Sheila Turnage meets Kate DiCamillo's Because of Winn-Dixie in this debut about a small town and a young girl who discovers some old family secrets.
Lou might be only twelve, but she’s never been one to take things sitting down. So when her Civil War-era house is about to be condemned, she’s determined to save it—either by getting it deemed a historic landmark or by finding the stash of gold rumored to be hidden nearby during the war. As Lou digs into the past, her eyes are opened when she finds that her ancestors ran the gamut of slave owners, renegades, thieves and abolitionists. Meanwhile, some incidents in her town show her that many Civil War era prejudices still survive and that the past can keep repeating itself if we let it. Digging into her past shows Lou that it’s never too late to fight injustice, and she starts to see the real value of understanding and exploring her roots.
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Lisa Lewis Tyre (www.lisalewistyre.com) grew up in the tiniest of towns in Tennessee. As a child, she heard a local legend of siblings that found enough Civil War gold in their field to pay off the family farm, and she and her friends spent many hours searching their own backyards for treasure. Lisa now lives in Atlanta and works in Advertising/Social Media consulting.
Chapter 1
“In Honor of My Engagement, Father Has Planned a Grand Celebration. the House Has Been Painted a Gleaming White, and Tables, Replete with Wild Flowers Are Scattered on the Lawn. the Whole Effect Is Worthy of a Charles Heath Illustration and I Can Barely Contain My Excitement at the Sound of Approaching Carriages.”
- From the diary of Louise Duncan Mayhew
Being the junkman’s daughter isn’t always as cool as it might sound. Sure I get first dibs on all kinds of good stuff—I now have three perfectly good 10-speed bikes—but it comes with a price. As soon as I saw Daddy’s dump truck sitting in the car line, shaking and rattling like it was about to throw a rod, I knew Sally Martin would have something snide to say. Mama usually drives me home, but Daddy had mentioned at breakfast that he had to pick up an old bleacher from the football field and might as well save her a trip. I could see a rusty end of it sticking up behind the cab.
“Nice ride, Louise,” she said. “You headed to the dump?” A couple of kids laughed and I calculated the chances of getting suspended for fighting on the last day of school.
Benjamin Zerto, my best friend, leaned closer and whispered, “You won’t have to see her for the whole summer. Take a deep breath and count to ten.” As if.
I looked at Sally and smirked. “You better stand back. My dad’s used to picking up useless crap and hauling it away. You could be next.”
I was rewarded with a gasp from Sally and a grin from Benzer, a win-win.
The car line moved and I could hear the roar of the truck as it lumbered forward. Normally the car line would be packed with kids, and I’d have some backup in addition to Benzer. But most kids left early, as soon as they had report cards and attendance awards. Even my cousin Patty and Franklin, the brains of our group, were gone.
“I don’t know how you stand it,” Sally sighed. “Being surrounded by junk would be bad enough, but it looks like your house is about to fall down around your ears. My father says it’s a crime to have such an eyesore right smack in the middle of town.”
I rolled my eyes. My house was a common target with Sally. I’d told her before that it looked old because it was—it had its 150th birthday last year. I wouldn’t waste my breath mentioning it again.
Sally smoothed down her skirt with one hand and smiled.
I swallowed hard. When Sally smiled, bad things usually followed.
“Benzer,” she said sweetly, turning to face him. “Are you coming to the pool this weekend? My dad is having a cookout for all the kids.” She looked at me. “All the kids in the neighborhood, I mean.”
Benzer and Sally lived in the only subdivision in town, or as my grandmother called it, “the Yankee enclave.” It was full of new, brick homes, and had a swimming pool and tennis courts with no cracks in them like the ones at the city park.
“I doubt it,” Benzer answered. “I’m helping Lou’s dad over the weekend.”
Sally pouted. “Oh, that’s too bad. I guess you’re going to have another boring summer. What did you write last year for your “My Summer Vacation” essay?” She laughed. “Oh, yeah. “Watching Paint Peel with Lou and Other Adventures in Boredom.”
I could feel my face turning red. Last year, the essay had seemed funny. Mine had been titled, “War Between the States—My Summer with A Yankee.” But after hearing everyone read about going to Disney, or renting houseboats for the summer, it had felt kind of lame. I looked for my dad. He had moved another few feet and if all went well, I’d be sitting in his truck and away from this in about ninety seconds.
“That was a joke,” Benzer said. “I like hanging out at Lou’s. It’s like something out of a R.L. Stine story.”
Benzer is a book-worm, but that doesn’t hurt him socially. He’s the most athletic boy in the entire sixth grade. He’s considered a northerner by some since he was born in New York City, even though he’s lived here in Zollicoffer since he was four, and considers himself a local. We’ve been best friends since Kindergarten when I sat on top of David Pinto until he promised to stop making fun of Benzer’s accent.
“R.L who?” Sally asked.
“Why don’t you spend the summer reading a book?” I asked.
Sally pulled a small mirror from her backpack and checked her hair. “I’ll be much too busy,” she said. “We’re going on a cruise in a few weeks. But I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to read while you’re sitting around watching the paint peel.”
Dad pulled to the curb and I moved to leave, but Sally’s smug smile did me in. “Benzer and I have exciting plans too, Sally. Sorry you’ll miss it all on your dopey cruise.” I caught Benzer’s startled look out of the corner of my eye, but I didn’t stop. “I guess you’ll hear all about it when you get back. If you don’t read about it in the newspaper first.”
Sally laughed. “Oh, really? I can hardly wait.”
I ignored Benzer’s stare and opened the dump truck’s door. It gave a loud screech and I slammed it shut. Sally murmured something to the girls around her about “Lou and her active imagination”. I could hear them all laughing as we pulled away.
My first morning of summer vacation was ruined when I woke up thinking about Sally Martin. My alarm clock—the clang-clang sound of metal hitting metal—signaled the scrap mountain of junk outside was getting bigger, and I looked out the window in time to see a rusty piece of tin join the pile. Great, more mess for Sally to make fun of.
Daddy inherited the house and the junk from his daddy, but he’s the one that made it into a business. He says that until he got it, it was just a dump. The good things—push mowers, freezers, stoves, and so on—were in the same pile with broken toilets and rusty tin. Now we don’t just pick up stuff, but resell it, too. Everything’s separated into four piles: the saleable, the fixable, the recyclable and Mama’s things. She’s an enviro-artist, which means she welds the junk together, and makes a bigger pile, called “art.”
I was in my bedroom laying on one of the fixables, a cast-iron bed Daddy had welded back together, when Mama called me down to breakfast. I lay there, listening to the sounds from below. I pictured my pregnant Mama standing at the stove cooking grits, her tummy so big she had to stretch her arm almost straight to stir. Bertie, my grandmother, would be sitting at the table drinking coffee, gossiping, and complaining how “Yankees are just everywhere I turn nowadays”. She says Yankees move to Tennessee regularly, but they don’t tend to stay long. They think things will be simpler. When they find out the truth, they race out of town as fast as their new SUV’s will take them.
Bertie claimed she moved in to help Mama with the baby preparations, and everyone went...
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