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Serene was the only word for it; especially on a Saturday afternoon in summer.
Some people called it the Tree of Heaven. No matter where its seed fell, it made a tree which struggled to reach the sky. It grew in boarded-up lots and out of neglected rubbish heaps and it was the only tree that grew out of cement. It grew lushly, but only in the tenements districts.
An eleven-year-old girl sitting on this fire escape could imagine that she was living in a tree. That’s what Francie imagined every Saturday afternoon in summer.
inveigled a little girl into his dismal back room.
And what was on Broadway in Williamsburg, Brooklyn? Nothing—only the finest nickel-and-dime store in all the world! It was big and glittering and had everything in the world in it…or so it seemed to an eleven-year-old girl. Francie had a nickel. Francie had power.
She sat in the hot sunshine watching the life on the street and guarding within herself, her own mystery of life.
Katie Nolan had to go out scrubbing floors. But what else could she do considering the husband she had, they said. They admitted that, no matter which way you looked at it, Johnny Nolan was a handsome lovable fellow far superior to any man on the block. But he was a drunk. That’s what they said and it was true.
Mama explained: “Francie is entitled to one cup each meal like the rest. If it makes her feel better to throw it away rather than to drink it, all right. I think it’s good that people like us can waste something once in a while and get the feeling of how it would be to have lots of money and not have to worry about scrounging.”
She was richer because she had something to waste.
She played her favorite game, figuring out about people.
A terrible panic that had no name came over her as she realized that many of the sweet babies in the world were born to come to something like this old man some day. She had to get out of that place or it would happen to her.
smell of Newtown Creek
“I bet that’s the worst stink in the world,” bragged another boy. “Yeah.” And Francie whispered yeah in agreement. She was proud of that smell. It let her know that nearby was a waterway, which, dirty though it was, joined a river that flowed out to the sea. To her, the stupendous stench suggested far-sailing ships and adventure and she was pleased with the smell.
THE LIBRARY WAS A LITTLE OLD SHABBY PLACE. FRANCIE THOUGHT it was beautiful. The feeling she had about it was as good as the feeling she had about church. She pushed open the door and went in. She liked the combined smell of worn leather bindings, library paste and freshly inked stamping pads better than she liked the smell of burning incense at high mass. Francie thought that all the books in the world were in that library and she had a plan about reading all the books in the world.
But Francie was a reader. She read everything she could find: trash, classics, time tables and the grocer’s price list. Some of the reading had been wonderful; the Louisa Alcott books for example. She planned to read all the books over again when she had finished with the Z’s.
“Yes, when I get big and have my own home, no plush chairs and lace curtains for me. And no rubber plants.
books…books…books….”
She loved the library and was anxious to worship the lady in charge. But the librarian had other things on her mind. She hated children anyhow.
Once out there, she was living in a tree. No one upstairs, downstairs or across the way could see her. But she could look out through the leaves and see everything.
She wanted to own a book so badly and she had thought the copying would do it. But the penciled sheets did not seem like nor smell like the library book so she had given it up, consoling herself with the vow that when she grew up, she would work hard, save money and buy every single book that she liked.
“I want to tell you fellows,” he said, “that I got a couple of fine children home and a pretty wife. And I want to tell you that I’m not good enough for them.”
His wife had not turned bitter against him and his children did not know that they were supposed to be ashamed of him.
You kids are lucky. I’m going to see to it that you get through school.”
“I drink because I don’t stand a chance and I know it.
“I am not a happy man. I got a wife and children and I don’t happen to be a hard-working man. I never wanted a family.” Again that hurt around Francie’s heart. He didn’t want her or Neeley?
Francie knew that Mama was a good woman. She knew. And Papa said so. Then why did she like her father better than her mother? Why did she? Papa was no good. He said so himself. But she liked Papa better.
Pipe dreams, he thought to himself, even while he was telling her about his dream winnings. But oh, how wonderful, he thought, if everything you talked about could come true! He went on talking.
They passed Gabriel’s Hardware Store and stopped to look at the skates in the window. Mama never had time to do this. Papa talked as though he would buy Francie a pair someday.
There were times though, especially towards the end of a long cold dark winter, when, no matter how hungry Francie was, nothing tasted good.
She didn’t know why, but after a day of the pickle, the bread and potatoes tasted good again. Yes, pickle day was something to look forward to.
And the child, Francie Nolan, was of all the Rommelys and all the Nolans.
She was made up of all of these good and these bad things.
She was the books she read in the library. She was the flower in the brown bowl. Part of her life was made from the tree growing rankly in the yard.
It was something that had been born into her and her only—the something different from anyone else in the two families.
The only notable thing about the birth was that the infant was born with a caul which was supposed to indicate that the child was set apart to do great things in the world.
What must I do, Mother, what must I do to make a different world for her? How do I start?” “The secret lies in the reading and the writing. You are able to read. Every day you must read one page from some good book to your child. Every day this must be until the child learns to read. Then she must read every day, I know this is the secret.”
“the child must have a valuable thing which is called imagination. The child must have a secret world in which live things that never were. It is necessary that she believe. She must start out by believing in things not of this world. Then when the world becomes too ugly for living in, the child can reach back and live in her imagination.
Everything struggles to live. Look at that tree growing up there out of that grating. It gets no sun, and water only when it rains. It’s growing out of sour earth. And it’s strong because its hard struggle to live is making it strong. My children will be strong that way.”
Katie had a fierce desire for survival which made her a fighter. Johnny had a hankering after immortality which made him a useless dreamer. And that was the great difference between these two who loved each other so well.
A person who pulls himself up from a low environment via the bootstrap route has two choices. Having risen above his environment, he can forget it; or, he can rise above it and never forget it and keep compassion and understanding in his heart for those he has left behind him in the cruel upclimb.
There had to be the dark and muddy waters so that the sun could have something to background its flashing glory.
OH, MAGIC HOUR WHEN A CHILD FIRST KNOWS IT CAN READ PRINTED WORDS!
She wanted to shout it out. She could read! She could read!
From that time on, the world was hers for the reading. She would never be lonely again, never miss the lack of intimate friends. Books became her friends and there was one for every mood. There was poetry for quiet companionship. There was adventure when she tired of quiet hours. There would be love stories when she came into adolescence and when she wanted to feel a closeness to someone she could read a biography. On that day when she first knew she could read, she made a vow to read one book a day as long as she lived.
And always, there was the magic of learning things.
It was a good thing that she got herself into this other school. It showed her that there were other worlds beside the world she had been born into and that these other worlds were not unattainable.
Tell the truth and write the story. Then you won’t get mixed up.”
Education! That was it! It was education that made the difference! Education would pull them out of the grime and dirt.
Nothing was changing. She was the one who was changing.
From now on, would all new things be disappointing, she wondered?
