Velva Jean Learns to Fly Read Online Free PDF

I had ever had. I had done so much to get here, to this seat up in the balcony. I didn’t know where I was going to sleep or how I was going to earn money. I didn’t know the first thing about starting my new life as a singer. I missed my family. I missed Fair Mountain. But at this moment I didn’t miss Harley. Instead I sat there and thought about all the things I had done to get there, to that very seat. It was funny what you could do in twenty-four hours. You could start the day in one place, married to a man you sometimes liked but most of the time didn’t, and you could end the next day in another place, far away, a single woman chasing her dreams. I thought there was some kind of miracle in that.
    After Roy Acuff finished his last song, Judge Hay shuffled back to the microphone. As the Smoky Mountain Boys started playing soft in the background, the judge—around his cigar—said:
    Nothing to breathe but air,
Quick as a flash ’tis gone;
Nothing to fall but off, nowhere to stand but on . . .
     
    Nothing to sing but songs,
Ah well, alas! alack!
Nowhere to go but out, nowhere to come but back.
    I sat there for a long time, until the auditorium cleared out and one of the ushers told me to go. He was an itty-bitty boy with bright red freckles. I said, “I’d like to speak to Judge Hay, please.” I stood up and I was taller than the boy by half a foot.
    He said, “Sister, you and about a thousand other people.”
    I thought, Really? Well that’s fine, but he’ll see me, just you watch. Outside the night was alive and bright, the streetlamps glowing like lightning bugs, the people talking and singing and walking arm in arm, the streetcars jangling up and down. I stepped out into the middle of it.
    I decided to walk around back of the building because maybe Judge Hay wouldn’t want to be in this crowd with so many people wanting to talk to him, and maybe there was a door back there that he could leave from. The building was a long way around but I followed it, over the sidewalk and then, when that ran out, the grass and the dirt. There were men standing out back, smoking cigarettes, and talking in low voices. Every now and then one would laugh, a great booming sound.
    I walked up and said, “I’d like to see Judge Hay, please.” I tried to look like I knew what I was doing. I stuck out my jaw a little, just like Johnny Clay always did when he meant business.
    They stared at me like I was a haint. I could tell they didn’t know whether to be rude or nice. Finally one of them said, “He’s already gone on home, little lady.”
    I said, “Are you sure he ain’t in there?”
    He smiled at this, but only on one side of his mouth. He said, “I’m sure.”
    One of the other men said, “On his mama’s grave.”
    The first man said, “Shut up, Otis.” But he didn’t say it mean.
    I thought their accents were funny—like ours but not as thick. Maybe a little more twangy, like an out-of-tune guitar string. I stared hard at the back door, like I could see through it—like maybe I could see if Judge Hay was really in there or not.
    The first man said to me, “Honest, honey. He’s really gone on home.”
    I said, “Thank you.” As I turned away, they stayed quiet, and I knew they were watching me or watching each other till I went away. Just before I rounded the building, they started talking again.
    Back out front, I lost myself in the crowd. I thought I would walk along for a bit and pretend I was on my way somewhere, to someone, that somebody was waiting for me, that I knew where I was going. The night was clear and warm, and it felt good to be a part of something.
    Even if I hadn’t got to talk to Judge Hay, I was in such a good mood from the Opry that I felt bad over scolding Jesus about the flat tire. As I walked down Church Street, I thought: Dear Lord, I’m sorry for getting so mad. It’s just that things are hard and I’m out here alone in this world, and it was tough enough leaving home for