May B. (21 page)
Authors: Caroline Rose
Even though the world has looked
much the same
since Mr. Chapman stopped for me,
I know we’re getting nearer.
The land feels familiar,
and then I see the gentle rise,
a wisp of smoke
escaping from the chimney.
“Stop!”
I shout,
then remember myself.
“Please stop.”
Pa dug out,
as I’d imagined.
The land between the house and barn is clear.
I race toward the door
and shove it open.
“Ma,
Pa,
Hiram!”
I call.
Ma steps forward.
“May?”
Her confusion breaking into a smile.
“What are you doing here?”
I hug her,
not yet ready to explain.
Over her shoulder I see Mr. Chapman
at the barn,
talking to Pa.
Hiram rushes from the barn.
“May Betts!”
he yells,
his face lighting with a grin.
“What happened to your hair?”
Suddenly we’re all together
between the barn and soddy.
Pa folds me in his arms.
“You were alone?”
he whispers.
I nod,
soaking in the warmth of his overcoat.
Ma’s brought a mug of coffee
and a square of corn bread,
thick,
delicious.
The coffee burns
as I gulp it down.
“She’s a strong girl,”
Mr. Chapman says.
Hiram’s eyes meet mine.
“A girl who tries to cover fifteen miles
alone in the snow can handle just about anything.”
Pa clears his throat and squeezes me.
Ma wraps her arms around the both of us.
I close my eyes,
lean on Pa’s shoulder.
In time,
I’ll tell about the wolf,
the empty apple barrel,
and the darkness.
For now,
I need no words.
Later,
after Mr. Chapman has bid us
good night,
Hiram holds out his hand.
“Come with me,” he says.
He leads me to the rise where in the spring,
the wildflowers grow.
We stand together, side by side.
I don’t know why sometimes
reading works for me,
but other times it doesn’t.
I don’t know why holding something
helps my words to form.
Maybe I’ll never understand
exactly why I struggle.
I am
smart and capable
(as Miss Sanders used to say).
But
tonight in this stillness,
I realize there’s no shame in hoping
for things that might seem out of reach.
I will take the teaching examination
when I’m old enough,
and if I fail,
I’ll try again.
“You can keep your Christmas candy.
I don’t want it anymore.”
Hiram’s eyes grow wide.
“You’ve seen it?”
I smile.
“Not yet,
but just you wait.”
Even though I know
my geography,
even though I understand what is and isn’t real,
there’s no reason to stop hoping
that sometime
I might find it,
that distant place
where the sun journeys
and earth at last meets sky.
Growing up, I fell in love with the Little House books and talked about Laura Ingalls Wilder as if she were someone I knew personally. In the late nineteenth century, when Laura was a girl, schoolwork focused on recitation and memorization and favored students able to do those things well. When I became a teacher, I grew curious about what life must have been like for frontier children who found schooling a challenge. Would a girl who couldn’t read well have been kept out of school? Would she have been chastised for not trying hard enough? Or would her intelligence have been recognized?
In this book, May struggles with dyslexia, a learning disability that hampers a person’s capacity to process what is read. Dyslexia was unknown in the nineteenth century. It varies in each reader, although difficulties with reading fluency, word recognition, and comprehension are common, as are the omission of words and anxiety stemming from reading aloud. The techniques that prove helpful to May (repetition, reading in unison with one or more people, holding objects) have benefited many with dyslexia.
While
May B
. is a work of fiction, I’ve used the short-grass prairie of western Kansas as inspiration, imagining the Betterlys’ and Oblingers’ soddies in the outlying areas of Gove County. In the late 1870s, this part of Kansas was sparsely settled. Families homesteaded far from established towns, with neighbors miles away.
School terms typically ran summer and winter, allowing children to work during planting and harvest. Teachers were often young single women, as it was possible to receive a teaching certificate at fifteen or sixteen.
The text quoted in this book is from
The American Educational
Reader, Number 5
(Ivison, Blakeman, Taylor, & Co., 1873), which I found in an antique shop just as I was starting to work on
May B
. I don’t know if this book would have been available in Kansas schoolhouses at this time, though a similar reader would have been. Children often worked with the books accessible to them, many using in school the texts their families had brought from other parts of the country. I’ve included three lessons: “The Grandeur of the Sea” (author unknown), “A Hasty and Unjust Judgment,” the passage about Mr. Goodman (attributed to “Aiken, adapted”), and “The Voice of the Wind” (author unknown). The last stanza of the poem is my own invention, something I altered to create more dramatic movement within the story.
For those interested in learning more about Kansas history, frontier living, or dyslexia, here are some helpful resources:
The Kansas Historical Society:
kshs.org
The Prairie Museum of Art and History (Colby, Kansas):
prairiemuseum.org
The International Dyslexia Association:
interdys.org
Many thanks to those who have played a role in the creation of this book:
It’s not often an author is lucky enough to write for two different editors. Nicole Geiger has been an unflagging enthusiast, careful reader, and mentor through this whole process. When she told me
May B
. was the sort of book she’d loved as a child, I knew it would be safe in her hands. Emily Seife’s commitment to May and her personal growth pushed me to discover new ways to challenge my character and flesh her out more fully. Emily, I’ve appreciated every honest “not there yet” that has kept me working hard.
Michelle Humphrey, my agent, who found me in the slush and took a chance on my quiet verse novel. Your positive attitude and commitment as a colleague and friend have been invaluable.
Chris Griffin, of the Prairie Museum of Art and History in Colby, Kansas, for answering my questions about the landscape, plants, animals, insects, and waterways of western Kansas and for recommending reader and Kansas expert Ann Miner. Any inaccuracies that remain in the story are mine alone.
Shawn Goodman, fellow Elevensie author and literacy expert, for your insight into the frustrations and insecurities a dyslexic child experiences, as well as for sharing common reading challenges.
Ellen Ruffin and Abbie Woolridge of the de Grummond Children’s Literature Collection and author Kate Bernheimer for answering my questions about Hansel and Gretel.
My parents, Milt and Polly, who made books a natural part of my upbringing; my grandparents, Dick and Gene, for exposing me to authors from Beatrix Potter to Wallace Stegner and
for encouraging my imagination; and my sister, Chris, one of my biggest cheerleaders.
Dayle Arceneaux and Bonnie Rehage of the Bayou Readers’ and Authors’ Guild for encouraging me to continue this experiment in verse. My online critique partners, Denise Jaden, Weronika Janczuk, Elle Strauss, and Natalie Bahm, for your keen eyes. Natalie, I will be forever grateful for your question that led me to a newer, stronger ending.
Jamie Martin, for pointing me toward your antiques-shop find, the reader that played such a large part in the creation of this story, and for believing that this story had to be shared.
Molly Bolton and the rest of the Jambalaya Writers’ Conference coordinators, for seeing promise in my story.
Dr. Jack Bedell of Southeastern Louisiana University, for including several early poems in
Louisiana Literature
magazine.
Cheryl Matherne, principal of St. Matthew’s Episcopal School in Houma, Louisiana, for the beautiful way you supported my decision to devote myself to writing full-time, and for your love for this character.
C. S. Neal, for capturing perfectly with your artwork the atmosphere of the book. Your cover reminds me of beloved stories from my own childhood.
For the women who have gone before me: As Kansas historian Lilla Day Monroe said, “The world has never seen such hardihood, such perseverance, such devotion, nor such ingenuity in making the best of everything as was displayed by America’s pioneer women. Their like has never been known” (Joanna Stratton,
Pioneer Women: Voices from the Kansas Frontier
, Touchstone, 1982, page 21).
My husband, Dan, and my boys, Noah and Caleb: it isn’t easy living with someone who for years chases an impossible dream. Thank you for giving me the room and time to make a
try at being a writer. And always, thank you for your love. You three mean the world to me.
And finally, my deepest gratitude to the One who binds up the brokenhearted and who extends dignity and compassion to the forgotten.