by Nancy Allen
Chapter 10
Victory
I missed my old school and my best friend, Lily, but I had to admit that my new school wasn’t bad. I was starting to like it. Carolyn and Janie, my new friends, were sweet, and my teacher, Mrs. Martin, was nice too. But there was Vickie, the bully who had but one thing on her mind: tormenting me, the new kid.
Vickie got up to sharpen her pencils, all three of them. She strolled back to her seat and jabbed me in the arm with each one.
The way I figured it, I had to do something about Vickie, and soon. I remember Daddy always telling me to stand up for myself and what I believed in. An idea had been simmering in my mind, so I decided to serve it up. If my idea worked, the days of pencil-point throbbing would be nothing but a grim memory. If my idea didn’t work, I was no worse off. I had zero to lose and a lot to gain. I took a deep breath to muster all the courage I had in me and eased around in my seat to face the enemy.
Before I could say a word, Vickie narrowed her eyes and snapped, “What do you want?” The grumbly sound of her voice and her dead-on stare told me she wasn’t really interested in hearing what I wanted.
My courage evaporated. Finally, I squeaked out, “I dreamed about you last night, Vickie.”
“What about?” she asked, still snappy but sounding a little more interested.
Her faint interest renewed my nerve. “I dreamed that all your teeth fell out and your eyes crossed and stayed that way the rest of your life,” I said. My toes squeezed into little balls, I was so edgy.
“Huh?” Vickie grunted. Her snarled upper lip let me know she didn’t think much of my dream.
“Yep,” I went on with the tall tale as my courage picked up steam. “You know about dreams, don’t you? If you have the same dream three times?”
“Noooooo,” Vickie answered, stretching the word like it was made of chewing gum. “What about dreams?” Her upper lip had dropped, and little wrinkles formed between her eyes.
“Back at my other school,” I said, “I knew a girl, Janet. She dreamed that Frank, a boy in our class, would grow warts all over his face. Janet had the same dream three times. After her third dream, Frank came to school the next morning with twenty-two warts, from his forehead to his chin. The biggest wart grew on the end of his nose and looked like a brand-new pencil eraser, maybe because it was about the same size and color, pinkish.”
Vickie looked shocked. Her eyes bulged like a bullfrog.
“Yep,” I told her. “Twenty-two warts. Counted them myself. If you keep aggravating me, I guess I’ll keep dreaming about you. Be prepared to eat soft foods and look sideways to see. Two more dreams is all it’ll take. Of course, if you leave me alone, I’ll probably never dream about you again.”
Vickie leaned back in her chair. Her bottom lip jerked in a nervous tremor. Two hours later, I hadn’t been jabbed, tripped or threatened. I was proud of myself for following Dad’s advice and sticking up for myself. I knew he was being very brave at war, and I was doing the same on the homefront.
That afternoon, two men came to school. The men took turns talking to us about planting a victory garden. The tall man held up a poster and walked around the room so each student could get an up-close look. The poster was a picture of a little boy planting a garden. On the bottom were the words “Plant a victory garden. A garden will make your rations go further.”
Tommy raised his hand and announced, “I’m growing a victory garden with lots of watermelons.”
“You made a fine choice of crops,” the tall man said.
Tommy, wearing a big grin, twisted around in his desk and looked back at the rest of us.
“As you know, certain foods like sugar, butter and eggs have been rationed. You can only buy a small amount of each due to labor and transportation shortages,” the tall man explained. “Does anyone know why we have labor and transportation shortages?”
Carolyn raised her hand. “Because of the war. A lot of our workers are soldiers and are out of the country.”
“You’re right,” the short man answered. “Everyone, grown-ups and children, should plant a victory garden. If every family plants a garden, there will be enough food for us to eat at home and to feed the soldiers.”
Daddy was a soldier. I sure wanted him to have enough food to eat. At home, we had plenty of food, with our ration coupons and Grandma’s food she canned last summer. More chocolate would have been a treat. That was my favorite food of all, chocolate fudge, the kind Grandma made.
Mom and Grandma were extra careful with our ration coupons. Every night, we listened to the slogan on the wireless, “Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without.” If we ran out of coupons, we couldn’t get any more of that food, like sugar to make cakes and pies and candy, until the following month when we got our next supply of coupons. Last month, Grandma ran out of points for sugar and butter, so she couldn’t make chocolate fudge. Good thing she had the beehives and could still make cookies and cakes with honey. Grandma was extra, extra careful with coffee and meat points, too.
We didn’t take the Hudson many places either because gas was rationed. Mom said we had to save our gas coupons in case of an emergency. I didn’t know what kind of emergency she was expecting, but whatever came up, we should be able to handle it, if the emergency involved travel. Mom liked to plan ahead.
The tall man said, “Each of you can pick out two packets of seeds to take home and plant. Choose seeds of plants you will enjoy growing in your garden. Remember, you’ll have more food to enjoy, and you’ll be helping the soldiers too.”
The short man carried a box filled with seed packets. He began with the first row of students and walked from desk to desk. When he placed the box on my desk, I looked through the packets. I remembered my neighbor back in Hazard planted pumpkins, and he always gave Johnny and me each a pumpkin to decorate for Halloween. I picked two packets of pumpkin seeds.
A few minutes after the two men left, a siren blasted. Mrs. Martin said we had to practice what to do in case the Axis forces attacked our community in an air raid. Each of us lined up and walked out of the classroom to the cafeteria. We grouped close to the two interior walls and sat with our legs crossed.
I looked around for Johnny and saw him sitting with his class. He didn’t seem upset or scared. Instead, he yawned and rubbed his eyes the way he always did right before he went to sleep. That boy! I didn’t know how anyone could think of sleep with the screeching noise, but if anyone could, that would be my brother. We sat there until the siren stopped; then all groups walked back to their classrooms.
On the way home from school, Johnny showed me his two packets of carrot seeds. As we walked along the riverbank, I heard someone shouting, “Grace, Grace, wait up!” I stopped and turned around. Vickie ran up to me.
I stepped away and stuck my hands behind my back. I wanted to avoid any sharp jabs that might fly in my direction.
“I don’t have a place to grow a garden,” Vickie said. “You can have my seeds.”
Stunned by her kindness, I slowly reached out my hand, and she placed the packets in it. Then she turned and walked off. “Good luck with your garden,” she called out but didn’t look back.
I looked at my four packets of pumpkin seeds. An idea clicked.
Chapter 11
The Plan
Dear Daddy,
Two men came to school last week and gave away seeds. So I’ve got seeds, and I’ve got a plan. I picked pumpkin seeds, and a girl in my class handed me two more packets. I’m going to grow lots and lots of pumpkins and sell them. People will want to make pumpkin pies and jack-o’-lanterns with them. I’ll use the money to buy a bicycle. Grandma says it takes gumption to follow through on a plan like that, and she said she had faith in me to do it. Johnny said he had faith in me to grow lots and lots of plants, but most people called the kind of plants I’ll grow “weeds.”
Mr. Wilson sold the red bicycle at his store, but he’s trying to find another one like it. If he does, he’s going to p
aint it red. Red is my favorite color and the perfect color for a bicycle.
Mom took me to work with her for a little while today. She made apple trees. Honest. The apple trees Farmer Smith plants in his orchard don’t grow from seeds. Mom pieces the tree together like Grandma pieces a quilt. Mom cuts off a bud, and then she cuts a slit in the bark of the tree. She presses the bud into the slit and wraps tape around the bud to hold it there, good and tight. It’s called “grafting” an apple tree. Mom says the buds will grow and make Macintosh apples.
The orchard has a shed with a stove in the back corner, like the one at my old school. The pot-bellied stove has a big, round middle like Santa’s belly. The belly holds the wood and coal where the fire burns. I’ll take you to the shed when you come home and show you how to graft a bud onto an apple tree. I hope I won’t have to wait too long.
We listen to the wireless every night. I listen for news about you.
I love you,
Gracie Girl
P.S. Look at the picture of Spot I drew for you. See how big he is. Spot said WOOF WOOF. In dog talk, that means, “Hurry home.”
One Saturday morning in May, Grandma’s neighbor, Mr. Wick, brought his mule Moonglow over to plow the field behind Grandma’s house.
Spot ran over to Moonglow. I had never seen anything like it. That mule and my sweet mutt were nose to nose, sniffing. Spot wagged his tail, and Moonglow twitched his ears.
“I never did care much for a mutt,” Mr. Wick said as he watched those two. “I declare, Moonglow seems right taken with Spot.”
Mr. Wick was right. Those two were friends in the making. It made me so happy to see that while I was busy making friends at school and adjusting to our new life, Spot was doing the same.
Mom walked over and said, “I’m going to have a separate place plowed for your pumpkins, Grace Ann. Pumpkin vines spread, so I don’t want them with the other vegetables.”
A separate garden was fine with me, so long as I had a place to grow the big orange jack-o’-lanterns.
“What about a place for my carrots?” Johnny asked.
“You can plant your carrot seeds near the tomatoes,” Grandma answered. “While Mr. Wick plows, you two need to make a scarecrow to keep the birds away.”
“We could hang Grace on a fence post. With that face of hers, she could scare off a whole flock of birds,” Johnny smartmouthed. “We wouldn’t need a scarecrow.”
“Oh, yeah?” I answered. “Somebody might not think you’re so funny. That somebody might be me.” I leaped toward Johnny. He bounded across the field and out onto the path we walked to school.
I chased Johnny with Spot at my heels, but I didn’t really try to catch him. All that joking around reminded me of Daddy. He laughed when Johnny and I joked and pretended to fuss.
I walked back over to where Grandma stood, sorting seeds for planting. I told her how much I missed having Daddy home and that I wished he was here to help plant the seeds.
“We all miss your daddy, my sweet child.” Grandma poured bean seeds in one cup and cucumber seeds in another. “But remember, we have to be strong. Have gumption.” I heard a little catch in her voice. As she jerked her face away from mine, I caught a glimmer of a tear, or maybe it was the sunlight glistening in her eyes.
Mom and Grandma tackled cucumber hills and rows for planting beans and corn as I hoofed it over to the toolshed where Grandma kept her garden supplies. Rummaging around, I found an old pair of overalls, faded and torn in more places than I could count. Grandpa wore them before he passed on. I searched some more and found an old shirt with half the back ripped out. “Perfect clothes for a scarecrow,” I told Spot.”
Spot yapped. In dog talk, that meant he agreed.
Johnny found an old worn-out basket for a head and a wooden box for a body. I hung the basket high on the fence post and the box on a nail a few inches below it. Next came the hard part: tugging the clothes around the box—first the shirt, then the pants.
Johnny ran back to Grandma’s tool shed and found a smashed straw hat with the biggest part of the brim gone. He climbed the fence and tied the hat to the basket.
I stuffed old leftover corn stalks from last year’s garden in the shirtsleeves and pant legs. Then I stood back to eye our work.
“Perfect,” I announced.
Spot yapped again in approval.
“That’s a fine piece of labor there, Gracie Girl, Johnny,” Grandma said. “I never thought I’d see your grandpa’s old work clothes put to use again, but it does my heart good to see them out here. It’s kind of like having him back with us.” Grandma smiled and grabbed a cup of corn to plant.
“Grace Ann,” Mom called, “you can plant your pumpkins now.” She pointed to an area at the side of Grandma’s house where Mr. Wick and Moonglow had plowed.
I spent the afternoon tossing rocks out of the plowed ground. Johnny was a big help, running around pretending to be a fire engine. He stayed a safe distance from me but close enough to whisper, “Scarecrow” every time I looked his way.
Johnny kept jumping around, wanting to plant his carrot seeds and just plain being a pest. Finally, I’d had enough of his foolishness. “Johnny, did you know that rabbits set their mouths for sweet, ripe carrots?” I asked him.
“They can have your pumpkins, Scarecrow,” he said with a giggle.
“You know about rabbit dreams, don’t you?” I asked. I figured if my tall tales were good enough for Vickie, they were good enough for Johnny, too.
Johnny shook his head. “No.”
“If you dream about a rabbit eating carrots,” I told him, “the dream will happen. It’s true. Last year, Janie dreamed that rabbits ate her carrots, and sure enough, they did. About a week later, Carolyn had the same dream. Guess who had no carrots?”
Johnny looked at me.
“If you keep bothering me,” I said, “I’ll probably dream about rabbits and your carrots. I can see my dream already and the crunch, crunch, crunch of carrot-chomping bunnies.”
Johnny wore a look of pure fear.
I spouted off, “Yep, too bad about your carrots. Rabbits leave all other vegetables alone.”
That brother of mine didn’t look too happy with the news. Served him right for calling me “Scarecrow” and making a pest of himself, but he settled down and played with a toy truck.
I used the hoe to build big hills of dirt, and then I flattened the tops of each. I dropped six seeds, spaced way apart, onto each hill. I used my finger to poke the seeds down under the dirt. Mr. Wick left some of Moonglow’s dried-up manure to use as a fertilizer. I pulled on Grandma’s garden gloves, mixed some loose soil with the dried mule pies and sprinkled the stuff on top of the planted seeds. For good luck, I crossed my fingers and tapped each hill.
I trudged into Grandma’s kitchen, tired but excited. I couldn’t wait for little green pumpkin plants to push up through the dirt.
After supper, we listened to the wireless. Walter Winchell talked about Eleanor Roosevelt, President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s wife, planting a victory garden at the White House.
“Grandma, I want my own victory garden,” I said. “I think Daddy would like that.”
Grandma smiled and said, “I’m sure he would. I’ll get Mr. Wick and Moonglow back early tomorrow morning.”
I didn’t want a victory garden like mom and Grandma had. I wanted something special, something different, and I knew exactly how to do it.
Chapter 12
Dig for Victory
“I’m a soldier of the soil,” I told Mom and Grandma the next morning as I explained my idea of a rainbow victory garden.
“A soldier of the soil is an important job,” Mom agreed.
Grandma pointed to the small front yard. “You can plant over there, Grace Ann.”
I walked over to check out the ground as Johnny eased down the front porch steps, yawned and stretched. “It’ll be a yarden,” he said.
I squinted my eyes at him to let him know how little I thought of his
humor. He yawned again and walked back into the house.
At school, I learned the colors of the rainbow as ROY G. BIV. That’s red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet—the colors of the produce I planned to harvest from my little patch.
Grandma rounded up her bags of seeds for me to use, and Mom helped me plan where to plant what.
The idea of growing vegetables made me feel like I was doing something to help our country, the way Daddy, Grandma and Mom were. The newsman had said over twenty million people planted victory gardens, so if they could, I could.
Mr. Wick brought Moonglow back and plowed the front yard. My garden may be little, but it would look spiffy, because there’s nothing much spiffier anywhere than a rainbow.
I began with tomatoes, the red kind.
“What are you going to plant for orange, Grace Ann?” Johnny asked. He had wandered back out after he scarfed up pancakes and honey for breakfast. His hands were full of seeds. “Carrots are orange.”
“Okay, we’ll plant carrots for orange,” I said. “I’m planting orange marigolds, too. I want to be able to see the colors of the rainbow when I look at the garden.”
“You can see carrots,” Johnny said as he dropped the seeds one at a time in the long ditch I made with the hoe.
“Carrot tops are green,” I told him. “The orange part is underground.”
“Humph!” he grunted.
“Besides, the marigolds will keep the bugs off the tomato plants,” I said.
Yellow was next. Grandma had grown some tender yellow tomato and cantaloupe seedlings. She handed me the strongest-looking plants and some corn seeds. I appreciated Grandma’s help, so I flashed my brightest smile her way and whispered, “Thanks.”
I’d been reading in Grandma’s magazines, the Saturday Evening Post and Ladies’ Home Journal, about how to raise a victory garden. Most people in the United States were raising fruits and vegetables. The government predicted that almost half of all vegetables harvested in America in 1944 would come from small victory gardens. I felt a tingle of pride—even greater than a tingle, more like a burst—that I was doing my part.
