The Truth About Sparrows

By Marian Hale

"The Wynns are an unforgettable family. The details of their struggle to survive the Great Depression will linger long after the last page has been read."-Ann M. Martin, winner of the Newbery Honor for A Corner of the Universe

A stunning debut novel about
the true meaning of home

Sadie Wynn doesn't want a new life; her old one suits her just fine. But times are hard in drought-plagued Missouri, and Daddy thinks they'll be better off in Texas. Sadie hates this strange new place, where even children must work at the cannery to help make ends meet and people are rude to her disabled father.

Yet when trouble comes, it is the kindness of these new neighbors that helps the family make it through. And no one helps more than Dollie, a red-headed chatterbox of a girl who just might become a good friend-if Sadie gives her half a chance.

The Truth About Sparrows is a 2005 Bank Street - Best Children's Book of the Year.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Jun 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781627797085

Marian Hale

Marian Hale is the author of acclaimed historical novels for young adults--The Truth About Sparrows, Dark Water Rising, and The Goodbye Season. She lives with her husband, daughter, and grandbabies on the Texas Coast.

Book preview

Chapter One

I TURNED TWELVE on July 18, 1933, the day we left Missouri. Mama said there’d be no cake this year. She said I was getting a whole new life for my birthday instead, like I was being born all over again. I didn’t care about the cake, but I sure didn’t want a new life. My old one suited me just fine.

We were leaving Missouri ’cause Daddy couldn’t make a living there as a mechanic anymore. Not as a carpenter, either. I asked him why, and he said, When farmers suffer, Sadie, everyone suffers.

The drought had sucked the land dry, and it threatened to suck us dry, too, if we didn’t get away. So Daddy sold our house for what he could get—a piddling amount, Mama called it—and we were up before daylight, squeezing our belongings into the car.

Daddy said he wanted to be on the road before the sun could shrivel one more blade of grass. But even the black of early morning felt hot enough to do that. Sweat crawled all over me like ants, and my damp dress clung to my legs while I worked. There didn’t seem to be enough dark in the world to cool off the heat our land soaked up every day.

We packed Daddy’s books—Charles Dickens and Daniel Defoe, Herman Melville and James Fenimore Cooper—the dozens of adventures he’d read to us chapter by chapter as far back as I could remember. We stuffed them into crates with the pots and bedding and tied everything to the car roof and down the running boards. Everything but the furniture. It didn’t matter much that our beds and chairs sat in bare rooms waiting for new owners, but I hated leaving the table behind. I knew Mama did, too. Daddy had built that shiny drop-leaf table himself and given it to Mama the day they got married. She promised it’d be mine someday. I never knew Mama to break a promise.

I went back inside to see if she’d finished with the kitchen and found her wiping down the stove. Her hands looked pale as a new moon against the black iron, and her belly, slightly rounded with the new baby, rubbed against the stove edge. Long strands of dark hair, loose from their pins, swung with the rhythm of her cleaning. Seeing her shine everything for someone else made my stomach turn sour. I shoved back my own dark hair, sticky with sweat, and felt anger heat up my cheeks. She could’ve talked to Daddy, like I asked her to. She could’ve reminded him of how wearisome a trip could be and about the baby she lost when me and Jacob were little. If she had, we might not be leaving.

I ducked my head and ran a finger around the smooth edge of the table, too mad at Mama to look at her anymore. It wasn’t fair we had to give up so much. My bitterness must’ve pushed a scowl onto my face ’cause Mama leaned close and whispered, Daddy said he’d make us another table, Sadie. For our new life.

I nodded, but I knew it’d never be the same.

When we’d loaded all we could, three-year-old Bobby crawled into the front seat beside Daddy. I waited outside for Mama and took a last look toward the withered fields. I couldn’t see much in the dark, but it didn’t matter. I’d never get the picture of stunted grain, broken and spent, out of my head. I’d heard wind rattle through their papery bones so long I couldn’t remember what quiet, green days were like anymore. I turned, skimmed the empty grain silos, and squinted down the road toward town. The halo of light on the horizon, faithful as the rising sun, was gone now. No one lit the street lamps in town anymore.

Nothing had been the same for a long time. Especially since Wilma left last month. The drought took everything from her family, too, like it did the Fosters, the Sullingers, and the Varners. Wilma was luckier than most, though. She knew where she was going. Family in California had offered to take them in, and she’d given me their address. We promised to write every day till we could see each other again.

I glanced east and saw clouds tinged with pink and purple. The sun would be up soon, and by midmorning, the brown fields and meadows would hum with heat. But I’d be gone by then. There’d be no more swimming in the river. No more purple fingers from ripe dewberries. And never again would I have a friend as good as Wilma to tell my thoughts to.

I turned my back on the parched land and climbed into the backseat beside five-year-old Emily. Her eyes shone from beneath her bangs, and she grinned at me, too excited about the trip to understand what we were giving up. Jacob, who was ten, wiggled between Emily and the window and set her to whining. He looked at me and shrugged, like it embarrassed him some that he was happy about the move and I wasn’t.

Daddy was ready to leave, but Mama pulled the broom from the running board of the car and headed for the porch, determined to leave it clean. Sweeping seemed a waste of time to me. The wind was bound to get up like it did every day and blow the dusty yard onto the porch again. But Mama didn’t care. She said the house had given its best and deserved no less from us.

She swept the dirt from under the porch swing and down the steps, then turned toward the house, staring. I couldn’t tell what she was looking at. The patched holes in the screen door, maybe. The one halfway up, Jacob made with his cane pole. And the two down low, our hound started when she was chased by a swarm of bees. The next day, poor old Ruby died in Mama’s arms from all the stings. We buried her in the backyard, and Emily cried ’cause we didn’t have flowers for her grave. I cried, too, but not for lack of flowers.

Mama set our house key on the door ledge for the new owners. I looked away and saw Daddy turn his head, too. I knew he was sad. Last night, I heard Mama tell him, All four of our babies took their first steps in this house.

He wasn’t sad enough to stay, though.

Mama shoved the broom back down the running board, behind the camp stove, and climbed into the car. After a last look at the house, she nodded, and we headed down the road.

I tried hard not to be mad about leaving, but my feelings bucked all over the place. Home disappeared behind us, looking crisp-fried like Mama’s hash brown potatoes, and all I could think about was how you can’t start a new life without the old one dying first.

Chapter Two

WHEN IT GOT LIGHT ENOUGH to see, I pulled out the notebook paper Mama had given me and started a letter to Wilma. My pencil zigged and zagged with every bump in the road, but the writing made me feel better. I pretended I was having a real conversation with her, and I did fine till I remembered how my stomach rolled and sank that awful day we overheard our daddies talking in the kitchen.

Me and Wilma had worked up a thirst jumping rope in my backyard. We pumped fresh water at the well and sat down near the kitchen to cool off in the shade of a big sycamore tree. A dry wind got up, sparking dust devils, and soon it swept her daddy’s voice through the screen door.

I got the notice, Mr. Beldon said. The bank’s taking my house tomorrow, John. My land, too.

I didn’t know, I whispered.

Wilma stiffened beside me, but didn’t say a word. She moved closer, instead, crouching beside the screen so she could catch every word.

Have you and Mae decided where you’re going? I heard Daddy ask.

Not many choices, Mr. Beldon said.

California?

Wilma’s fingers, clammy and cold, groped for my hand and held tight.

Mae’s brother said he could take us in for a while, Mr. Beldon said. His voice sounded thick, achy with misery. We’ll pack what we can and head west in the morning.

Wilma sucked in a breath and stared at me like she’d just seen the end of the world.

Where you headin’ to, John?

I heard the rasp of Daddy’s fingers across his chin stubble, a sure sign he was troubled. I leaned against the clapboard siding, fear knotting in my chest, and waited.

We’re thinking Texas, he said finally.

Daddy’s words hit me hard. Like the time Jacob barreled into me, chasing a fly ball. Same as then, I doubled over, the air knocked right out of me. Wilma jerked me away from the screen door and pulled me toward the road. Without a word to anyone, we ran all the way to the river.

Gasping, we reached the shady bank and slid to the ground.

What are we gonna do? she asked.

I shook my head. I had no answers.

Wilma’s fingers twisted in the blue cloth of her dress, in and out, in and out. The bank took everything. Her voice turned breathy with tears. Our house, our land. She looked at me, eyes bleary, cheeks wet as on the day her granny Fern died of influenza. This is the last time I’ll ever see you, Sadie.

I nodded, too sick to answer. I wrapped my arms around her and cried, tangling my hands in her straw-blond hair.

Wind rustled leaves, and doves cooed. Locusts sang, and the river bubbled and churned its way downstream like nothing in this world would ever change.

But it had.

I blinked away my tears and pulled back to look at her. We’re best friends, Wilma. True sisters. Nothing will ever change that.

She bit her bottom lip and nodded. "But California, Sadie. And Texas?" Her face crumpled, and tears spilled down her cheeks again.

We’ll write, I said. Every single day. But my words sounded feeble and hopeless even to me.

Her head snapped up, and she looked at me hard. Promise, Sadie Wynn. Promise I’ll always be your best friend.

I nodded and drew my fingers over my chest in a big X. Cross my heart, I whispered, and felt the pledge settle in the deepest part of me. You’ll always be my best friend, Wilma. Always.

I’m not sure how long we sat there. Minutes trickled past, steady as the river, till we didn’t dare stay longer. Wilma started off down the road, eyes red and swollen, and I watched till the blue of her dress blurred and finally disappeared.

That was the last time I saw Wilma.

I squeezed my eyes shut, but even now, a full month later, I could still see that empty road. I could smell the hard-packed dirt beneath my feet, see faded sunlight flickering through leaves at the road’s edge, and feel again how I wished the river would swallow us up, hide us from what was coming. But most of all, I remembered the quiver in Wilma’s voice when she said, Promise, Sadie.

I folded my letter and put it away.

*   *   *

Daddy soon turned south and pointed the car toward the Texas coast. He said a lack of rain couldn’t keep a man from making a living there. Snow, either, ’cause it hardly ever snowed in South Texas. He said the warm Gulf bays were full of fish. And even though the house money wasn’t much, there’d be enough after the trip to buy lumber for a small fishing boat. I knew Daddy was smart and a good planner. I knew, too, he could’ve found a way to stay in Missouri if he’d wanted to.

We rode every day of that trip wedged in the car, and every night we camped near rivers and streams. Me and Mama would set to work on supper right away while Emily and Bobby gathered firewood. Jacob helped Daddy set up the tent.

The closer we got to Texas, the more bugs there seemed to be. Ants and gnats and cockroaches—lots of cockroaches. Some of them were big. Sometimes they’d find their way into the tent at night and send us all scurrying till we got them out. Except for Daddy. He’d just lie there laughing at all the swatting and shuddering.

Most times, we saw other people camped along the rivers. They’d sleep on the ground or in tents, their belongings crammed into trucks or cars, just like us. And others carried their whole lives in a flour sack tucked under their arms.

Once, we met a man and his son traveling by foot to Louisiana.

The boy’s ma died a few weeks back, the man said. If we can get to my sister’s place, we’ll be okay. There’s work for me there.

Mama fed them, and when they left the next morning, she made sure the boy put extra bread in his pockets for the road.

Another time, a squabble broke out between two men. I couldn’t tell about what. Before Mama could shoo us into the tent, I saw the bigger man duck away from a swinging tire iron. The end caught him on the cheek and flayed it open clear to the bone. Mama and Daddy didn’t get much sleep that night, and before daylight, we packed up and headed out of there, back to the road again.

Two Sundays came and went without church. Mama didn’t like the idea we’d be living like heathens till we were good and settled, but she was a practical woman. As long as Daddy gave us Bible verses to ponder, she didn’t complain. I liked the verses better than church, anyway, though it was a puzzlement how Daddy seemed to know just what I needed to hear. I finally figured God must be seeing right down inside me and guiding Daddy’s finger to the right verse.

Daddy didn’t miss church at all. He fancied his Bible reading done under his own roof, or even better, under a blue sky. He said it didn’t make a lick of sense to think the good Lord preferred to be locked away in a stuffy old church house all week and let loose just on Sundays. He said God was everywhere His word was. And even in places it wasn’t.

Mama always frowned when Daddy got started on religion. But when I thought about it, I had to agree with him. Any fool able-minded enough to breathe could see God had to be everywhere. Shining in the new green of sprouted grain. Or dancing on the roof with the rain. Or fluttering in the blue shimmer of a dragonfly’s wing. I didn’t say much about it, though. I figured Mama might be happier if I kept those thoughts to

Reviews for The Truth About Sparrows

[elpowers · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Very good novel about the depression. Nobody dies :)

[csteier-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Great book! Great depression - main character must leave home - moves to Texas coast - goes through hardships - heartwarming