his small open palm, she gently wrapped it back into the deep blue satin before placing it in the music box, returning it to the wooden cradle where it had rested for decades. “Well, we were very poor back then and I’m sure that we were depressed about it, but that’s not why it’s called that.”

  “Why then?” he asked, genuinely concerned and curious, especially since she lived through it.

  “The Great Depression was a time when America’s economy was very depressed.”

  “Why was America sad? And what’s economy?”

  She tousled his hair and stood up. “Come on, help me make dinner before your mom and dad get back. They should be at the stable by now, putting the horses in for the night.”

  Taking him by the hand, Louise led her grandson into the kitchen where the grand aroma of roast beef hit them like a gust of homemade happiness. Standing on the wooden stool, Eric leaned into the blanket of steam as she drained the large pan of boiling potatoes into the stainless steel sink. Positioning the pan in front of him on two pot holders, she poured milk and butter into the rising steam. Handing him the masher, he immediately got to work as she stirred the green beans on the rear burner and made gravy from the roast drippings.

  “It smells great, Grandma.”

  An easy smile formed on her aged lips as she stirred the thick brown bubbles, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.

  “You okay, Grandma?” Eric asked, noticing her smile straighten into a thin line.

  “I’m fine, honey.”

  “You look sad. Did it make you sad, thinking about sad times? Back when you were depressed in the Great Depression?”

  Laughing again, she let out a slow sigh. “I guess it just made me think of your Poppy a little bit and how much I miss him.”

  “I’m sorry, Grandma. Mama told me not to talk too much about Poppy,” he replied as he continued to mash around the rising steam.

  “Oh no, honey, you didn’t do anything wrong. You can talk about Poppy whenever you want to.”

  “Can I ask you something, Grandma?”

  “Sure, honey.”

  “Will you tell me about the wooden nickel? I heard Mama talking to Daddy one night. She said she was glad you got the wooden nickel back after all those years. I asked her about it and she said that one day when I was older she would tell me the story. Do I really have to wait?”

  “No, dear. I guess your mama just thought I should tell you the story.”

  “So you’re gonna tell me?”

  “After dinner.”

  “Yippee!” he yelled as he mashed harder, smiling and sticking his tongue between his missing front teeth.

  “I think I heard it stop,” Louise said with a smile.

  “I’ll go check,” Eric replied, hopping off the stool. He dashed into the laundry room and peered into the electric ice cream maker. “It’s done, Grandma and it looks frozen really good!”

  “Good. I’ll stick it in the freezer and we can have some with the peaches I picked off the trees today.”

  “Hey there! Checking the ice cream?” Annalisa asked, walking in the back door. “Give your mom a kiss.”

  Eric leaned up, kissing her quickly as they exchanged smiles and headed into the kitchen.

  “It smells wonderful in here, mother!”

  “Where’s Frank?”

  “He’s brushing the horses down. He’s nearly done.”

  “Good, cause dinner’s about ready. Do you want to get the ice and set the table?”

  “Sure.”

  Annalisa placed four glasses on the counter and began filling them with ice.

  “How was your ride?” Louise asked as she poured the thick gravy into a large bowl before setting it on the table.

  “Wonderful! Rena seemed to have a bit more spunk today,” Annalisa answered, referring to the aging palomino.

  Louise smiled as she thought of
the old horse. It had been nearly twenty years since she and her husband had rescued her from Old Jack Haney’s run down farm. Jack was their nearest neighbor on the red dirt road. Louise remembered the summer his wife had died and everything changed. He no longer went to church and was on the prayer list for months. The visiting committee at the church stopped by with their weekly doses of compassion, but no amount of sympathy or casseroles seemed to help. It had been devastating to watch the animals decline along with him.

  Louise’s husband, Cliff, fed the animals and helped out as much as he could, but it became too much. She remembered his face exactly and though he felt for Old Jack, Louise remembered the horror in his eyes when he said he never wanted to end up like him. Cliff said he suspected Jack was losing his mind as he slumped down at the kitchen table. Louise made a pot of coffee and they talked about what to do.

  Cliff had been forced to call the city on Jack. His animals were in bad shape, his farm house was in desperate need of repair and he had long given up on the garden that he and his wife once raised in order to supplement their income at the farmer’s market. Jack was forced to sell his animals or face fines that he couldn’t pay. Cliff bought Rena from him and Jack gave him the cart because he no longer had any use for it. The Haneys had ridden to church in the cart as far back as Louise could remember. Lefty the mule pulled the cart for years and then Jack bought Rena at the county fair.

  Jack died a month later and Cliff was depressed about it for a very long time. He was afraid of losing her like Jack had lost Hazel and living his last few days alone. It was a good year before he felt better about it and was lucky enough to share another twenty years with Louise before his death. Louise never said anything to anyone about it, but she was glad that he had gone before her. He never wanted to end up like Jack and Louise was happy that he had gotten his wish, though she’d give anything to have a few more years back.

  Louise placed the roast on the table as Annalisa began setting the silverware onto the gold, paper napkins. Frank walked into the mud room behind the kitchen and took his boots off.

  “Daddy!” Eric cried as the screen door slammed shut. Frank smiled at him as he stretched his long back from side to side, his wide arms outstretched.

  “You look like an airplane,” Eric joked as he hugged his middle.

  “And I’m coming in for a crash landing,” Frank teased as he pretended to crumple on top of his tiny form.

  Louise and Annalisa laughed as they placed the remaining bowls of steaming mashed potatoes and green beans on the long oak table.

  “Wash up, honey. Dinner’s ready,” Annalisa said.

  Frank made his way to the kitchen sink and washed his hands vigorously as he faced the kitchen window, looking out at the fading sunlight as it cast orange streaks across the sky. Eric passed him a hand towel as he looked up at him with big adoring brown eyes.

  “Thanks, Sport.”

  “Daddy?”

  Frank raised his eyebrows in question at his son.

  “Do you know about the Great Depression?”

  Frank nodded as they made their way to the table where Annalisa and Louise were sitting down.

  “You weren’t alive yet, right?”

  “Right, but your Grandma was. She was just a little girl, not much older than you.”

  Father and son took their places at the wide, oak table. Eric promptly sang the prayer he learned at daycare. Frank took a roll and placed one on his son’s plate. “Have you two been talking about the old days?” he asked while buttering a roll.

  Louise smiled as she laid a slice of roast beef on Eric’s plate and spooned on a bit of brown gravy over the top. “Eric found the music box in my bedroom.”

  Frank nodded knowingly and looked at his wife. A sad smile crossed her face. She missed her dad dearly. Though he’d been gone for six years now, the pain was still too fresh. She had been particularly close to her father and had taken it much harder than her little sister.

  “Grandma’s gonna tell me the story of the wooden nickel.”

  Annalisa smiled at her son as tears rimmed her eyes.

  “Oh, Mama, don’t go crying again.”

  “I can’t help it.” Annalisa sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin.

  “Poppy always made fun of you for that. Remember how you said he called it the water works?”

  Annalisa laughed softly and smiled again at the thought. “I know. He always said I cried too easily at everything.”

  “You’re just like me, dear,” her mother replied. “I passed the crying gene onto you.”

  “Thanks a million,” Annalisa replied, sniffing loudly.

  “Don’t cry, Mama. Poppy’s still with us, but only now he’s an angel.”

  Annalisa nodded, feeling more like a child than her son. He had even handled it with more grace than she. She remembered how he stood at the gravesite, holding her hand like a brave little soldier. He had looked so handsome in his little suit. He had been so brave and would squeeze her hand even tighter when the sobs took hold of her. Even her mother managed to hold herself together much to her amazement. Louise had said that shock had gotten her through it. It wasn’t until six months after his death, around the time of their anniversary that the numbness subsided. The realization had finally hit her. The kids had worried endlessly about her, until the dam broke.

  Their mother had become a robot and now she was back, thanks to the wooden nickel. Like an old friend, coming to visit, perhaps to console her with a bit of his animal magic, somehow that old buffalo, standing stiffly, amid a wooden plain helped her deal with his death at long last, bringing with him a flood of memories on his humped back.

  My how Louise had missed that old fool. Now why did he have to go off and frolic in the mud for goodness sake? But she was much too happy to scold him for it. His coming home was somewhat of a miracle, almost everyone agreed, though the credit went to Poppy mostly and their love of course. Louise and Cliff had a love born out of dusty roads and hopeful locust filled nights, dating clear back to the late thirties, back when America was a bit lost and full of desperation, on the cusp of war, with heartache looming straight ahead like a midnight wake up call.

  ~ * ~

  Louise liked to take the wooden treasure out of its music box before bedtime. After she put her cotton nightgown on she would remove it from the bookshelf and sit on the edge of her bed. How many times had she held it between her fingers and closed her eyes, remembering the day he had placed it in her hand and closed her fingers around it? How many years had gone by now? Over half a century, yet she could still feel his strong hand close over hers. She even remembered the holes in his mittens and how dingy his face had looked, smudged with soot and dirt from the train he had stowed away on for so many nights. She had never seen a more handsome face in all her life and though she was only eleven years old, her breath had caught at the sight of him.

  Louise picked up the weathered diary that sat forever beside its companion, the wooden nickel. The lace of her nightgown caught on the tattered pages as she flipped to the first page. Tears filled her eyes, smearing the words as she read her own writing.

  October 1, 1933

  Dear Diary,

  I know I haven’t written in a long time, but I just had to write today. I was standing in a bread line today with my little sister, Ida. Pa carried us to town to buy more supplies. He had to buy some more seeds for the garden, so he dropped me and my sister off to stand in line while he went to the general store. We didn’t even know what the line was for, but like mama says, if there’s a line, get in it. So we did.

  I don’t even know what all the fuss is about anyhow. I know the stock market crashed and it has to do with a lot of money. Most folks lost everything, but it seems as though we didn’t have anything to begin with. When you have nothing to lose, you come out better in the long run. That’s how I see it anyhow and that’s how Pa sees it. I was born poor and I don’t think we are any poorer than we were before Black Tuesday, just mo
re people talk about it is all, but Pa says we have a lot more than most folks and somehow, we get by just fine.

  We stood in line for half an hour maybe. I noticed these two boys behind me. They kept scuffling and the taller one kept pushing the shorter one around, but he wasn’t shorter by much. Maybe an inch or two. I gathered that they were brothers, but I’m still not sure. I had my own problems to deal with. Ida started getting real fussy and asking about Pa. She started crying and acting like a baby. Even though she’s almost seven now, she acts about half her age half the time. She kept saying she was hungry. I tried to give her my apple, but she’s so picky. Mama says we’re too poor to be picky, but Ida could care less. She’d soon enough starve. I think the boy heard us and felt sorry for us and figured we were standing in line for food.

  I didn’t know what we were in line for. Like I said, if we see one, we get in it. I found out later that it was for bread, but mama makes most of our bread and even we aren’t that poor. But we must have looked like it today. I think those two boys were poorer than us and they sure looked more hungry and dirty, too. They needed a bath. I heard them talking about trains and I’m wondering if they live on them, like those hoboes Pa was talking about. Ida just kept on and on with her fit throwing and saying she was hungry when the boy tapped me on the shoulder. At first I just froze, not knowing what to do, but I’m half grown and really almost a woman. Mama was only thirteen when she married Pa and I figured I better start acting the part.

  I wished Ida would just disappear into the good ole earth or something, but she didn’t. She kept on and on, pulling on my sleeve, asking for Pa like she was orphaned or something. The boy tapped me again and I turned, trying to look adult like with my head held high and my lips tight.

  Yes sir? I asked. I tried to act a little bit snobbish like Miss Crowfoot (really Miss Crawford, but we call her that cause she’s as mean as an old crow) and now I kinda feel a little bit rude for being like that toward the boy and wished I was a bit nicer at the time.