A Place of Our Own

By Joy N. Hulme

“I beat you,” Ed said triumphantly as he pulled the last head of broomcorn on his row with a quick snap of his wrist. Then he set it upright on the ground, leaning it against the stalk.

“Just barely,” I replied. “I only have three more to do.”

“I can see Frank and Georgie coming too. We’re getting pretty fast. That’s eight rows apiece this morning. Jake’s the fastest boy I know, and he can only do nine.”

“He hires out, too, doesn’t he?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“Why don’t we? We do good work and could use some money.”

“You’re right about that, but who’d hire us?”

“Lots of people.”

“I’m not so sure. We don’t stack the same as everyone else, so some people might not hire us.”

“Our way is best, though. Papa says if the brooms are piled standing up like we do it, any rain will run off without hurting them. But if they’re lying flat on the ground, the moisture doesn’t dry between them and they get moldy and rot.”

“Papa is right about lots of things that other folks don’t like to believe. They’ve been stacking corn the wrong way for a hundred years and wouldn’t change for anything.”

“Do you remember the time we had the late frost and Papa knew it was coming, so he didn’t plant early like everyone else did?” I asked.

“Yeah, I remember. Their crops froze and ours didn’t.”

“He tried to warn them, but they wouldn’t listen.”

“How does he know when it’s going to freeze?”

“I wish I knew. Maybe Heavenly Father tells him,” I suggested.

“Maybe so,” Ed agreed thoughtfully. “I can’t figure it out any other way.”

Frank and Georgie finished their rows, and we all started back to the house for lunch.

“How’d you guys like to earn some money?” Ed asked the boys.

“How?” Frank wanted to know.

“Pulling corn. We’re all getting pretty fast now.”

“I would,” Georgie said. “Then we could go to the circus.”

The circus! I hadn’t thought about that. I couldn’t believe it might be possible to go to the circus. My heart began pounding.

“Who could we work for?” Frank asked.

“How about Mr. Clarke?” Georgie suggested. “He’s always been real nice to us.”

“You’re right!” Ed exclaimed. “He’s just the one.”

“Let’s ask Papa when we get home,” I suggested.

“No, let’s see if we can get the job first and surprise him. Tomorrow, while Papa’s in town getting his wagon fixed, we can go over and see Mr. Clarke.”

“I want to see the lion tamer most,” Frank said.

“Not me,” Georgie countered. “I’m going to watch the clowns.”

I wanted to see the beautiful lady in the fancy dress, standing pointy-toed on the back of a running horse with her long hair flying behind her. I’d seen a circus poster at the Piggly Wiggly Market.

“C’mon, let’s hurry,” Ed said, and we ran the last few steps to the house.

The next day after Papa had left for town, five of us started out in the direction of our field. Helen had coaxed to come along too.

“Break her in easy,” Mama said. “When she gets tired send her home.”

At the end of the lane we turned off toward Clarke’s and arrived just as he was coming out from breakfast. When he saw us he said, “Well, now, what can I do for you folks?”

“We wondered if you needed someone to pull your corn,” Ed said.

“Think you could do it? None of you is very big.”

“But we can work hard,” Frank insisted.

“And fast,” Georgie added.

“And we pile it the good way,” I said.

“How’s that?” Mr. Clarke wanted to know.

“Standing up,” Ed said and explained why that was best.

Mr. Clarke nodded. “Makes sense, all right.”

“Try us out,” Ed bargained. “We’ll work till noon, and if you’re not satisfied, you don’t have to pay us. We don’t charge for Helen. She’s just learning.”

“Fair enough,” Mr. Clarke said and led us to the field he wanted us to start on.

When Papa came home that night, Ed pulled our wages from his pocket and put them on the table.

“Where’d you get that money?” Papa asked.

“Working for Mr. Clarke,” Ed replied.

“Pulling corn?” asked Papa.

“Yep. He wants us back tomorrow. He’s paying us twenty cents a row.”

“How many of you went?” Papa wanted to know.

“Me, Dora, Georgie, Frank, and Helen,” Ed replied.

“Helen, too?”

“She helped some.”

“But my arms got tired and Ed let me come home,” Helen explained.

Papa reached down to give her a hug. “Good girl,” he said. “I’m proud of all of you. Go ahead and help Mr. Clarke. I can finish our crop. We’ll all have to work fast to get done before the storm gets here.”

“What storm?” Ed asked.

“The one that’s coming before too long.”

“How can you tell?” I wanted to know.

“I can just feel it,” Papa answered.

The golden harvest weather held all week, and we worked from dawn until dark every day. By Friday night the flat corn heads were all pulled and stacked in the fields. Mama had been cooking all day for a picnic, and we could hardly wait for morning to come.

Before daylight, Papa climbed the ladder to our barn loft. “You’d all better get up,” he said. “I need lots of help today.”

“But you promised we could have a picnic, Papa.”

“Can’t help it,” Papa said. “We’ve got to get the corn in. A humdinger of a storm is on the way. Dora, I want you to come with me to warn the neighbors. Ed, you go hitch up the wagon and take Frank and George over to Clarke’s. Use his wagon, too, and after his crop is in come back and start on ours.”

There was a tone in Papa’s voice I’d never heard before. It sent shivers down my back. I dressed as fast as I could and hurried the boys along. We gulped down the breakfast Mama had waiting and flew out the door just as the sun peeked over the sand hills.

“There’re no clouds, Papa,” Ed said.

“They’re coming,” Papa declared. “Now get going!”

The boys ran toward the barn. I jumped on the horse that was waiting for me, and Papa and I rode off to warn the neighbors that a big storm was on the way.

“You’re crazy,” Mr. Cooper told Papa. “There’s not a cloud in the sky.”

“Not yet,” Papa said, “but there will be.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Mr. Cooper said and closed the door. We jumped on our horses and rode to Mr. Younger’s store. He could help us spread the word.

“Doesn’t look to me like any storm is coming,” he drawled as he gazed up at the cloudless sky.

“You’re right,” Papa agreed. “But mark my word, it’ll be here before nightfall, and it’s a big one.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

And this was the answer everywhere we went. Papa finally decided that it wasn’t any use to warn the people, so we went on home to help the boys. “The price of corn will be sky-high this year,” he said, “and we can’t afford to leave it in the field.”

We worked like demons and were piling on the last wagonload when the wind came up and nearly tipped it over.

“Head for home!” Papa shouted.

We all jumped on the wagon and by the time we pulled into the barn, hail was peppering the ground and beating everything flat. It was the worst storm I can remember. Some of the hailstones were the size of eggs. What the hail didn’t flatten the wind did. The broomcorn crop was a total loss that year except for the few fields that were brought in as a result of our warning.

Papa was right about the price. We made a big profit that year, and the other farmers were sorry they hadn’t listened to him. (To be continued.)

Illustrated by Paul Mann