by Nancy Allen
Published by The History Press
Charleston, SC 29403
www.historypress.net
Copyright © 2014 by Nancy Kelly Allen
All rights reserved
First published 2014
e-book edition 2014
ISBN 978.1.62584.935.9
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Allen, Nancy Kelly, 1949-
Amazing Grace : a Kentucky girl with gumption during World War II / Nancy Kelly Allen.
pages cm
Summary: In 1944, when her father is drafted to serve in World War II, eleven-year-old Grace, her mother, and her little brother move to her grandmother’s house in Ashland, Kentucky, where Grace plants a victory garden, buys Saving Stamps, and volunteers with the Red Cross.
print edition ISBN 978-1-62619-405-2
[1. Family life--Kentucky--Fiction. 2. World War, 1939-1945--Fiction. 3. Schools--Fiction. 4. Moving, Household--Fiction. 5. Kentucky--History--20th century--Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.K2986Am 2014
[Fic]--dc23
2013046009
Notice: The information in this book is true and complete to the best of our knowledge. It is offered without guarantee on the part of the author or The History Press. The author and The History Press disclaim all liability in connection with the use of this book.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever without prior written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
In memory of my dad, J.R., and Uncle Howard, World War II soldiers
Contents
Acknowledgements
1. Mysteries
2. The Wireless
3. The Letter
4. The Move
5. My New Life
6. My New School
7. The Bully
8. Life without Daddy
9. The Homefront
10. Victory
11. The Plan
12. Dig for Victory
13. D-Day
14. Gone
15. My Worst Fears
16. A Dark Day
17. Rain and a Rattlesnake
18. Junk Rally
19. Canine Surprise
20. The Harvest
21. Tough Times
22. Surprises
23. More Surprises
24. The Christmas Play
25. Christmas Eve
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Writing this book has not been a solo journey. Several people have added their footprints in helping me turn my daydreams into fictional characters. Who says daydreaming isn’t work!
The outstanding staff of the Perry County Public Library provided research material with smiles and words of encouragement. My appreciation is sugarcoated, and I’ll prove it with candy deliveries.
Meryl Shapiro’s artistic talent and skills are evident in the illustrations that added visual spark to each chapter and the book cover. As we batted around ideas for the art, her suggestions helped me tweak and improve scenes.
I offer kudos, a pat on the back and a round of applause—make that a standing ovation—to Sandi Underwood, my critique partner. She saw this work long before it was ready for print and added her two cents’ worth. Her literary spit and verbal polish are actually worth their weight in gold.
Carolyn Summers, a spunky friend who battled a health issue—and won—provided the inspiration for the main character’s spunkiness. She, Johnny and their family have spread smiles and love my way for decades. Here’s right back atcha, all of you.
My husband, Larry J. Allen, has supported my writing efforts from the first word I scribbled for publication. I send hugs his way for driving me along the route this fictional family made in their move from Hazard to Ashland, Kentucky, and more hugs for his “Amazing Grace” book title idea.
With heartfelt gratitude, I thank everyone at The History Press for believing in my story.
I love to write and create characters. Readers, I’m always grateful to you, because you make writing even more fun for me.
Chapter 1
Mysteries
My day began like every other day in 1944—ordinary—then the mysteries unfolded, not one, but two.
Daddy trudged through the kitchen, walking in short, slow steps so he wouldn’t bump into something. Like two big ropes, his arms wrapped around the box he was carrying. Purple and green paper wrapped the box, and a big green bow decorated the top.
“What’s in the fancy package, Daddy?” I asked between bites of biscuit and gravy. I swiped the back of my hand across my face. Smudges of gravy and biscuit that never made it to my mouth rubbed off.
“A surprise birthday present for Grandma,” Daddy answered with a broad smile. “Grace, you and Johnny get ready. We’re leaving for Grandma’s in a few minutes. It’s a long drive from Hazard to Ashland.”
Daddy carried the mystery box right out the door without giving me the slightest idea of what was inside. “I could use a hint about now,” I called after him.
A snapping March wind whipped through the open kitchen door and shivered goose bumps over my arms. “I could also do without the frosty air,” I thought.
Two Cracker Jack boxes sat by the sink, so careful as could be, I opened one box from the bottom. Popcorn and peanuts poured into my hand. I crammed in a mouthful. I wasn’t hungry, but I couldn’t resist caramel popcorn and peanuts.
I shook the box, and the prize landed square in my hand. I tried holding the little package up to the light to see what it was, but I couldn’t see through the paper it was wrapped in, so I rubbed the prize between my thumb and fingers. It felt like the puzzle I had found in my Cracker Jacks last week. I shoved the prize back into the box and sealed the bottom the best I could.
I opened the other box. When I saw the prize, I could tell with only a quick glance that I had a keeper. I ripped open the paper and looked at a clown. Once I added this missing piece, my Smiley Face rocker would move. I pried the thin cardboard pieces apart, positioned them together just right and placed the clown on the rocker.
Kiss a frog and call me a princess! My Smiley Face rocked. I grabbed the whistle my best friend, Lily, gave me yesterday after school. I stuck it in my mouth and blew a blast that would rival the L&N train when it nears a railroad crossing.
Mom charged through the house. “Grace, is that you making enough noise to wake the neighborhood?”
“Look at my new rocking clown,” I told Mom, hoping to get her mind off my whistle blast.
She came over to inspect. “Good work,” she said as she ran her fingers through my straight, light brown hair, untangling some knots that had taken hold in my sleep last night. Mom pried apart the last knot and hurried off through the house.
My little brother, Johnny, moseyed into the kitchen rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Where did you get the clown?” he wanted to know, first thing. “Cracker Jack box,” I answered and let go with another Louisville & Nashville train–style blast.
“Mom!” Johnny yelped as he covered his ears with his hands.
“Grace Ann Brewer!” Mom called out using her you-had-better-listen voice. “Do you want me to take that whistle and keep it?”
“Sorry, Mom,” I apologized quickly. Johnny grabbed the other Cracker Jack box and opened it from the top. He polished off the popcorn and peanuts, what was left, and opened the prize—a puzzle identical to the one in my box last week. Lucky me, he didn’t notice the box had been opened on the other end. He finished the Cracker Jacks and started in on two biscuits and gravy.
Daddy walked back through the door, even more slowly this time, reading a letter. He re
ad each word as if he had to take a test on it. Somebody sure had a lot to say. Daddy called for Mom, and they walked into the front room. I tiptoed behind them. Daddy handed Mom the letter as he eyed me. He hugged me tight and reminded me to pack my things for our trip to Grandma’s house.
“What’s in the letter?” I asked. I knew it must be important if they spent that much time reading it.
“It’s a letter from the government,” Mom answered. “Go feed Spot, then pack your things and help your brother pack.” Dad and Mom looked sadly at each other and then at me.
I picked up Spot’s food and carried it out to see my sweet mutt. He wagged his tail like a windshield wiper when he saw me coming around the shed toward his doghouse. I hugged him and poured food in his bowl.
Spot slurped up his breakfast faster than I had slurped down the Cracker Jack peanuts and popcorn. He grabbed a stick, ran a few feet, stopped and looked back at me. I ran to him, and he dropped the stick. I picked it up and flung it high in the air. Spot leaped and retrieved the stick before it hit the ground. When he made his way back to me, I smacked a kiss on top of his head and explained that the neighbor would feed him supper because I was going to visit Grandma.
He didn’t look too happy about the news.
“Spot, life is a series of mysteries,” I explained.
Spot looked at me as if he understood.
I went on, telling him all about the mystery box that Daddy had been carrying and the letter that he returned with. Hoping he understood, I told him how frustrating it was to never be clued in.
Spot’s big brown eyes stared straight into mine. Maybe it was the way I said it, maybe it was the sound of my voice or maybe Spot actually understood what I said because he whimpered. In dog talk, a whimper that seemed to say, “I understand how you feel, Gracie Girl. Nobody tells me anything either.”
I hugged Spot one more time and marched back into the house. In Johnny’s room, I snatched shirts, pants and socks and threw them in a bag. In my room, I grabbed my teddy bear and my blue plaid pajamas and stuffed them in another bag along with my two favorite pants, three blouses and some socks. I pitched in our toothbrushes and a tube of paste.
“We’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” I announced as I skipped back into the front room. Daddy and Mom were still where I left them, gazing at the letter. The expression on Daddy’s face was as somber as the one Spot wore when I kissed him goodbye. Mom’s expression mirrored Daddy’s. The government sure was serious business. “What’s in the letter?” I asked for the second time.
“Time to go to Grandma’s,” Daddy answered, ignoring me. He clapped his hands together and smiled. Daddy’s face packed a smile, but his voice didn’t. Daddy’s voice always had a happy ring to it when he talked to Johnny or me. Not this time.
Something about that letter, something important, made Daddy and Mom act differently. Like the time when Grandpa got hurt on the barge and had to go to the hospital. Daddy and Mom whispered a lot, serious whispers, but they told me not to worry. Every time I asked about Grandpa, they told me to think positive. I thought about the times Grandpa rode me on a wagon, the times he told me funny stories and the times he sliced open watermelons, right out of the patch, because I wanted one. I thought positive, but Grandpa died anyway.
Daddy and Mom started talking in serious whispers again. I crossed my finger and shut my eyes to think positive thoughts. I tried to wish away the something important that was in the letter, but the strange tickle in the pit of my stomach told me the wish fairy had taken the day off.
We pulled out of Hazard in our black 1938 Hudson automobile. Before long, we passed over a bridge with the sign “Troublesome Creek.” What a funny name. I poked Johnny with my elbow and pointed out the window toward the creek.
“What?” Johnny asked.
“Congratulations, you have a creek named in your honor,” I answered.
“Is it Johnny Creek?” His eyes bugged out big as quarters.
“Nope, Troublesome Creek,” I answered.
Johnny narrowed his eyes, bucked out his chin and grunted, “Humph.”
We stopped for a picnic on a wide spot beside the highway. Daddy grabbed a quilt from the trunk of the Hudson and spread it on the grass. Mom passed around biscuit-and-ham sandwiches, apples and cookies. I washed it all down with a glass of grape Kool-Aid I poured from a gallon jar.
We cleaned up our mess and crammed the trash in a brown paper sack. Daddy placed the trash and picnic supplies in the trunk and said, “Let’s begin to commence to go.” I laughed at Daddy’s joke; our family always took forever to get anywhere.
When I opened the Hudson’s back door, Mom said, “Gracie Girl, you ride up front with Daddy. I’ll keep Johnny company.”
Riding shotgun suited me fine. I loved to perch in the front seat by the driver. Besides, I was on the lookout for something.
As we rounded a curve on Route 23 past Louisa, a row of Burma Shave signs popped into view. I read the signs to Johnny:
Don’t stick
Your elbow
Out so far
It might go home
In another car
Burma Shave
He laughed and seemed to be over my crack about “Troublesome Creek.”
After six hours on the road, we pulled up to Grandma’s house. I shot out of the Hudson as quick as a jack-in-the-box. I couldn’t wait to see Grandma and discover the surprise.
Chapter 2
The Wireless
My voice exploded in a slightly off-key version of “Happy Birthday” as we marched—I led, followed by Johnny, Mom and Daddy—through Grandma’s door. Johnny darted around me, squealing more than singing.
Grandma’s mouth fell open, and her hands flew up and covered it, but she couldn’t hide the twinkle in her eyes. After we finished belting out the song, she spread her arms wide as we rushed toward her for a hello hug.
“Open your present, Grandma,” the words sprang out of my mouth before anyone else had time to speak. My itch to find out what was in that box was a prickle that needed scratching.
“Grace Ann, having my family here with me is the best birthday present of all,” she said. “I don’t need anything else. Mercy, it does my heart good to see everyone.”
We talked and hugged some more; then Grandma said, “I’d better check on my pie.” Grandma rushed into the kitchen, and I trotted after her. As she lifted the pie out of the oven of her wood stove, she looked down at me. “It’s apple. Your favorite, Gracie Girl. I used honey for sweetening. With this war going on, sugar is hard to come by. I’m thankful for my beehives.”
For the first time ever, I had my mind on something besides Grandma’s hot-from-the-oven, tickle-my-tummy-good apple pie. But I also wanted to get back to the birthday celebration. “When are you going to open your present, Grandma?” I asked, jumping around with hopscotch feet.
“Well, child, I guess there is no time like the present to open a present,” Grandma answered. She fussed with the pie a minute longer. I’d been waiting on this surprise all day. Grandma’s fussiness with that pie was about more than I could stand.
As I watched Grandma turn the pie and inspect it, I blurted out impatiently, “Are you going to open your present now?”
“Yes, indeed,” Grandma answered. “Now let’s see what we have in that box.” She wiped her hands on her apron and followed me into the parlor.
Grandma gently lifted off the bow and, with as much care, unwrapped the box. She folded the fancy paper and said she would save it and the bow for another present. The box was a tough one. Grandma pulled and tugged at the lids, but they would not give. Daddy pitched in with a gentle pull and a tender tug. I wanted them to rip and slash the box open. Instead, they tore into it one little ole lid at a time, slow-poking around. I stood on tiptoes to try to see inside the box. I jumped up high, keeping my eyes on the open lid. Nothing worked. I couldn’t see a thing but box.
The second lid popped up. I stretched my neck. I jumped again. T
he third and fourth lids opened wide. Grandma eased her head over the wide box and gazed inside. She looked up at Daddy and asked, “Son, what is this thing?”
“It’s a radio, Ma,” Daddy explained. “It’s called a wireless. You can listen to the news instead of having to wait for the newspaper. You can listen to music too.”
“I’ve never listened to a wireless,” Grandma declared. “But I’ve heard of it. Some of my neighbors have them, but I’ve had no need for one.”
“It’s 1944,” Daddy said, “and high time you entered the modern world.”
“Uh huh,” Grandma muttered as she stared at the wireless.
“Especially now that people want to know what’s going on with the war,” Mom said. “We’d have a wireless ourselves, but there’s no radio station in Hazard.”
By the time Daddy got the wireless out of the box and set it on a table, I was bouncing around like a kernel of popcorn in hot oil. By the time he turned the knob, my kernel popped. I stood there, in the middle of the parlor, and listened.
The magic box was a cube of shiny brown wood, a little more than a foot tall, a foot wide and a foot deep. Knobs adorned the face of the wireless to turn the radio on and off, to adjust the volume and to dial in a station. The dial was a circle shape with numbers wrapping around the edge like a clock. It even had a hand like a clock. With a twist of the knob, the hand found a number on the dial. Daddy turned the knob back and forth, adjusting it to find the best sound from the station. Holes covered with cloth surrounded the dial, and words and music flowed out of the holes.
I hummed along as I listened to the music gushing out of the magic box. My arms swayed like kites in a gentle breeze to a slow tune, but when a “Cow Cow Boogie” tore loose, so did my feet. I felt the rhythm, and the rhythm carried me around the room, sashaying to the beat. I pranced a sassy dance, flinging my arms, tossing my head and tapping my toes as I swiped a polished path on Grandma’s already shiny floor.
