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She gave me a picture she'd made of me sitting ... along with balls all over the country, will go, ... money enough for anything like a real present.
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Beginning: August 1920 As summer wheat came ripe,so did I,born at home, on the kitchen floor.Ma crouched,barefoot, bare bottomedover the swept boards,because that's where Daddy said it'd be best.I came too fast for the doctor,bawling as soon as Daddy wiped his hand aroundinside my mouth.To hear Ma tell it, I hollered myself red the day I was born.
Red's the color I've stayed ever since.Daddy named me Billie Jo.He wanted a boy.Instead,he got a long-legged girlwith a wide mouthand cheekbones like bicycle handles.He got a redheaded, heckle-faced, narrow-hipped girlwith a fondness for applesand a hunger for playing fierce piano.From the earliest I can rememberI've been restless in thislittle Panhandle shack we call home,always getting in Ma's way with mypointy elbows, my fidgety legs.By the summer I turned nine Daddy had given up about having a boy.
and living in Lubbock,a ways south of here,and a whole world apartto hear Daddy tell it.And Ma, with only Great-uncle Floyd,old as ancient Indian bones,and mean as a rattler,rotting away in that room down in Dallas.I'll be nearly fourteen just like Aunt Ellis was when Daddy was born by the time this baby comes.Wonder if Daddy'll get his boy this time? January 1934Rabbit Battles Mr. Noble andMr. Romney have a bet going as to who can kill the most rabbits.
It all started at the rabbit drive last Mondayover to Sturgiswhen Mr. Noble got himself worked upabout the damage done to his crop by jacks.Mr. Romney swore he'd had more rabbit troublethan anyone in Cimarron County.They pledged revenge on the rabbit population;wagering who could kill more.They ought to just shut up.Betting on how many rabbits they can kill.Honestly!Grown men clubbing bunnies to death.Makes me sick to my stomach.I know rabbits eat what they shouldn't,especially this time of year when they could hophalfway to Liberal and still not find food,
I'm scowling too,but scowling won't bring the rabbits back.They're all skinned and cooked and eaten by now.At least they didn't end up inRomney and Noble's cook pots.They went to familiesthat needed the meat. January 1934 Losing Livie Livie Killian moved away.I didn't want her to go.We'd been friends since first grade.The farewell party wasThursday nightat the Old Rock Schoolhouse. Livie
had something to tease each of us about,like Raysleeping through reading class,and Hillary,who on her speed-writing test putan "even ton" of childreninstead of an "even ten."Livie said good-bye to each of us,separately.She gave me a picture she'd made of me sittingin front of a piano,wearing my straw hat,an apple halfway to my mouth.I handed Livie the memory book we'd allfilled with our different slants.I couldn't get the muscles in my throat relaxed enough
Arley Wanderdale,who teaches music once a week at our school,though Ma says he's no teacher at all, just a local song plugger, Arley Wanderdale askedif I'd like to play a piano soloat the Palace Theatre on Wednesday night.I grinned,pleased to be asked, and said,"That'd be all right."I didn't know if Ma would let me.She's an old mule on the subject of my schooling.She says,"You stay home on weeknights, Billie Jo."And mostly that's what I do.But Arley Wanderdale said, "The management asked me to
bring them talent, Billie Jo,and I thought of you.""You and Mad Dog,"Even before Mad Dog Craddock? I wondered.Arley Wanderdale said.Darn that blue-eyed boywith his fine face and hissmooth voice,twice as goodas a plowboy has any right to be.I suspected Mad Dog had come firstto Arley Wanderdale's mind,but I didn't get too riled. Not so riled I couldn't say yes. January 1934 Permission to Play
but anyhow,she was distracted enough,I was determined enough,this time I got just what I wanted.Permission to play at the Palace. January 1934 On Stage When I point my fingers at the keys,
the music springs straight out of me.
Right hand playing notes sharp as
tongues, telling stories while the
smooth
buttery rhythms back me up
on the left. Folks sway in the
Palace aisles grinning and stomping and
out of breath, and the rest, eyes shining,
fingers snapping, feet tapping. It's the best
I ever felt playing hot piano,
sizzling with Mad Dog,Swinging with the Black Mesa Boys,or on my own,
crazy I’ve ever felt,
Not Too Much To Ask We haven't had a good crop in three years, Not since the bounty of '31, and we're all whittled down to the bone these days,even Ma, with her new round belly,but stillwhen the committee came asking,Ma donated:three jars of apple sauceand some cured pork,and afeed-sack nightie she'd sewn for our coming baby. February 1934 Mr. Hardly's Money Handling
of charging too much for his stale food,and he made bad change when he thoughthe could get away with it.I squinted back at him as I gave him Ma's order.Mr. Hardly'sbeen worse than normalsince his attic filled with dustand collapsed under the weight.He hired folks for the repairs,And argued over every nail and everylittle minute.The whole place tookshoveling for days before he couldopen again andsome stock was so bad ithad to be thrown away. The stove clanked in the corner
as Mr. Hardly filled Ma's order.I could smell apples,ground coffee, and peppermint.I sorted through the patterns on the feed bags,sneezed dust,blew my nose.When Mr. Hardly finished sacking my things,I paid the bill,and tucking the list in my pocket along with thechange,hurried home,so Ma could bake the cake before Daddy came in.But after Ma emptied the sack,setting each packet out on theoilcloth, she counted her changeand I remembered with a sinking feeling that I hadn't kept an eye on
