DELTA CHILD In Delta Child, author Talya Tate Boerner draws on her Mississippi County childhood to deliver readers back to a simpler time when screen doors slammed, kids tromped cotton, and Momma baked cornbread for supper every night. Boerner, a fourth-generation Arkansas farm girl, has been published in "Arkansas Review," "Deep South Magazine," and "Delta Crossroads." Her award-winning debut novel, "The Accidental Salvation of Gracie Lee," is also set in northeast Arkansas. Follow her blog "Grace Grits and Gardening" (www.gracegritsgarden.com) for more tales of Arkansas farming, gardening, and comfort food.
by Talya Tate Boerner
Another New Year
O
n the last afternoon before Christmas break, Mrs. Mills wheeled the film projector into our classroom and made us watch a movie about life in rural America. If there was one thing my classmates and I knew, it was about living in rural America. Craig, who sat directly behind me, muttered, "Oh, brother." My friend, Anita, snickered. Her desk was opposite the aisle from mine. As Mrs. Mills introduced the film, the poinsettia brooch pinned to her sweater shined and sparkled, but her typically bright eyes looked tired and pinched together. Even her neatly styled hair seemed flatter than usual. I suspected the film on rural America was nothing more than a bridge between the end of Friday and the beginning of Christmas vacation. Teachers needed a break from school, too. The overhead lights flipped off. The projector hummed. The narrator’s calm voice sounded familiar to me, like a famous movie star I would recognize if only he would show himself. I half-listened in case a pop test waited at the end. Mostly, I began to practice writing 1972 on a blank piece of paper in the back of my notebook. The numbers felt different as they flowed from the sharpened lead of my pencil. While cowboys in Texas roped a calf, I printed 1972 ten times across the page. If I squinted my eyes, the figures blurred into one humongous, impossible-to-say number. 1972197219721972197219721972197219721972. Did a number with that many digits have an official name? Maybe a bajilliongazillion? I wondered if Mrs. Mills knew. Farmers threshed wheat using a John Deere combine like Daddy's. Iowa wheat looked no different from Arkansas wheat, so I completely tuned out that part of the film. Instead, I wrote January 1, 1972, in large block letters then made it look three-dimensional with feathery lines and shadows. It was interesting how one new number made the upcoming year seem exotic. I wrote the date of my next birthday. July 10, 1972. I would be 10 years old. In Kentucky, workers mined coal, so we could have heat at Keiser Elementary. The miners’ eyes looked scooped out, their soot-covered faces haunted. I found myself watching the
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remainder of the film, because something about those miners was hypnotic. As though perfectly planned, the bell rang just as the end of the filmstrip fluttered around and around the reel. Mrs. Mills flipped on the overhead light. In unison, we protested the brightness as though we’d been deep inside a dark coal mine. "Have a wonderful Christmas, students," Mrs. Mills said as she removed her owl-like glasses and placed them on her desk. "See you next year," she said. Next year sounded far away and North Pole dreamy. Our class erupted in a joyfulness only felt at Christmastime. I pulled on my coat, thankful there had been no time for a pop test. I considered that my first Christmas gift of the year. My classmates and I spilled into the hallway and joined the flood of students emptying onto the playground. A line of school buses idled around the circle drive, churning smoke and waiting to carry us to certain holiday freedom. “See you in 1972,” Anita said to me. Her breath curled and lingered in the cold air. Temperatures had plunged all afternoon, and now the clouds hung heavy like flour dumplings. “Yes. See you next year,” I said back. Anita disappeared into the first bus. I raced toward the next one. Christmas vacation lasted three whole weeks! In three weeks, I could trick my mind into believing the school bell would never ring again. Homework wouldn’t exist until Santa had come and gone leaving toys under the tree, foil-wrapped chocolates in my stocking, and a 1972 month-at-a-glance calendar for Momma’s desk. During my long bus ride home, two things came to me about the film my class had watched. Number one: Paul Newman had been the film narrator. It was as though Butch Cassidy had been standing in our classroom talking about cowboys and farmers and coal miners. Number two: Rural America included lots of areas besides northeast Arkansas. As winter fields passed outside the dusty window of my bus, I felt lucky to be the daughter of an Arkansas cotton farmer instead of a Kentucky coal miner.
Front Porch
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ARKANSAS FARM BUREAU • WINTER 2018