Free River's Edge by Marie Bostwick Page A

twenty feet high and twice as wide, made even more splendid by the music of the orchestra that swelled and ebbed like winds across a plain. I was entranced.
    I’ve since heard people say that the Wizard of Oz was about the Depression, or populism, or American isolationism in the face of war. Maybe it was. For me, it was about Dorothy.
    She had been carried away from everything she knew by forces she couldn’t control. She wanted to go home, yet was trapped in a world full of people and customs she didn’t understand. Dorothy was alone and lost, just like me. She sang about the world that she came from, the past she couldn’t recapture, in a land so far away that its only address was “over a rainbow.” She sang the song I couldn’t sing for myself. Instead, I wept the tears that my celluloid soul mate was too brave to shed. I could, because it was dark in the theater, and I didn’t have to be brave if no one was watching. I cried silently so no one would know what I was feeling.
    I reached up carefully to lay my hand against my wet cheek in a gesture that I hoped would seem casual and unrelated to the scene on the screen. I saw a teardrop seeping from Cookie’s eyes, too.

Chapter 5
    T hat year it seemed as if nature itself shared my confusion. It wavered between hot and cold, unable to settle on a plan and stick to it. One August night we went to bed sweltering and woke up shivering. It was still dark when an urgent knock sounded on the door of the room where Cookie and I were sleeping. Mama handed us sweaters thick with the smell of mothballs and in a voice that was brusque and worried, told us to put them on quickly.
    â€œHurry downstairs and eat your breakfast, girls. Papa and the boys are already up and dressed. We’re all going over to the Schollers’ farm to see if we can’t help bring in some of the tobacco before it’s too late.” The darkness and cold left us dazed, and we moved slowly, still not quite understanding why we were being roused from sleep. Mama turned sharply and snapped urgently, “Hurry, girls! We need every set of hands. The Schollers took out a mortgage to build shade tents. If they lose their crop, they could lose the farm, too.” She rushed out of the room and down the stairs. We pulled on our warm clothes and followed behind.
    As the Mullers’ truck made the turn down the dirt road to the Scholler farm, I felt nervous, afraid I was about to embark on yet another occupation that would make me look foolish. If I couldn’t manage to dry a dish without dropping it, I could only imagine what a disaster I’d be at tobacco harvesting.
    We arrived at the Schollers’. It was decided that everyone should work on the broadleaf fields first, trying to harvest what we could before the frost ruined the leaves, and then tackle the job of harvesting the shade-grown tobacco, which was only about a quarter of the total crop.
    Papa gathered us around him to explain the plan while Mr. Scholler, who wore a dirty plaid shirt and a worried expression, began bringing tobacco carts into the fields.
    â€œIt’s warmer under those shade tents than out in the open. That should protect the plants from the cold for a while at least. We can tackle that tomorrow or the next day, after we finish working in the open field. If we can salvage a good portion of the broadleaf and then safely get in the shade-grown, which will bring in more money, the Schollers should make enough to pay back their loan. A fair amount of the crop is already lost, but if we’re quick enough, we might be able to help them save enough to pay back the bank, plus a little extra.”
    Junior listened to his father and then measured the field with a critical eye. “He’s got at least forty acres here, Papa. There’s only eight of us, plus the Schollers. Shouldn’t we try to get more help?”
    â€œThere is no one else to help,” Papa answered.