The Year of Leland Thomson
The Sawmill Series
by
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Chapter Two
The hardware store in Lathrup Springs was always cluttered with merchandise, and early in the mornings crowded with men. It was a common gathering place. Many who had little reason other than the nickel coffee and conversation came in throughout the day. The morning hours, especially the early ones, brought in workers needing supplies for the day. It was noisy and busy, but the clerks maintained a high sense of awareness of who came in and who went out, who was there just killing time and who was there for business.
It was a place Dearl rarely went, but since one of his men had come in from the woods the night before without the sharpening files, he found himself alone in that awkward, crowded store, holding a handful of files tightly in his hand.
Leland’s dad was a tall, thin man. Though he was only in his mid-thirties, his leathery skin and worry-worn face made him appear more middle-aged. His tattered jeans, muddy boots, stubby beard and mussed hair flipping out from under his sweat-stained cap clearly marked him as a sawmiller from the Hills. His uneasiness with being in the hardware store made it more obvious than his appearance that he was out of place.
Dearl stood silently at the counter while he watched men who were in the store and others who came in after him being waited on ahead of him. No one acknowledged he was there. Even the men who brushed past him never seemed to notice. He pressed his lips tightly together, rubbed his hand across his mouth, furrowed his brow deeply, puffed a sigh out his nose, then set his purchase on the counter, turned and walked away. He heard muffled laughter of the men in the store as he passed through the door to the sidewalk outside and the unmistakable slur, dumb hillbilly.
* * *
The class took longer to settle down after the excursion to the bee hive than Miss Ida wanted. WHACK! They instantly were seated, poised and quiet. She took her piece of chalk and began to write. The younger children stared at her as intently as the older ones.
When she turned to face the students, she saw the younger ones, cocked her head, raised one eyebrow, placed her hands on her hips and stared back at them. Slowly each one, without losing eye contact with her, opened a workbook and then returned to study. She raised her eyes to gaze at the back of the room before moving to the side to reveal what she had written—the words: TOWN and THE HILLS.
“Now, class, let’s continue our discussion of the caste system,” she began. “Often our caste is determined by the place we were born. Because of where you were born and who your parents are, you all find yourselves in a certain location—the Hills. It sets your life. It’s your place.”
Billie Nell furrowed her brow, jerked her head backward and jutted her hand into the air. “Miss Ida?”
“Billie Nell?”
“So we’re in the Hills caste ‘cause we was born in the Hills?” Billie Nell asked.
“And you are in the town caste ‘cause you was born in town?” Sherry Beth quickly added to the question.
“Wait. You were born in the Hills just like us, weren’t you, Miss Ida?” Leland asked.
“Humph,” Miss Ida puffed. “Remember every rule has an exception.” She turned and walked back to the chalkboard. In the pause of those few steps, she felt the hot blush created by the reminder of something she had worked all of her life to forget. The reminder stung.
“Well, where you were born usually identifies a person’s caste, but for some, like me, it’s just a place from where the journey to who you want to be begins. But we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you, and in general, learning your place helps you, and everyone else, have…a better life,” she stammered. She frowned then rubbed the words off the chalkboard.
“Miss Ida?” asked Billie Nell.
“Yes, Billie Nell?”
“Did moving to town erase you from being from the Hills?”
“Billie Nell,” Leland answered, “you can’t erase something that’s already happened. But you can change how important it is to you, huh, Miss Ida?”
Ida pooched out her lips and released a slow sigh.
“My daddy told me to nail a bunch of nails into a board and then pull them out,” said Frank. “He said you can probably get the nails out, but they’re still gonna leave a hole.” Everyone slowly turned and looked at Frank. He shrugged and grinned.
“Well,” Miss Ida replied, “I guess that’s why they make putty.”
“Putty don’t make the holes go away,” Frank added. “I tried it. My daddy said it just looks like they went away, but the holes are still there.”
The pause lingered uncomfortably long. A nervous but relieved smile made it across Miss Ida’s face when she recognized Billie Nell’s hand.
“Miss Ida, what’s it like to live in town?” she asked.
“Quite nice, actually,” Ida answered. She turned and paused, looking out the window. Soon she was thirty miles away, down the side of the mountain back in Lathrup Springs.
“Miss Ida?” Ida drew herself back into the room, looked at the class and nodded begrudgingly to Frank.
“So, you were born here just like us,” he began, “but because you left to grow up in town you ain’t from the Hills no more? Then it don’t seem like
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About the Book
Leland Thomson had a dream. For most of his life he had heard something calling to him from the distance to follow that dream. He was willing to follow, if even for just a short time, just to see what was out there, who was out there, calling his name. But how?
Along with the dream, Leland also had the gift. He played the cello with a passion and sensitivity that, once he was discovered, confounded the established musical community. How could this poor, sawmill boy from the Hills of Arkansas play with grace and culture beyond not only his sixteen years but his circumstance? His Momma said he had the gift.
The skill that came from the gift was confusing enough to Ralph Watkins, the man who discovered Leland, but even harder to accept was Leland's commitment to give honor to the Giver of that gift in prayer before he played. Ralph arranged Leland to play at Carnegie Hall in
Leland's story is one of accepting ones culture, ones dreams, ones beliefs. Could a country boy make it in the city? Could a dream given to a nobody be realized and not wasted? Could ones beliefs remain firm when challenged by opposing social standards? Could there be a musical genius who would astound the world if only discovered?
The Year of Leland Thomson is a captivating story full of country charm and wit. It is appropriate for all ages but will have special meaning to those trying to find their place in the world.
About the Author
Cary Franklin Smith has heard a voice calling out within his heart to write since he was young. Inspired by a high school English teacher who helped him find the well from which to draw out stories and characters, today, he enjoys the process of watching the stories write themselves as he pours from the bucket onto the keys of his laptop.
Among other interests and responsibilities he pastors a church in the countryside of Southeast Texas, not far from
Inspiration for this book came from his youngest son who, like Leland, also is a cellist, and a very good one. He's a natural. All the Smiths had to do was provide him the opportunity and the gift came out.