Dear Hank Williams Read online

  First, Garnett brought me a present today—it was your new record with “Lovesick Blues” on it! She said it had just come out. I asked if I was the first person in Rapides Parish or at least Lecompte who owned it. But Garnett is an honest person, and she said, “I wish you were, Tate, but by noon that day we’d sold every copy. We’d only bought a dozen. But we’ve ordered more.” (See? I told you, Mr. Williams. Your fame keeps spreading.)

  Second, Momma finally sent us her performance schedule. Uncle Jolly and I’ve been turning the dial each night, scouting the Texas radio stations on her list. We keep a Big Chief paper tablet next to it and write down every time we discover one. Unfortunately Momma wasn’t performing on any of the stations we’d found. Then today we received a postcard from Momma that said the Goree Girls would be singing on WBAP in Fort Worth. And guess what? WBAP is on our Texas radio station list! In a couple of weeks, we’ll be listening to Momma on the radio. Uncle Jolly kept his promise!

  The third thing I want to tell you is that that very night is when I plan to tell Aunt Patty Cake and Uncle Jolly I’m going to enter the talent contest. I can’t wait to see their faces!

  Fan of the almost-very-famous Mr. Hank Williams,

  Tate P.

  PS—I forgot—I have four important things to share. Theo Grace’s and Coolie’s pen pals said that Japan has Children’s Day the same week as our May Festival. People will be celebrating all around the world!

  February 19, 1949

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  YESTERDAY I CAME HOME from school all excited about what Mrs. Kipler had learned about Children’s Day in Japan. They wear kimonos, and the boys’ families hang huge carp streamers outside their doors. The streamers represent a story about a carp that was so strong, he swam upstream and became a dragon. I couldn’t wait to tell Frog. He’ll probably wish he had a carp streamer.

  When I got off the bus in front of our house, I expected to see Lovie waiting for me at the mailbox. Come rain or shine, she is always there. She heads to that spot each afternoon. A few minutes later Aunt Patty Cake hears the moan of my school bus stopping at our driveway. Aunt Patty Cake says Lovie is better than a clock. The first time I saw Lovie sitting there, it nearly melted my heart. Before stepping off, I turned and told the entire bus, “That’s my dog.”

  But today I couldn’t find Lovie anywhere. She wasn’t near the magnolia tree, in my room, under my bed, in the shed. She was nowhere to be found. Aunt Patty Cake said, “Tate, she’s a dog and she knows who feeds her.”

  Right when I was thinking of jumping on my bike to go out and find her, Mr. Rockfire drove up in his truck.

  Mr. Rockfire stuck his hand out the open window and waved. Then he stopped the truck in front of me. My hands squeezed the handlebars. I didn’t have time to talk.

  “Think I have something you might want,” he said. At that very minute guess who stood on all fours in the truck bed? That’s right! Lovie!

  “I think your dog and mine are sweet on each other,” Mr. Rockfire said. Corky was a cur dog too. His coat was gray with specks of black. He wore the proud title of being best squirrel-hunting dog in Rippling Creek.

  Aunt Patty Cake came out of the house. The sun was shining so bright, she rested her hand over her eyebrows so that she could see. “Gayle? Not used to seeing you this time of day.”

  Then she noticed Lovie. “I see you found her. Well, you certainly made Tate’s day. Come in this house. I’ll put a pot of coffee on.”

  Mr. Rockfire opened the truck door and stepped out. “Only if it’s no trouble.”

  Aunt Patty Cake wiped her hands on her apron. “No trouble at all.”

  While Mr. Rockfire followed Aunt Patty Cake into the house, I hugged Lovie, and she wagged her tail like she was happy to see me. I hadn’t thought of Lovie as the romantic type.

  Never planning on being sweet on anyone,

  Tate P.

  February 23, 1949

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  VERBIA CALHOON BRAGGED and bragged today about how her momma booked her at the Central Louisiana Junior Livestock Show in Alexandria this weekend. When I told Frog and Lovie, we had a good laugh over the thought of Verbia singing to a bunch of calves and hogs. Nothing against the people who go there, but that gives me another reason not to join 4-H or Future Farmers of America.

  I should have let that image satisfy me enough, but when Verbia bragged about it for the eighteenth time, I ignored Aunt Patty Cake’s advice to not discuss Momma’s situation. I said, “That ain’t nothing. My momma is a Goree Girl. She’s singing on the radio in Fort Worth Thursday night.”

  Do you know what she said? “Your momma is doing time in a Texas prison.”

  My hands curled into fists, and it was all I could do not to hit her. But then I thought about the Rippling Creek May Festival Talent Contest, and I didn’t go any further. If I had boxed her chin or yanked her curls, Miss Mildred would have kicked me out of the talent contest for sure. And as much as I hate to admit it, Verbia was right. Momma was serving time.

  The other day I rode my bike to the post office to mail my letter to you. Mr. Snyder asked, “Is that another letter to Mr. Hank Williams?” (Which I do believe is none of his business.) Two older girls from my school, Clara Banks and Evelyn Milton, swung around like they’d caught me stealing something.

  Mr. Snyder snickered. “You got company. They’re fans too.”

  “We listen to Hank Williams every Saturday night,” Clara said, as if she’d discovered you all by herself.

  Evelyn nodded. “We only missed it twice, and that’s because we were visiting my aunt Mertie in Pineville. She doesn’t like listening to the radio. She says music gives her a headache.”

  “I’ll have you know, I got three pictures from Mr. Hank Williams,” I told Mr. Snyder, hoping the girls would hear.

  Do you know what they said? Well, I guess you do know. They said, “We have three too.”

  I don’t know why that made me jealous. It might sound silly, but I thought I was the only one writing to you. All the way home I pedaled with a heavy feeling inside me. I’m not proud to admit it, Mr. Williams, but I was kind of mad at you. Then I realized that what I, Tate P. Ellerbee, had predicted back in the summer was happening. You are famous!

  Your #1 fan of all your fans,

  Tate P.

  PS—Two more days until I get to hear Momma sing on the radio and make my big announcement. Don’t worry, I may be busy, but I’ll still be tuning in to the Louisiana Hayride. And so will Aunt Patty Cake (who never gets a headache listening to you).

  February 25, 1949

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  HAVE YOU EVER HAD a night that started out being what you thought would be the best night and then something happened and it ended up becoming one of the worst nights instead?

  That’s what happened last night. We were all gathered around the new Victrola. Uncle Jolly set the dial to WBAP, the Fort Worth station where Momma and the other Goree Girls would sing. It was coming in as crisp and clear as a Louisiana winter day. Uncle Jolly had invited Garnett, who was every bit as excited as me. Aunt Patty Cake surprised us by pulling her own chair over close enough to hear.

  My heart pounded when I heard the announcer say, “Now here’s the Goree All Girl String Band performing ‘Will the Circle Be Unbroken.’” I could hear Momma’s voice singing lead as it drifted from the speaker so loud and pure. It was as if she was standing smack in our living room singing.

  When Momma sang the solo part of the next song, Uncle Jolly turned to Garnett and whispered, “That’s Jordie June.”

  Garnett smiled and mouthed “Oh my!”

  “That’s my momma,” I told Lovie. Frog was quiet, hugging his legs, and I could see how he was feeling like me. He missed Momma real bad.

  After the Goree Girls finished, Garnett began to clap. Then we all did. Uncle Jolly flipped off the radio. “Hard to top that.”

  Everyone wore a happy glow, the kind you get when something wonderful
has happened. I remember thinking, This is the perfect time. I stood up. “I can’t top it, but I’ve got some good news to share.”

  Right off, Garnett leaned forward like she couldn’t wait to hear. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “I’m entering the singing category of the Rippling Creek May Festival Talent Contest.”

  Well, you would have thought I’d let the air out of everyone’s tires. Everyone except Frog and Garnett, who slapped her knees and said, “Tate, that is wonderful news!”

  But looking at Aunt Patty Cake’s and Uncle Jolly’s faces, it didn’t seem so wonderful to them.

  Garnett didn’t let me down. “I’ll bet you have your momma’s gift. Why didn’t you tell me that, Jolly?”

  Uncle Jolly stammered, “Well … I … well, I … just don’t know.” Little beads of sweat spotted his forehead.

  Aunt Patty Cake leaned forward. “Are you certain you’re up for that, Tate?” Why didn’t she say what she was thinking? “You can’t sing, Tate. Not like your momma.”

  Garnett started to fill in all the miserable holes Aunt Patty Cake and Uncle Jolly were shooting in that happiest day. She kept talking about how delightful it was and how she could take off work and maybe she could get a front-row seat and she could borrow her friend Mabel’s camera and take a picture of me. But it made no difference. Nothing she said stirred Uncle Jolly or Aunt Patty Cake to her way of thinking. I didn’t bother telling them I’d been practicing for months. I’d rehearsed so much, Frog was probably tired of hearing me. After I went to bed that night, Frog sneaked into my room and tiptoed over to my bedside. “I think you sing real good,” he whispered. “I like ‘You Are My Sunshine’ the best.”

  That was not the song I was planning on singing in the talent contest, but I knew he was trying to make me feel better. I reached out to squeeze his hand, but he rushed away before I could catch it. And even though my little brother thinks I’m a good singer, my head was crowded with Aunt Patty Cake and Uncle Jolly’s reaction when they’d heard the news.

  And that, Mr. Williams, is how the best night ever became the worst.

  In a sorry state of mind,

  Tate P.

  March 2, 1949

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  AFTER MY BIG ANNOUNCEMENT, Aunt Patty Cake made me practice the piano every single day except Sunday. She was hoping to change my mind about entering the singing part. More than a few times, she said, “You might think about playing a song on the piano, Tate. That’s where you have the most experience.”

  The only song I could play on the piano was “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” and I was not going to let Verbia Calhoon have the satisfaction of hearing me play that in front of the audience. It doesn’t matter how you jazz up that song, it still sounds like a silly kiddy tune. But I keep Aunt Patty Cake happy by showing up at Mrs. Applebud’s every day after school and playing those stupid scales.

  And almost every day Mrs. Applebud says to me, “I could wait and go over to the cemetery later in the day, if you would want to go with me.” And when she says that, I say, “No, ma’am. Thank you, kindly.” I don’t have plans to take up cemetery walking as a hobby.

  Mr. Williams, I’ve learned that just because some folks don’t believe in me doesn’t mean I should stop believing in myself. And I’m not alone. She’s never heard my singing, but Garnett believes in me, and so do Frog and Lovie, and they’ve heard me.

  Rest assured, I’m still singing at the talent show.

  Living on the sunny side despite all opposition,

  Tate P.

  March 6, 1949

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  FROG AND ME got so excited about seeing Zion with her momma coming up our driveway. We waved, but when she started toward us, her momma said, “Remember what I told you.”

  Zion said, “Yes, ma’am,” then walked slowly over to us.

  “Frog and me were wondering when you would come back,” I told her. She looked scared. Then I realized Lovie was with us and she’d never seen her.

  “This is Lovie.” I showed her how to hold out her palm and let Lovie smell her good.

  Lovie sniffed at her hand and licked her knuckles. Well, Zion practically melted into a puddle. Her fear seemed to disappear, and her face broke into a big grin. That warmed up my insides. I like when people like my dog.

  “Do you want to hear my song again? I’ve been practicing a lot.”

  She nodded, and I told her to sit right next to Frog.

  She kept standing.

  “I don’t want to sit next to him,” she said.

  “Suit yourself,” I said, but I could tell Frog was sad about it.

  Zion settled across from him. Lovie left Frog’s side and settled down by Zion. I wonder if Frog forgot to take his bath last night and I’d gotten used to his stink.

  I began to sing my song, but Zion didn’t look impressed. She stared toward my house like she couldn’t wait to leave. Then, right in the middle of my song, her momma walked outside. Zion stood up and took off. “I gotta go.”

  I thought about hollering, “How do you think I did? Do I sound like I’m singing from my heart now?” But I changed my mind because of the way she’d treated Frog.

  I was so mad, I took it out on him. “Get over here, Frog. Let me get a good whiff of you.” Frog obeyed. I took a deep breath through my nose. He smelled as sweet as honeysuckles. Some folks have peculiar ways, and clearly Zion Washington is one of them.

  Fuming over rude people (but not for long),

  Tate P.

  March 12, 1949

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY. I woke up to the sound of the light ping of rain hitting our roof. A moment later sheets of rain came down, and thunder growled in the distance. When a bolt of lightning cracked the sky, Lovie crawled under my bed and whimpered. This is not the way anyone wants to start off her birthday. But folks should never let the weather decide what sort of day they’re going to have. So I put on my happy face and wandered into the kitchen.

  Silly Uncle Jolly stood in front of the stove, banging an iron skillet with a serving spoon. He started singing some made-up song. He sang it to the tune of “The Farmer in the Dell.” “The birthday girl is up, the birthday girl is up. Ding Dong, jig-a-long, the birthday girl is up. It’s pancake day today, it’s pancake day today. Ding Dong, jig-a-long, it’s pancake day today. How many pancakes do you want, Sweet Tater?”

  Aunt Patty Cake walked in and poured herself a cup of coffee. “I believe I like your birthday almost as much as you do.”

  I decided to take full advantage of Aunt Patty Cake’s good mood. “Can Lovie stay inside until it stops raining?”

  “After she does her business. You’ll need to dry her off before she steps back in this house.”

  Lovie did her business real quick. She didn’t want to miss any of the fun. Of course the boy who loves yams but hates pancakes decided to sleep in.

  Garnett helped celebrate my birthday that night. Aunt Patty Cake made fried chicken, dirty rice, and a chocolate cake. I got a pair of black Mary Janes from her and Uncle Jolly and a new Nancy Drew book from Garnett.

  After I opened my gifts, Garnett asked, “Tate, have you planned a dress rehearsal? You could rehearse in front of us.”

  Mr. Williams, by now you’re an expert about dress rehearsals. I’d figured Miss Mildred would want to have one with me too. Last week I told her that I was entering the singing category of the contest. Her mouth hung open a long time. It hung open so long, a fly flew inside and she sputtered and shook her head like it was on fire. Then she repeated what I’d heard her say when I first wanted to take voice lessons. “You know, Tate, some voices aren’t meant to be heard.”

  This time, I said, “Yes, ma’am, that’s a fact. And it’s a pity Verbia Calhoon don’t know that.” Miss Mildred’s mouth went back to catching flies again.

  I decided to take Garnett’s suggestion and use my family as my dress-rehearsal audience. Considering Uncle Joll
y and Aunt Patty Cake’s reaction to my announcement, I was real nervous. Not to mention Zion’s low opinion of my talent. But if I’m not ready now, I’ll never be. And this was my birthday. Good things were bound to happen.

  I had to sing without music, but I’d been practicing that way. I stood in front of them in the living room. Garnett patted Uncle Jolly’s knee, and he squeezed her hand. Aunt Patty Cake examined her fingernails. Frog sat cross-legged on the floor, smiling.

  Finally I took a big breath and opened my mouth. I pretended I was in bed next to Momma and we were singing together like old times. I closed my eyes to help take me there. And when I finished the song, I opened them.

  Aunt Patty Cake had tears running down her eyes, and Uncle Jolly looked like he could catch a few flies himself.

  Garnett pressed her hands together. “Oh my, Tate!”

  “I still have some time to practice,” I said.

  “That was beautiful,” Garnett said. “I can’t imagine it being any better.”

  “When did you start sounding like your momma?” Uncle Jolly asked, which is about the best thing anyone ever said to me.

  And then Aunt Patty Cake wiped her eyes and announced, “I’m going to make you a new dress.”

  Which should have been the nicest offer to hear, especially after knowing Aunt Patty Cake hadn’t taken to the idea of me singing. Unfortunately Aunt Patty Cake is not the best seamstress in the parish. The last time she tried to make me a dress, she accidentally sewed up the armholes. Thank goodness she got frustrated and gave up. But now she looked determined, and I don’t think a dress made by Aunt Patty Cake could hold up to Verbia Calhoon’s golden curls.

  Happier, but fretting some about my festival dress,

  Tate P.

  March 18, 1949

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  AUNT PATTY CAKE didn’t wait for the temperatures to grow warm. As soon as she heard about the special fabric sale at Bolton High School, she made plans for my competition dress. The ad in the Town Talk said there were thousands and thousands of yards of chambray in every color and pattern. I hope Aunt Patty Cake didn’t decide to think I’d look darling in polka dots. Thank goodness before she drove away for the sale last night, she rolled down the window and asked, “What’s your favorite color?”