Free Dear Hank Williams by Kimberly Willis Holt

desks away and spun them around with their feet so they could have a front-row view. The rest of us ran over and formed a circle on the outside. It was more exciting than listening to Billy Fox and Jake LaMotta box on the radio, because this fight was happening right in front of our eyes.
    Coolie straddled Wallace’s belly and took turns punching each cheek, one with his fist, the other with the holder. “That’s my friend you’re talking about,” Coolie yelled.
    Mrs. Kipler rushed over and pulled Coolie off Wallace. She grabbed hold of the back of both boys’ collars and dragged them to the principal’s office. Big ole Wallace’s face was bleeding, but he was yelling, “He didn’t hurt me!” the whole way.
    Mr. Williams, if someone ever said something that mean about you, I’d curl up my fists and fight in your honor. I wonder what Keinosuke would think if he knew sending that samurai sword guard started World War III in our class today.
    Ready to defend your honor,
    Tate P.

 
    December 20, 1948
    Dear Mr. Williams,
    I HOPE YOU AND M RS. W ILLIAMS are enjoying your first Louisiana Christmas. With Momma and Uncle Jolly away, it’s quiet around here. You already know where Momma is, but Uncle Jolly has gone to Dallas, Texas, with a load of Christmas trees. He won’t be back home until after Christmas. Aunt Patty Cake, as you can probably imagine, is not happy about that. The trees come from Jeter Hopkins’s land. Jeter told Uncle Jolly that if he would haul them over to Texas and sell them, he’d split the money. Mr. Hopkins had heard there was big money in Dallas and that it was amazing what those city folks would pay for a pine tree.
    Our Christmas tree has dozens of stories on it. We have a tradition in our family where we pull an ornament off the tree each night for the ten nights leading up to Christmas. Each of the ornaments is homemade and represents a story.
    Last night, we were stringing popcorn for the tree when I pulled off the moon-shaped blue satin one. Aunt Patty Cake sighed when I handed the ornament to her. In a flat tone, she said, “That was made from the dress I wore the night I met a boy at a fais do-do in Ville Platte.” In case you don’t know, Mr. Williams, a fais do-do is a Cajun dance party.
    She handed it back to me as she pushed her eyeglasses into place and returned to pulling the needle through a popped kernel.
    â€œWell?” I asked. “Is that all?”
    â€œAfraid so.”
    I wasn’t going to let the story stop there. Aunt Patty Cake had always been just Aunt Patty Cake to me. Kind of like a grandmother. I couldn’t picture her as a girl.
    Aunt Patty Cake shrugged. “Not much to tell. There was a fais do-do at my cousin Callie’s house. All the furniture had been removed from the front rooms of their house in order to make room for dancing.”
    I’d seen that around Rippling Creek, too. Last week, we passed the Colfaxes’ house, where they had such a big dance that even the beds were in the yard. Folks were dancing on the porch. Mr. Williams, have you ever played at anyone’s home? When I’m sixteen, I plan to have a big birthday party. Maybe you could play at it? If you keep your schedule that far in advance, that will be March 12, 1953.
    My thoughts returned to Aunt Patty Cake’s story when I heard her tapping her foot to the music on the radio. “Did you dance?” I asked her.
    â€œOf course I danced. My daddy was French.” She said it as if Cajuns popped into life doing the two-step.
    â€œYou only dance when Uncle Jolly is goofy and spins you around the floor.”
    â€œHe hardly gives me a chance to object. When I get good and ready to dance, I will.”
    â€œSo you were good and ready back then?”
    She looked up at me, but I knew my question kept her at that fais do-do in Ville Platte. Then she gazed across the room and smiled. “He