Dear Hank Williams Read online

  Zion said, “I know.”

  That nearly knocked me over. “You know?”

  “Mm-hm. Momma and me went to his funeral. I thought you be pretending he be here, like an angel. But my momma didn’t like me pretending.”

  I guess that’s why Constance popped Zion on the behind that day. I was about to ask her why she never let me know, but Zion has a short attention span.

  “You think you could give me one of them puppies?”

  Some folks like to get on with things and not harp on the past. Clearly Zion Washington is one of them. She’ll have to get behind Uncle Jolly for a puppy. He’s trying to size up which one will be a good hunting buddy. He dangles a squirrel tail in front of them and waits to see which puppy takes notice. So far none of them have paid it any mind.

  On the drive home, I asked Aunt Patty Cake if we’d be going back to Pine Bend.

  “Not to take any orders,” she said. “Constance told me she needed a job, and I told her she should think about being a representative for Delightfully Devine Beauty Products. Her neighbors could be her customers.”

  “But you’d be giving up some of your territory.”

  Aunt Patty Cake rolled down her window. “I’ll be fine,” she said.

  A breeze blew through the car. Tiny hairs around Aunt Patty Cake’s forehead waved, softening her face. Her cheeks had a tinge of pink that wasn’t from Forever Rose rouge. She rested her elbow in the open window and started to hum. For the first time, I could imagine that young girl dancing with that Ville Platte boy in the rain. I could picture it as clear as I could see the longleaf pines brush the setting sun as we made our way back home.

  There were two packages waiting for us at the house. They were too big to put inside the mailbox, so they’d been left on the screened porch. One was for Aunt Patty Cake and the other was for me!

  “Let’s pretend it’s Christmas and take turns opening them,” I said.

  Aunt Patty Cake went first. While she tore the package open, I studied the outside of mine. It had all kinds of blue-and-red stamps that looked familiar. Then I realized why. They looked like the stamps Theo Grace and Coolie got on their pen pals’ envelopes. This package was from Japan!

  Inside Aunt Patty Cake’s box were dozens of Delightfully Devine products. She looked confused. “I didn’t order these.” Then she opened the envelope and read. Her mouth twitched. “Oh well.” She tucked the letter back into the envelope. “Didn’t win the contest, but I got second prize.”

  I told her I was sorry. Then I dug through her second-place prize. There was every Delightfully Devine product. I held up one of the boxes. “Aunt Patty Cake, have you ever thought of using Magical Mascara? I’ll bet a few coats would bring out your blue eyes.”

  She laughed and tapped on my package. “Your turn.”

  When I opened mine, I discovered a card from Keiko saying how she hoped we could be good friends when she moved to Louisiana soon. There was also a present wrapped in floral paper. It was beautiful, I hated to rip it. So I took my time unwrapping it, carefully lifting the tape.

  I was so slow, Aunt Patty Cake said, “Hurry, hurry.” She’d already forgotten about not winning that contest.

  When I got past all the tissue paper, I saw it.

  “What the heck is that?” Aunt Patty Cake asked.

  “It’s a carp streamer,” I said, holding it up. How could someone who didn’t know me at all send me the most perfect gift?

  I explained to Aunt Patty Cake, “It represents a Japanese story about a carp that was so strong, he swam upstream and became a dragon.” I might not be a dragon, but ever since Momma left and Frog died, I’d felt like I’d been trying to swim upstream. And like that carp in the story, I’d made it to the other side.

  Seeing the world unfold before my very eyes,

  Tate P.

  June 5, 1949

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR new baby boy! I’ll bet you’ll be a great daddy. He might grow up and be a singer like you.

  I wanted you to know how much I enjoyed your farewell performance on the Louisiana Hayride. And guess what? I didn’t hear it on the radio. I was there at the Shreveport Municipal Auditorium. I was the girl sitting smack in the middle of the fifth row. I’m pretty sure you saw me, because you looked my way a lot. I kept wondering, You reckon Mr. Hank Williams knows it’s me? But how could you? You don’t even know what I look like except that I have plain brown hair and brown eyes and kind of look like my momma (whom you’ve never seen). So this time I’m sending you a picture of me. That way your curiosity about that girl sitting smack in the middle of the fifth row will be solved. By the way, Aunt Patty Cake says you’re prettier in person.

  Two days before the show, Uncle Jolly surprised us with tickets. Garnett said she’d never been north of Natchitoches, so she thought the drive alone was an adventure. Garnett is looking different these days, or at least her left hand is. That’s right. Uncle Jolly found him a woman that sticks. Aunt Patty Cake forgot about her decision to never sew again and offered to make the wedding dress. Garnett said her yellow suit would do just fine.

  You’ll be proud to know that I’m taking voice lessons, but I’m not taking them from Miss Mildred. No sirree. Momma wrote that Lulu would be the perfect choice. And Aunt Patty Cake agreed as long as Lulu made a pact not to groom me for the honky-tonk joints (although she didn’t say anything about not learning honky-tonk songs).

  The best news of all is the judge split Momma’s sentence in half. Momma will be home in less than a year. It will be a hard wait, but time is flying and she’ll be here before I know it. Aunt Patty Cake says she thinks my letter made a big difference. Until Momma is here, I read her postcards. I’ve taped every single one on my bedroom walls. Just looking at them makes me feel like she’s giving me a great big hug.

  Mr. Williams, you’re very famous now. The great state of Louisiana will miss you, and so will I. I’ll listen to you on the Grand Ole Opry and write you when I can. But I hope you won’t be disappointed if you don’t hear from me as often. My life is busy these days—voice lessons, my cosmetics-modeling job, writing to Keiko, and taking care of Lovie.

  Lovie still hasn’t barked, but her puppies make up for that. They are yappers! Uncle Jolly picked the noisiest one for his future squirrel dog.

  Sometimes Aunt Patty Cake, Lovie, and me go on Mrs. Applebud’s cemetery walks. We pay our respects to Mr. Applebud and Frog. On those days, we take them fresh flowers. Aunt Patty Cake says she’s not the crying type, but I’ve seen her pull a handkerchief out of her dress pocket and dab at her eyes. “Those longleaf pines make my eyes water,” she claims, but I know she’s missing Frog. I know because my eyes water on those cemetery walks too, and it has nothing to do with pine-tree sap.

  I try not to dwell on it, but sometimes I think about the things Frog is missing. He’ll never know Garnett, play hide-and-seek with Zion, or learn Japanese from Keiko. And he would have loved Lovie as much as I do. I know he would.

  Aunt Patty Cake says, “Our loved ones are always with us even after they pass on.”

  I think that’s true, because Canton Cemetery is not where I feel the closest to Frog. I feel his spirit whenever I’m in the places we shared together. I don’t see him, but I know he’s there.

  When I’m riding my bicycle, Lovie likes to follow me. Sometimes I pedal hard and fast like Frog loved to do. I remember him wearing those boots because he thought it made him feel closer to our daddy and how he liked my singing even when it wasn’t coming from my heart. And when the wind beats against my face, swear to sweet Sally, I can hear my little brother whispering in my ear, “Whatcha, whatcha?”

  So long for now.

  Your #1 fan forever,

  Tate P. Ellerbee

  Author’s Note

  Research plays an important part in my writing. Not only does it help me to get the facts straight, it also serves as inspiration for some of the storylines. The process is not unlike a spider
spinning her web: Each thread offers a dimension to the story. The following are some of the threads that created Tate’s web and became the book Dear Hank Williams.

  World War II and the Red Scare. When I was researching for Tate’s story, I needed to understand what it was like to live in postwar America. World War II was the deadliest war in history. More than fifty million people died, many of them civilians.

  The war began in 1939, brought on by Adolf Hitler’s Poland invasion. It ended in 1945 with the defeat of Nazi Germany and Japan. Even though Dear Hank Williams begins three years later, Tate’s young life would have been touched by this war since she was two when it started and eight years old when it ended.

  Fear and prejudices ran rampant after the war. When I read the Alexandria Town Talk from the late 1940s, I came across a lot of articles about the “Reds.” Communists were referred to as Reds because of their loyalty to the red Soviet flag. During this time period, people were afraid of what they thought Communists might do. It became known as the Red Scare. When Tate and Frog pretended to be “looking for some Reds,” it was a result of this fear.

  Wartime and Postwar Pen Pals. The pen pal element in the story was inspired by my aunt Barbara’s mention of her third-grade teacher arranging for her students to write to Japanese students after the war. Through research, I discovered that during World War II and afterward, some innovative educators around America connected their students with young people living in war-torn countries. One Iowa teacher collected names and addresses of students while on a trip to Europe in the summer of 1939; two of the names were Margot and her sister, Anne Frank. Two Iowa sisters wrote the Franks. They received one reply before the war began and the Franks went into hiding. Since the Diary of Anne Frank was one of my favorite books, I was fascinated by this discovery. With that exception of this pen pal experience, I couldn’t validate how other educators found the international students. However, I found articles about the rich relationships that formed because of them.

  Some relationships lasted decades, sometimes resulting in eventual face-to-face meetings. These pen pal relationships seemed to bridge gaps and heal cultural differences. I hope Tate’s classmates’ letters from Japan and Tate’s eventual choice to write Keiko show this impact.

  Radio Days. When I was a young child, living in France, my family didn’t have a television. We listened to American shows on the military radio broadcasts. This was in the mid-1960s when most families owned a television. I’m grateful for that experience because now I know what it was like for families between the 1930s and 1950s when radio was the main source of entertainment in American households. Tate’s family, like most families around the country, could be found in the evenings listening to popular shows such as the Louisiana Hayride and the Grand Ole Opry. The radio also broadcast the local and national news, including the president’s addresses to the country.

  Louisiana Hayride. When I was a girl I heard my parents and grandparents mention listening to the Louisiana Hayride. It was a radio show that showcased country music. Because of my family’s Louisiana roots I always wanted to do a story that included the Louisiana Hayride. The venue had a live audience and was broadcast by KWKH from the Shreveport Municipal Auditorium. The first show was broadcast April 3, 1948. Many famous musicians and singers, including Hank Williams, Elvis Presley, and Jerry Lee Lewis, performed there.

  Hank Williams. When I found out that Hank Williams was a regular performer at the Louisiana Hayride during the same time period I planned to write about, I decided to make him part of Tate’s story. Although they never meet, I needed to know about his career, especially the time he spent in Louisiana.

  Hank Williams was born on September 17, 1923, in Mount Olive, Alabama. He arrived in Shreveport in August 1948, barely known. During his time there, he was a regular on the Louisiana Hayride. In December he recorded “Lovesick Blues”; it was released in February 1949 and by March the hit song had rocketed Hank Williams to fame. A few months later his dream had come true—he was invited to be a regular on the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville. The Grand Ole Opry was similar to the Louisiana Hayride but with a larger broadcast area.

  The Goree All Girl String Band. Years before I created Tate’s story, I read a Texas Monthly article by Skip Hollandsworth called “O Sister, Where Art Thou?” It was about the Goree All Girl String Band. I never forgot Hollandsworth’s article. It was the first seed of inspiration for Tate’s story.

  Goree State Farm was a prison for women in Huntsville, Texas. In 1940, a group of women prisoners from Goree formed a band. Their first performance was on a Fort Worth radio station, WBAP’s Thirty Minutes Behind the Walls, a show broadcast from the men’s prison in Huntsville and heard across the country. The Goree Girls, their popular name, gathered quite a following, receiving fan mail from all around the broadcast area. The Goree Girls were still enjoying a great popularity during the late 1940s when Tate’s story takes place.

  Acknowledgments

  Places have always served as powerful touchstones for my work. When I thought I’d lost the love for writing, a place proved that I was wrong. My grandfather had recently moved out of his home and into the Louisiana War Veterans Home when I asked if I could stay at his house and write. He graciously nodded and said, “Yes.” I’m thankful to him for that because the first day there I was reminded of the good fortune I have to be born into a family of storytellers. I owed it to them to write my stories.

  Two important seeds sprouted this story: Skip Hollandsworth’s fine Texas Monthly article “O Sister, Where Art Thou?” about a women’s prison singing group and a visit to Butters Cemetery. From my grandparents’ graves I looked across the road at Pat Tarpley’s house and thought, I wonder what it’s like to live across from a small town cemetery.

  My aunt Barbara Larisey shared two important details that contributed to Dear Hank Williams: the Camp Claiborne soldiers who marched in front of her home during World War II and the teacher who arranged for her class to have Japanese pen pals after the war ended.

  Dr. Miki Crawford, author of Japanese War Brides in America: An Oral History, answered my questions, and her book gave me a close-up view of what it must be like to have to acclimate to a postwar culture.

  My mother, Brenda Willis, and my daughter, Shannon Holt, listened to my first draft via phone. I appreciate their early encouragement for Tate’s journey. I’m grateful for my dad, Ray Willis, who helped me with technical details in a pivotal scene.

  Lois “Sug” Grant enthusiastically read a late draft and made suggestions. Since she is an expert on the charms of central Louisiana, I welcomed and took them.

  Over the years, many early drafts of various stories have been read by Charlotte Goebel, Jennifer Archer, Kathi Appelt, Jeanette Ingold, Rebecca Kai Dotlich, and Lola Schaefer. I appreciate and admire these women. Thank you for always telling me the truth.

  Amy Berkower liked this story from the first draft she read, and when a writer learns her agent likes her work, she skips around the house in a daze for a while. I’m forever grateful for her support.

  I’ve been publishing for seventeen years with Henry Holt and Company. Each of my books has had the keen attention of managing editor George Wen. He’s left the Holt nest now, but I will always appreciate his loving care of my work.

  When I visit schools I explain to students that an editor is a teacher. I’ve been a lucky student because Christy Ottaviano has been my teacher for almost twenty years. She has the sixth sense to know a writer’s potential and the talent to help her reach it. Thank you, C.O.

  And as always, I’m thankful for Jerry, who twenty years ago, said, “Write.”

  About the Author

  Kimberly Willis Holt is the author of many acclaimed novels, including The Water Seeker, My Louisiana Sky, and When Zachary Beaver Came to Town, winner of the National Book Award for Young People’s Literature. She is also the author of the popular Piper Reed chapter book series and several picture books. Holt was born in Pensacola, Flo
rida, and has lived all over the world, from Paris to Norfolk to Guam to New Orleans. Seven generations of Holt’s family are from central Louisiana, where Dear Hank Williams is set. She now resides in Texas with her family.

  kimberlywillisholt.com

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  September 1, 1948

  September 2, 1948

  September 3, 1948

  September 8, 1948

  September 9, 1948

  September 11, 1948

  September 13, 1948

  September 14, 1948

  September 15, 1948

  September 18, 1948

  September 20, 1948

  September 23, 1948

  September 27, 1948

  October 1, 1948

  October 3, 1948

  October 6, 1948

  October 11, 1948

  October 18, 1948

  October 19, 1948

  October 26, 1948

  November 4, 1948

  November 12, 1948

  November 16, 1948

  November 20, 1948

  November 21, 1948

  November 22, 1948

  November 26, 1948

  November 29, 1948

  December 3, 1948

  December 5, 1948

  December 9, 1948

  December 15, 1948

  December 20, 1948

  Christmas night, 1948