but I couldn’t keep it up. I managed to blurt out, “Granny, I don’t want to go home ever again. I just don’t want to. Please let me stay.” Then I started to bawl so hard I didn’t think I’d ever be able to stop. Granny got up and held onto me the whole time. She didn’t say a word until she knew I was done.
“Annie …”
“Uh-huh.”
“You know I don’t want you to go home …”
“Yes.”
“An’ you know I never told you a lie.”
“I know.”
“Then you know if I tell you you’re a lucky girl, that’s the truth.”
“How can I be lucky?”
“’cause a lot of people when they unhappy, theycan’t do nothin’ about it. But you can, ’cause you’re smart. You got brains. An’ when a person’s got brains they got a ticket to any place they want to go—a ticket to the whole world.”
“What kind of a ticket?”
She tapped her head. “Right up here. Didn’t you tell me that if you was to work hard an’ really study you could be teachin’ school by the time you’re sixteen?”
“That’s what my teacher said.”
“Then that’s what you got to think about, about bein’ a teacher an’ gettin’ outta them dirty minin’ places.”
“I’ll never be able to do it, Granny, never.” I was ready to start crying all over again, but Granny told me to stop right away. “An’ listen to me, ’cause I ain’t gonna say this twice.”
She told me to sit up. “You’re gonna do big things some day, Annie—real big things. But you can’t do them big things if you’re gonna go round feelin’ sorry for yourself.” She stopped for a second and she looked a little sad. “Your pa’s my son, child. He ain’t an easy man, but he ain’t a bad man neither. Whatever you think about ’im you just remember he always stood on his own two feet an’ he learned you the same. An’ he always paid his own way. That’s what the Hobbses is like—all of ’em. Maybe him and your ma ain’t been too understandin’ of you, but they fed you good an’ give you a roof. That’s more than many’s got …”
“But they don’t really want me, Granny.”
“Yes they do. They jus’ don’t know how to show it. But never mind that. If you got just
one
person in the whole world who loves you an’ believes in you, why that’s wonderful, don’t ya see. An’ you got one—me. I love you, an’ I believe in you. So anytime you get to thinkin’ you ain’t gonna make it, or that you can’t do somethin’ for your own selfs sake, you do it for my sake. Will you?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“That’s what I want to hear. You’ll see, Annie. Someday you’re gonna go off to a new land just like a pioneer—just like your grampa an’ me did. ’cause you’re that kind—a big person. An’ that’s the kind that goes to a new land.”
“But there’s no new lands, Granny. They’re all gone.”
“Shoot, child, there always be new lands.”
“Where?”
“California maybe, I don’t know. Or Alaska … Now there’s a new land, Alaska.”
I asked her what she knew about it, but she’d begun to get sleepy and so had I. A few minutes later we were asleep.
“Madam?” Mr. Strong had finished checking the animals over and had mounted up again. “I asked you if you are ready.”
“Yes,” I said, “I am.”
As we moved forward I thought of that last morning I’d spent with Granny. When it was close to train time a neighboring woman had ridden into the yard with a buckboard. Granny had gone as far as the main road with us, then we hugged each other good-bye. She’d felt like a strong little bird.
As the buckboard drove off and I turned around to see her waving to me I had to fight to hold in the tears. “Don’t worry,” the driver said, “you’ll be back some day.”
I hadn’t answered her, not knowing how to explain that I wasn’t crying because I was going away, but because my grandmother had looked so small and alone as she stood in the middle of
“Annie …”
“Uh-huh.”
“You know I don’t want you to go home …”
“Yes.”
“An’ you know I never told you a lie.”
“I know.”
“Then you know if I tell you you’re a lucky girl, that’s the truth.”
“How can I be lucky?”
“’cause a lot of people when they unhappy, theycan’t do nothin’ about it. But you can, ’cause you’re smart. You got brains. An’ when a person’s got brains they got a ticket to any place they want to go—a ticket to the whole world.”
“What kind of a ticket?”
She tapped her head. “Right up here. Didn’t you tell me that if you was to work hard an’ really study you could be teachin’ school by the time you’re sixteen?”
“That’s what my teacher said.”
“Then that’s what you got to think about, about bein’ a teacher an’ gettin’ outta them dirty minin’ places.”
“I’ll never be able to do it, Granny, never.” I was ready to start crying all over again, but Granny told me to stop right away. “An’ listen to me, ’cause I ain’t gonna say this twice.”
She told me to sit up. “You’re gonna do big things some day, Annie—real big things. But you can’t do them big things if you’re gonna go round feelin’ sorry for yourself.” She stopped for a second and she looked a little sad. “Your pa’s my son, child. He ain’t an easy man, but he ain’t a bad man neither. Whatever you think about ’im you just remember he always stood on his own two feet an’ he learned you the same. An’ he always paid his own way. That’s what the Hobbses is like—all of ’em. Maybe him and your ma ain’t been too understandin’ of you, but they fed you good an’ give you a roof. That’s more than many’s got …”
“But they don’t really want me, Granny.”
“Yes they do. They jus’ don’t know how to show it. But never mind that. If you got just
one
person in the whole world who loves you an’ believes in you, why that’s wonderful, don’t ya see. An’ you got one—me. I love you, an’ I believe in you. So anytime you get to thinkin’ you ain’t gonna make it, or that you can’t do somethin’ for your own selfs sake, you do it for my sake. Will you?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“That’s what I want to hear. You’ll see, Annie. Someday you’re gonna go off to a new land just like a pioneer—just like your grampa an’ me did. ’cause you’re that kind—a big person. An’ that’s the kind that goes to a new land.”
“But there’s no new lands, Granny. They’re all gone.”
“Shoot, child, there always be new lands.”
“Where?”
“California maybe, I don’t know. Or Alaska … Now there’s a new land, Alaska.”
I asked her what she knew about it, but she’d begun to get sleepy and so had I. A few minutes later we were asleep.
“Madam?” Mr. Strong had finished checking the animals over and had mounted up again. “I asked you if you are ready.”
“Yes,” I said, “I am.”
As we moved forward I thought of that last morning I’d spent with Granny. When it was close to train time a neighboring woman had ridden into the yard with a buckboard. Granny had gone as far as the main road with us, then we hugged each other good-bye. She’d felt like a strong little bird.
As the buckboard drove off and I turned around to see her waving to me I had to fight to hold in the tears. “Don’t worry,” the driver said, “you’ll be back some day.”
I hadn’t answered her, not knowing how to explain that I wasn’t crying because I was going away, but because my grandmother had looked so small and alone as she stood in the middle of
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