fell open. I suddenly knew what that pile of paper under the magazines was for.
They were for my new typewriter.
Eight
When Doc Travis finished his visit and drove away, I did the few chores that needed to be done, then went inside to look at my typewriter.
Ike had tried on his shirt and overalls, and now they had been folded and put away. Mama had tried on her dresses and shoes, and now they had been put away. It was my turn to try out my typewriter, something I wanted to do in private. I don’t know why, but I felt I had to be alone with it, that I had to do this without even Mama watching.
I took it in the back room where Ike and I slept and set it on the dresser and pulled up a chair and padded it with pillows. I put a sheet of paper in the machine and punched a key.
The letter I jumped onto the page.
I sat there and looked at it for a long time. Then, at will, I pushed key after key, and finally I quit just hitting them and started looking at what I was doing and began to make words.
It was like magic to me. Any thought that stirred in my head I could put on paper, and it would stare back at me.
For a while, I felt like a god with people and places at the command of my two, hard-punching fingers.
It was about as good a feeling as I ever had.
Nine
Twelve sheets of paper later, filled front to back with nothing that would have meant anything to anyone but me, I put the typewriter under the bed and the typed paper in the box between the clean sheets. Ike and Mama respected what was mine enough not to meddle, but I felt better about not putting it out where someone might read my secret thoughts and maybe snicker over them.
I went outside, tossed the chickens some cornbread crumbs, split some kindling for the stove, then asked Mama if I could go over and see Abraham. She told me she had nothing against it.
Abraham Wilson was my best friend. He was colored. He lived on the other side of the Sabine even deeper in the woods than we did. His father Buck Wilson was an A-l field hand, and he got fifty cents a day for work same as the whites. That was real good pay for colored, as they were usually lucky to get half as much.
Papa always thought that was a bad thing, and told me time and again that a man’s color ought not to have anything to do with his thinking or working. That had to do with the man.
All I knew was that I’d grown up with Abraham and we’d swum the river together and had sword duels with willow limbs and fished since we were old enough to wander off from the house by ourselves. His color didn’t seem to make none of those things less fun.
Abraham’s grandfather, great-grandfather, and a whole pack of brothers and sisters lived with him in a house about three times the size of ours, and better built to boot. Abraham’s papa was a fine carpenter, and he knew how to split logs and make lumber without having to tote them to the saw mill. He was as handy as a pocket on a shirt with that sort of thing.
Papa had plans to trade out something with Buck Wilson and get him to do some carpenter work on our shack. Papa was all thumbs when it came to building things. He was a good hunter and fisherman, a fair farmer, but just about the lousiest builder you ever did see. And I wasn’t any better. Anytime we built a fence or a hog pen, you dang near had to tie it to a tree so it would stand up.
I put some of the pulp magazines inside my shirt, got my .22, and called up the pup, Roger, to go with me, just in case we ran across some squirrels to pot.
Roger bounced along beside me for a bit, then when we got deep in the woods, he darted off the trail and scared up a flock of birds that darn near fluttered into my face before flying up through the pine and oak limbs to reach the sky.
As I walked, I sort of half-listened for Roger’s bark. If he found a squirrel his mouth would tell me. That dog wasn’t any seasoned hunter, but he was promising and blessed with one fine mouth. He had a sound for every
They were for my new typewriter.
Eight
When Doc Travis finished his visit and drove away, I did the few chores that needed to be done, then went inside to look at my typewriter.
Ike had tried on his shirt and overalls, and now they had been folded and put away. Mama had tried on her dresses and shoes, and now they had been put away. It was my turn to try out my typewriter, something I wanted to do in private. I don’t know why, but I felt I had to be alone with it, that I had to do this without even Mama watching.
I took it in the back room where Ike and I slept and set it on the dresser and pulled up a chair and padded it with pillows. I put a sheet of paper in the machine and punched a key.
The letter I jumped onto the page.
I sat there and looked at it for a long time. Then, at will, I pushed key after key, and finally I quit just hitting them and started looking at what I was doing and began to make words.
It was like magic to me. Any thought that stirred in my head I could put on paper, and it would stare back at me.
For a while, I felt like a god with people and places at the command of my two, hard-punching fingers.
It was about as good a feeling as I ever had.
Nine
Twelve sheets of paper later, filled front to back with nothing that would have meant anything to anyone but me, I put the typewriter under the bed and the typed paper in the box between the clean sheets. Ike and Mama respected what was mine enough not to meddle, but I felt better about not putting it out where someone might read my secret thoughts and maybe snicker over them.
I went outside, tossed the chickens some cornbread crumbs, split some kindling for the stove, then asked Mama if I could go over and see Abraham. She told me she had nothing against it.
Abraham Wilson was my best friend. He was colored. He lived on the other side of the Sabine even deeper in the woods than we did. His father Buck Wilson was an A-l field hand, and he got fifty cents a day for work same as the whites. That was real good pay for colored, as they were usually lucky to get half as much.
Papa always thought that was a bad thing, and told me time and again that a man’s color ought not to have anything to do with his thinking or working. That had to do with the man.
All I knew was that I’d grown up with Abraham and we’d swum the river together and had sword duels with willow limbs and fished since we were old enough to wander off from the house by ourselves. His color didn’t seem to make none of those things less fun.
Abraham’s grandfather, great-grandfather, and a whole pack of brothers and sisters lived with him in a house about three times the size of ours, and better built to boot. Abraham’s papa was a fine carpenter, and he knew how to split logs and make lumber without having to tote them to the saw mill. He was as handy as a pocket on a shirt with that sort of thing.
Papa had plans to trade out something with Buck Wilson and get him to do some carpenter work on our shack. Papa was all thumbs when it came to building things. He was a good hunter and fisherman, a fair farmer, but just about the lousiest builder you ever did see. And I wasn’t any better. Anytime we built a fence or a hog pen, you dang near had to tie it to a tree so it would stand up.
I put some of the pulp magazines inside my shirt, got my .22, and called up the pup, Roger, to go with me, just in case we ran across some squirrels to pot.
Roger bounced along beside me for a bit, then when we got deep in the woods, he darted off the trail and scared up a flock of birds that darn near fluttered into my face before flying up through the pine and oak limbs to reach the sky.
As I walked, I sort of half-listened for Roger’s bark. If he found a squirrel his mouth would tell me. That dog wasn’t any seasoned hunter, but he was promising and blessed with one fine mouth. He had a sound for every
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