by Jeri Watts
“Perhaps,” Mr. McKenna said.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. Still, Frank Charles was right: Shag is lots faster than that dog was.
The next two contestants, both with collies, did well also. I saw where the handlers were better than me, crisper in their commands, surer in their decisions, but neither dog could touch Shag.
They all began to blur into each other as I started to gain more and more of my vision of how I would run Shag, how I would get those sheep to the pen. I remembered all the times I’d drawn Mr. McKenna’s wrath, all the times I’d depended on Shag to save me, and I knew I couldn’t let my dog down so badly again. I watched and tried to think. I admit, Miss Anderson, my nerves were getting the best of me.
And suddenly it was our turn. I moved to the handler’s stake and sent Shag in her outrun. She went, and when I didn’t see her, I got nervous. I started with as many points as I could get — I’d lose points for every mistake, but fewer points if I redirected her than if she kept making mistakes, so I shouted, “Get back!” I saw her then and realized she was right where she was supposed to be. I’d cost us points because I hadn’t trusted her. The sheep kept coming. I flanked Shag at the wrong time. She cut an eye at me (she knew I’d been wrong), but she followed my command and I saw more points flying away. I gathered myself, gave better commands, and she kept those sheep moving. She was quick and efficient, and she got them circling to the pen. We’d lose points if they circled around the pen, and Shag sensed this, so without my command, she maneuvered them so they were penned and in the gates. We finished with a satisfactory number of our points intact, thanks to my dog and at least a little of the training Mr. McKenna put into me.
More contestants came after me, but my head was spinning as I put my dog in the tub of ice water to cool her down after the tiring, hot experience. I sloshed water over her neck and back and pulled the cooling water through her fur as I caressed her. “We did it, girl. You did it, girl,” I said. I looked to my friends, my friends who were there for me, there with me, this finest moment of my life. I knew that it didn’t matter whether we won any place at all. For that experience, on that course, I was an equal.
Miss Anderson, we won third place! When he handed me the ribbon, the judge said, “That is one special dog, miss.” He shook my hand, then added, “You’re not so bad yerself, but ye’ve got to learn to trust.”
I looked at him. “I’m working on that one. Yes, sir.”
And after that, lots of people came up to look at Shag, people I didn’t know. I watched folks I didn’t know touch my dog, and I watched Shag, allowing hands to touch her, allowing herself to risk so much. And how can I do less than my dog, even if that dog is my incredible, incredible Shag?
How can I do less than believe and hope and fight and try?
I went to see Mrs. Warren today, to thank her for all she did for the black people of this county. She did not make it easy for me, Miss Anderson. You might think the old biddy would have been gracious when someone took the time to come and say thank you, but no, she received me in her living room like some queen in England. She had David show me in.
“David says you wish to speak with me about something, Kizzy Ann.”
She was sitting in her best chair, a striped Queen Anne that has seen better days, frankly, as it is faded and frumpy and the bottom has no springs left in it because she sits in it every day and she is a large lady, shall we say. I don’t mean to be ugly, just honest. And honestly, she was just being so highfalutin it was ridiculous. I know David had told her what I was coming for.
I said, “I wanted to thank you for giving up your place at the black school so we could all go study at the white school and all. They have reference books, and it really has been the opportunity you said it would be, and we even had a spelling bee, even if we didn’t get to go to Richmond because no black student could win.”
That broke her lordy act. She looked at me and sighed. “It won’t be easy, child. Rome wasn’t built in a day.” She heaved up out of that chair and went to stand at her window that looks out over her yard. “But give it time, Kizzy Ann. You won the bee, David said.” She looked at me and smiled. “They know around here that you’re smart, and I always knew you could do it.”
Then she snapped her eyes at me. “And it’s about time somebody thanked me for all I done.” She yelled down the hall, “David, bring that iced tea and pound cake in here!” She gave me a smile.
The end-of-school ceremony was fine, Miss Anderson. The punch with orange sherbet floating in it was so good. The homemade three-layer cake was scrumptious. I know you wanted people to mingle better, to see a mix of white and black instead of all the white people on one side and the blacks on the other. But give it time, Miss Anderson. Give it time.
I wore the white dress again, for Mama and for you. And I talked to Laura Westover for almost five minutes. She was trying as hard as I was, you know. She told me she knew I should have been there in Richmond, and that she believed I would have won the whole contest. Maybe. Who knows? And I don’t think she peeked at my scar once. She really just looked into my eyes. Five minutes. I never thought I’d see it.
Winning that certificate for my writing was a perfect finish to a hard year. I never expected that, but Mama and Daddy were so proud. Granny Bits says we will hang it right over that sliver of mirror, so that every time anyone checks his or her face, it’s right there to see how good a writer I am.
James gave me a present, for the end of the school year. It’s a journal, and I figure you helped him get a hold of it. Embossed in the leather, right where my fingers can find it whenever I want, are the words Moon Child. Mama cried at that. And I did just a little. I thank you. It is beautiful, and the pages are creamy and just waiting for me to fill them with my adventures with Shag and Frank Charles and Mr. McKenna. And maybe a few with David Warren. Mama still thinks I might write poetry like Miss Anne Spencer. And I’m thinking I might spend a little more time with Miss Anne — a lady like her can teach somebody like me a whole lot.
James said, “It’s for you to write your story. Fill it with words, powerful words. And Mrs. Warren says you’ll be a leader one day!”
I don’t know about leading, Miss Anderson. I’m headstrong, for sure, and I love to learn new things. But I’ve seen on my pages to you how many times I give up and give in. The difference for me is Shag . . . wanting to help her and wanting to do right by her. I think she leads me. She and I are both learning a lot about trust — some hard lessons, but true even when they take us far from where we thought we’d be. I promise to follow her, follow to what is right and fair. We’ve already found some friends who will go with us on the way. We only have to let them join us. That was hard for both of us, for both Shag and I are hard-pressed to ask for help, but we’re learning to lean on others. We’re learning to trust, we are. The lessons we’re learning together along this road are not the easiest, but once we have them, we “own” them, you might say. When I follow my Shag, it seems I follow my heart.
I guess that will do just fine.
Dear Kizzy Ann,
Your letter arrived today, and I am so excited to read of your further adventures with Frank Charles, Mr. McKenna, and, of course, Shag! Yes, indeed, you must keep writing to me, and I will write back.
I am heartened to hear of plans to turn the old schoolhouse into a community center — and I am not surprised to learn that you and Mrs. Warren will lead the endeavor! This means it will happen, no matter what. Poor Mr. Felix — I think he will be custodian forever. . . .
I know you may not want to hear this, but I have purchased journals for the new class — and I can assure you, there is no one, in this year’s class or in any class to come, who will take your place in my heart. You, and that dog of yours, are one in a million (well, two in a million). I am counting on you, Miss Kizzy Ann Stamps, to be the student I have taught who grows up to do really great things. Every teacher hopes she has touched every student in
special ways, but she has to believe that there is one who is going to go on to light up the world.
You are my one, Kizzy. I don’t know how you will or when you will. But you have already done some of that in my life. I just know you can make a difference. You may be a girl who doesn’t like bows or fancy dresses (both things I like very much), but what does that matter? You are my girl, Kizzy Ann. And you are your own person.
Love,
Miss Anderson
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Anne Spencer was, indeed, a real person: a librarian and poet who lived in Lynchburg. She did not, however, have a library in her home, nor did she have a cousin who had an accident as I’ve described it, nor do I know if she gave advice or had conversations as I’ve described. These are examples of literary license. You can visit Anne Spencer’s real home in Lynchburg and read her poetry to find out more about her. She was an amazing woman, and I hope her living family will feel pleased by how she appears in this book; my intention was to honor her.
The American Kennel Club is represented in this book as not allowing African Americans to participate in the early 1960s, and as far as I could find out, this is accurate. It is also accurate that border collies were not yet an accepted breed in the AKC at that time. None of this should be taken as a negative statement toward this organization as it exists today. The AKC does many wonderful things for the dogs of the world, including border collies, and they also encourage and support dog owners across the country. In the story, Kizzy Ann’s view of the organization is informed by what she hears from those around her, and she is, of course, focused on what directly affects her and Shag.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book was written over many years. Thus I may not remember to thank someone who has been vital to its development, and if that is you, reader, I sincerely apologize. But at the risk of leaving someone out, I want to thank those I do remember.
One of the sparks for this story happened at a teachers’ workshop when fellow teacher Sandy Claytor and I were paired up to work on improving a piece of writing. This particular piece was about a dog, and in the process of our work on it, Sandy shared stories about her own dog — named, you guessed it, Shag. Thank you, Sandy, for giving me the heart of Shag.
So many of the students I’ve worked with over the years — at Waddell Elementary School, the University of Virginia, Lynchburg College, and in classroom visits — have listened to pieces of this book: thank you for helping, in ways you didn’t even realize, to shape this story.
Thank you to teachers everywhere, teachers like the one in this book, who make a difference every day for the students who depend on you. Having taught for twenty-seven years in public school, I now prepare teacher candidates to go out in the world, and I am also blessed with many schoolteachers in my family. They are all people who open their hearts every day to children who need them. What an amazing profession. Bravo to every teacher in the world. A tough job performed by tender hearts.
Members of my Lynchburg Community Race Dialogue Study Circle: you contributed to this story in our rich discussions and sharing your own stories.
While I have always loved dogs and my family always had at least one dog in all my years of growing up (and I started life on a farm in Bedford County), we never lived with a border collie. So I thank Amy Yoho, secretary of the Virginia Border Collie Association, who kindly reviewed the manuscript. (But do note that any remaining border-collie-related errors are mine and mine alone!)
I thank Lynchburg College and, in particular, Jan Stennette, dean of the School of Education and Human Development, who allowed me some release time to work on this book. I have never been given professional time for my writing before, and having this gift was amazingly meaningful to me. It is so powerful to work in an atmosphere where my work is appreciated. A dear friend and colleague, Dr. Susan Thompson, professor at Lynchburg College, volunteers to read everything I write and gives me feedback but mostly unconditional acceptance. Thank you, Susan.
The Good Ole Girls writing group in Lexington, Virginia, heard an early draft and liked it. That inspired me to keep writing when I might have just put it aside.
My very bestest friend, Gay Lynn Van Vleck, who is an incredible writer, has been a support to me for so many years. Thank you for believing in me some years when I didn’t believe in myself. And her family, Bill and Jack, are as dear as the day is long!
Thanks to very helpful readers Dr. Loretta Jones, Deidre Washington, and Ginny Shank.
To all the readers, editors, helpers, and friendly voices at Candlewick Press — Kate Fletcher, Hilary Van Dusen, Andrea Tompa, Carter Hasegawa, Nikki Bruno Clapper, Hannah Mahoney, and, of course, my first and most important editor, the incomparable Liz Bicknell — where would I be without all of you? I wish I could wrap you all in a hug. Thank you, thank you, for bringing my Kizzy Ann to the page with spunk and fire and for giving her and Shag a home at Candlewick, the best publisher in the world!
I’d also like to thank the James River Writers Organization; it was at their annual conference where I was able to make contact with Candlewick, and I am most grateful.
And finally, and most important, I thank my family. The family I grew up in, the family that surrounded me as I wrote this book, and the family that grew away from me, spreading out in their own places in the world — all of them very kindly believing in me still and supporting me in their own way. I needed them, and they answered, maybe without even knowing. So, to Chandler and Daryl; Mary Carson and Gavin; Jill, Greg, Gretchen, and Katie — I thank you for support you may never have known you gave. And Chuck . . . well, you always knew. And I thank you now and forever.
JERI WATTS worked as a public-school teacher for twenty-seven years before becoming a professor. She has written numerous short stories, as well as Keepers, a picture book. Kizzy Ann Stamps is her first middle-grade novel. About the inspiration behind it, she says, “My first six years, in the early sixties, were spent on a farm in Bedford County, Virginia, which was, of course, part of the inspiration for Kizzy Ann. I was excited to be a part of integration, seeing people strive for the best in themselves and others and learning to look at things from a different point of view — that was an important part of the humanity of integration, to think outside yourself.” Jeri Watts lives in Lynchburg, Virginia, with her husband.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2012 by Jeri Watts
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2012
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2012938739
ISBN 978-0-7636-5895-3 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7636-6200-4 (electronic)
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