Mother Tells a Story about Laura Hicks

On my way to pick up Maia today, I called my mother.
I had been thinking about the story she used to tell about the trainmen who would save a baked potato for her on her way back to school.
It occurred to me wonder why they hadn't baked one for Aunt June, too. So I began by asking her if June had gone to that school with her.
"Yes, for second grade, and maybe third grade. But then June had to go away because our school at Newhall didn't go up that far. To Bishop, maybe, or Coretta. I didn't like that, because I didn't like being at that school myself, and I didn't like walking home by myself."
"Did it snow there?"
"Oh, yes. We had big snows. And cold. I used to freeze, walking home from school. But the trainmen, and there were some prisoners, too, they used to work on the train in Newhall and they knew when I walked home. And they would make a fire and bake potatoes, and they would bake one for me, too." She laughed, remembering that.
I could see them wanting to take care of her. Maybe they had children of their own.
"That was before Daddy moved back to East War. I didn't like that school for nothing," she said, remembering.
"Our teacher was mean. Nobody liked her. Helen Handy was her name. One day Laura Hicks had enough and beat her up."
I had heard this story before, but I always enjoyed it.
"Laura was older than the rest of us. She had been held back three of four times. I was 8 then, and Laura was 12. A big girl, too. She lived on a farm, and when she came to school, you could see she was tired. Like she had been taking care of animals, or young'uns. And dirty sometimes, too. None of us had clothes because none of us had money. Or almost none of us did. But Laura was really poor. As bad as we were, Laura had it worse. And Miss Handy picked on her. She stuck out. One day, Laura had had as much as she could, and she just stood up and yanked on the front of Miss Handy's blouse. And it came off. Buttons flew everywhere, and there was Miss Handy, standing in her pink petticoat and her gray jacked. Laura knocked her around good. Beat her up, I guess. None of the rest of us did anything. I was glad she did it. Then they came in and took Laura out, and we never saw her again. I guess they wouldn't let her come to school anymore."
I had to go then--I had reached the school, and it was time to pick up Maia.
My mother was born in 1926. This was 1933 or 34--the height of the Great Depression.
John, Wednesday, March 3, 2010