My brother held my hand as I took my first steps into the adventurous world of reading. I was only three. He started first grade that year and Daddy told him, "Son, every day when you get home from school, teach your little sister all you learned."
My education had begun.
I knew my ABC's by the time I was four and recognized simple words long before I reached Ms. Gwendolyn's first grade class. I soon became the youngest child in second grade.
Schools issued free books to children in the 1940's. I loved those books. Especially the stories of Dick, Jane, Baby Sally, Spot the dog and Puff the cat. I wanted that family to be my own. In my dreams their mother set a place for me at her table. I helped their father rake leaves. I twisted shiny faucets and watched water splash into their bathroom sink.
It's amazing how easily I fitted myself into a fantasy life so different from reality. I had limited exposure to regular meals served on a properly set table, and none at all to raking leaves. Were leaves supposed to be raked? Did our family own a rake? And water that came gushing down into a sparkling clean bathroom sink on its way to vanishing down a convenient pipe, carrying a child's dirt with it ... What was that all about? We had no bathroom, no sink, no running water.
Those details didn't matter. I could be a sister to Dick and Jane. I only needed my face washed and maybe a new pair of shoes and I'd fit in just fine.
Trains were sometimes mentioned in the Dick and Jane book, and I understood that subject well. Trains were the center of my real world. Railroad tracks lay only a stone's throw from our front door. My father was a railroad man who labored all over the state of Arkansas and was forever hitching a train ride to and from his work. He came home most weekends. I liked Daddy to be home. I felt safe when he was in the house.
Beginning early Saturday mornings, carrying the Dick and Jane book with me, I took up my post on a grassy embankment overlooking the tracks. While studying my primer I listened carefully for distant rumbles and whistles that might be bringing Daddy home. Trains came from both directions. Lots of troop trains were running in 1942. Soldiers and sailors leaned out the windows and waved to a small child sitting on the ground, reading her book. Sometimes, those trains stopped for awhile. Servicemen were not permitted to leave the train, so they called out requests. Could I get them a newspaper? Didn't matter if it was a few days old. Could I go down to the country store and bring them a coke? Did I have a big sister?
I usually fetched and carried to the best of my ability. The men tossed out lots of change. After gathering a pocketful of dimes and quarters from the gravel, I went willingly to the store for glass bottles of coke and came back alongside the train, wagging the drinks in a large brown paper bag. Handy cardboard cartons hadn't yet been invented, so it was a big relief when a soldier reached from the train steps, collected the burden from my tired little arms and patted me on the head.
Wasn't that unsafe? A six year old child walking so near trains and strange men? By today's standards it would be unthinkable, but it wasn't considered dangerous back then. Not for me anyway. Not for a street-wise urchin who'd been raised on the tracks. I was so used to trains I could easily tell when one was preparing to roll. I knew when to back away. And those strange men were only homesick young servicemen heading overseas. They felt protective toward small children.
Returning to my seat on the ground where sunshine lay warm against my braided hair, I reopened my book ... "Look Dick. Look Jane. See Spot run. Funny funny Spot. See Spot run."
Beneath me the earth quivered as a passenger train roared past without slowing down long enough to allow anybody's daddy to get off even if he'd been on there. I wasn't too disappointed. I expected a long wait.
I turned a few more pages. Dick and Jane were trying to teach little Sally to catch a ball when Mother called them in to dinner. I wanted to climb inside the pages and go with them. I was hungry too.
Far in the distance I heard a freight train coming and held my breath while reciting my best known prayer for all occasions. PleaseGodpleaseGodpleaseGod ... God understood what I meant. He was good that way. I wanted my daddy to be on that train. Daddy had failed to come home last weekend. I didn't want him to miss two weekends in a row. I needed my daddy to come home.
There was a slowing sound as the freight train got closer. It paused a little. It hesitated a bit. Finally, with a gentle rumble, the black engine crept into sight and eased past me. I was on my feet. Eyes, searching, searching ... Suddenly, a duffle bag flew from an open box-car door. Two seconds later my daddy jumped out behind it. He was forty-three-years-old that year. He hit the ground running and laughed when he saw his youngest child scampering toward him.
Daddy turned to wave "much obliged" to a disappearing engineer. I hurried to retrieve the small battered suitcase and the two of us headed for the house. Daddy, carrying my Dick and Jane book. Me, proudly dragging his duffle bag.
Life was good.
And the best was yet to come.
Late Saturday afternoon Daddy and I sat side by side on the front porch swing. It was time to show off my reading skills to my favorite audience. Here we go! Fun With Dick and Jane.
Page one: "See. See. See Spot run. Run Spot run."
Page two: Daddy's hand stopped the turning of the page. "Go back to the beginning, Jo," he said, "Slow down and point to each word as you say it."
That wasn't the way our teacher taught us to read, but my daddy's wishes came first with me, so, okay, back to page one and my small finger began moving slowly across the pages, underlining each word as Daddy watched carefully. And watched. And watched.
There were many Saturday afternoons like that ...
Second grade. Third grade. The books kept coming. The words got harder. My finger moved across the pages. Daddy seldom took his eyes off that moving finger.
By fourth grade I finally realized I was teaching my father to read. I passed this information on to my brother in a frightened whisper. Once we recovered from the shock of such discovery, we vowed to do everything in our power to protect our daddy from embarrassment. The town must never find out this family secret.
Even more important, Daddy must never know his children knew.
My father was born in 1899 ... one of the oldest in a family of nine children. Times were hard and young boys were often expected to do a man's work. My father spent his childhood plowing fields, chopping firewood and baling hay. School was out of the question. He learned to sign his name and add numbers, but never progressed beyond that point until, sitting on a front porch swing, he followed me into the world of Dick and Jane.
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