Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Lizzie didn't remember who told her that rubbing the right boot of the Jeremiah Jones wood carving on Willow Street would bring good luck. It didn't matter. This was P-Day, and she could use all the help she could get.

P-Day - short for Project Day -   was a tense time in the Grade 5 class at Willow Street School. It was the day each student selected the subject of their YEAR LONG research projects. Students had to choose one topic in October (on P-Day) and work on it until May. The students with the best projects got special awards during a year-end  assembly that was attended by parents and members of the local school board. It was a big deal.

But seven months for one project seemed like a long time. A woman could have a baby in nine months, thought Lizzie. What was Mr. Thompson doing?

Lizzie wasn't the only one who wondered. Some parents thought a seven month research project for children aged 10 and 11 years old was a little extreme. Several times in the last decade parents had gone to the principal to complain, but Mr. Thompson stood his ground. He said it taught children how to manage their time and how to stick with a project to the end. Too often, he argued, he had to teach history and social studies on a hit-and-run basis. At the end of the day, one project requiring in-depth work would not kill them.

And so, P-Day became a fixture at the school - along with pre-project selection jitters, and post-selection depression, for those one or two students who inevitably got stuck with topic subjects they hated.

Lizzie didn't want that to happen to her, so a  week before P-Day, on the same day she'd had her odd little church time warp experience, she spent time surfing the net and texting friends about potential subjects. Mr. Thompson had announced the focus for the projects was to be Canadian heroes.

 She made a long list of candidates, but two days later, many of the names had to be dropped when Mr. Thompson announced the project could not focus on athletes. The Olympics was coming up and there would be plenty of opportunity then to write about fan favorites. Entertainment personalities were out too.

The groans and howls of protests from the boys lasted for the balance of the week. While many of  them had to start again from scratch, Lizzie still had a few names left on the list she kept tucked in the back of her purple binder. Names still on the list included, Daurene Lewis the former mayor of Annapolis Royal and the first black female mayor in North America, poet and playwright George Elliot Clarke, activist and journalist Dr. Carrie Best, and her first choice, Portia White.

There was never any question in her mind that she would be doing a project on a black hero. Instinctively she knew it was an opportunity to showcase African-Canadian history. With the exception of Black History Month in February, the contributions blacks made to Canada went largely unmentioned at the school. This was an opportunity to fix that.

She wanted to do Portia White because she was a famous opera singer from Truro. There was a wood carving of her on the lawn of Zion and a plaque near the church door with all kinds of details on it.

How hard could a project on her be? Maybe I can even sing part of the project to get extra marks.

Like the other students in Grade 5 she was still uneasy on P-Day. She dawdled a little longer than usual at breakfast, and it was a few minutes later than normal when she shouted goodbye to her father and started off along the sidewalk to school.

It was a cool, clear day with the leaves just starting to surrender their summer green for the reds and yellows of fall. Lizzie was about halfway to school when the smell of peppermint stopped her in her tracks. She looked up and down the street to find the source of the pleasing aroma, but there was nothing but a big yellow school bus pulling onto the street a block away.

 The street was deserted, except for her and the three-metre carving of soldier Jerry Jones.

"Do you know anything about this Jerry?" she asked laughing.

She passed the wood carving every day. It was one of 32 created from the trunks of dead elm trees to honour famous people in the town's past. Truro had once been known for its stately elms. Now it was becoming known for its wood carvings.

The carving of Jones had something to do with the black man's actions during a war. Lizzie had never read the plaque screwed to the base offering up details. She just knew that someone had said rubbing his boot brought luck.

 "Okay Jerry, here's a rub for luck," she said. She'd already forgotten about the peppermint smell that had stopped her in the first place.

As she reached out to run her fingers along the wood, one of the straps on her backpack came undone. She grabbed at it, but it was too late. The sack tumbled from her back, the top popping open as it hit the damp ground. Scribblers, pens, paper, two flower shaped erasers, a friendship bracelet and some glittery lip gloss her father didn't know she wore, all spilled out.

"Crap," she huffed bending down to clean up the mess.

Everything but her purple binder was back in the sack when a playful wind snuck up the sidewalk, blew open the cover and plucked out her P-Day list. The last time she saw it, it was looping over a fence at the far end of a parking lot behind an apartment building.

"Great. A lot of help you were," she scolded the carving, arranging the balance of the recovered items in the now soggy sack. "I thought you were supposed to bring luck ...."

She took a step back to continue the scolding, and froze in her tracks. As she looked up at the sculpted face of the man they called the Gentle Giant, an eyelid fluttered. The statue winked at her.

 A shiver ran down the back of her neck making the small hairs there stand on end. The shiver continued down her spine, and then made a quick left turn at her stomach. She suddenly felt dizzy.

"How the...what was...Did I see?"

Half-formed questions raced through Lizzie's mind. What had just happened? The sidewalk and the entire neighbourhood seemed to drift away. For a moment there was just Lizzie and the carving.

She didn't know how long she had been standing there when she heard Shanice calling to her from the intersection a block closer to the school.

Her friend was waiving at her and pointing at her watch. She was obviously late. Lizzie didn't want to leave, but she didn't want to get on Mr. Thompson's bad side either. With a final glance at the carving, she turned and ran toward Shanice, the smell of peppermint once again filling the air.

Chapter 3

By the time bedtime rolled around that night, Lizzie was tired and didn't kick up the usual fuss about how unfair it was that her older sister, Rejean, got to stay up a half an hour later than she did.

After brushing her teeth and slipping into her fleece pyjamas, she kissed her Dad goodnight and crawled into bed. She thought about reading the next chapter  of Runaway Ralph by Beverly Cleary by flashlight, but decided instead to re-braid her doll's long black hair.

How did I get so bent out of shape about an essay? Sure, I could have done better, but it was just one assignment wasn't it? If it had been perfect, would it really have made a difference to Mr. Thompson?

With those thoughts in her mind, she drifted off to sleep.

But not for very long. She was suddenly cold. Had some crazy person opened a window? Eyes closed, she hunted for the blanket to pull up around her shoulders. She couldn't find it. When she opened her eyes to investigate, she discovered she was no longer in her bed. She wasn't even in her house.

 She was lying curled up on a wooden pew in a dimly lit church.

While just minutes ago she'd jumped into bed in pyjamas, Lizzie was shocked to find she was now dressed in an old-fashioned party dress like she'd once seen in her Grandma's photo album. Her bare feet were no longer bare. Scuffed black leather shoes were squishing her toes together and heavy white knee socks were making the back of her legs itchy.

Confused and struggling to sit up, her hand brushed across a wide-brimmed felt hat with a big blue ribbon. It was pinned into her hair.

A single note from an organ brought Lizzie completely awake and onto her feet. She sought the source of the note, and found a choir at the front of the church jumping to their feet as well.

Dressed in blue robes with the funny hats students wear at graduations, Lizzie watched a dozen black men and women open their songbooks in unison and wait expectantly for the organist to begin.

The organist was apparently prepared let them wait a bit. The petite woman seated at the keyboard looked out across the congregation. Spotting Lizzie, she smiled broadly and nodded an acknowledgment before turning her attention to the sheet music and the choir. After a three bar opening flourish, she signalled the choir and they launched into a stirring version of One More River to Cross.

Lizzie was unsure what was happening, but the woman looked familiar...and suddenly so did the church. It was her church, Zion Baptist. She came here most Sundays for Sunday school, but now it looked so...different.

The parlour facing Prince Street was filled with odd, uncomfortable looking furniture. The wide semi-circle of pews looking up to the raised stage were darker brown and newer looking than they had been last week. There was something about the colour of the paint over the steeple tower at the entrance that was odd too.

Founded in 1898 by three dozen black worshipers who wanted more than second-class gallery seats at First Baptist Church down the street, Lizzie knew Zion had been the focal point of social activities for the black community for a century.

Singing and praying together had made the church a foundation for the community. It was a source of power and strength for generations of parishioners who found themselves shunned or patronized by the larger white community in Truro.

For Lizzie, Zion meant Sunday school classes in the brightly lit basement and summer church camps with games that included croquet and wheelbarrow races on the front lawn.

Those happy memories stood in stark contrast to the one overwhelmingly sad memory: her mother's funeral.

Her Mom had died in a car crash during a storm three years ago. Lizzie had been in the backseat of the red Impala, but remembered little about it. The doctors said she'd hit her head. She experienced something they called amnesia.

All she remembered of the tragic day was getting into the car after school in the pouring rain, the car pulling into traffic, a rumble of thunder in the sky, a flash of lightening...and then nothing.

She was out of hospital in time for her mother's funeral here. The church was packed and everyone kept coming up and saying how sorry they were. There were tears and prayers, but also lots of joyful songs, just like Momma would have wanted.

She thought Rev. Smith's sermon was too long and too loud as usual, so she'd passed the time watching the watery red and green reflection of the stained glass swim across the east wall. It was easier than listening or thinking about a future without Momma.

There were no colours dancing on the wall today. No Rev. Smith. Not a single person in pews that she recognized. There was no one, except the organist, who even acknowledged she was even there.

Pushing away the thoughts of the funeral, and the unreality of the current situation, Lizzie was watching the organist's hands sweep across the keys when she suddenly realized knew who the tiny old lady was. Just as quickly, she realized she couldn't possibly be right.

On a normal Sunday she would never leave her father's side. But her father was not here, and this was obviously not a normal day, so Lizzie slipped out from the pew and crept closer to the front where she could get a better look at the organist's face.

"Is that you Aunt Vera?" she whispered leaning forward. "How is it possible that you're here?"

"It's me dear," the woman whispered back to Lizzie without taking her eyes off the sheet music for Abide With Me, the choir's next selection.

Lizzie sat back stunned. How could that be? Vera (Halfkenny) Clyke was dead. She'd been to the funeral here in this church when speaker after speaker praised her work as past clerk of the church, past president of the Ebony Senior Society and her efforts as the church organist for an astounding 72 years.

She wasn't really Lizzie's aunt, but everyone called her Aunt Vera. She was a sweet old lady. Lizzie had only heard her play a few times. She'd officially retired around the time Lizzie was born, but she’d filled in occasionally when the regular organist was sick. Lizzie had heard she played until just a few months before her death at age 98.

Listening to the way the woman dragged emotion from church's Thomas organ she knew the words of praise she'd heard at the funeral were true. The church was lucky to have - or that had - Aunt Vera

As Lizzie pondered the impossibility of the situation, she scanned the church. Her attention eventually settled on a man seated in the back row of the pews furthest from the door. He was the tallest man she'd ever seen. He was old, but when his eyes met hers, they were warm, almost mischievous. He had a big bushy moustache and wore a heavy khaki coloured coat.

To Lizzie's surprise, he beckoned her over.

"Can you help me, sir?"  she asked shyly." I seem to be a little lost."

The old man smiled and reached into his pocket. With the flurry of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, he opened his hand in front of Lizzie and produced a small brown paper bag filled with hard candy. He silently offered her one.

"Thank you," she said popping a peppermint into her mouth. "You look familiar, do I know you?"

The man smiled again and nodded.

Lizzie thought he was going to say something when he suddenly got up, brought his heels together, and stood at attention. He looked directly a Lizzie and brought his massive hand to his forehead in a salute.

"Take pride in your work, Lizzie,” he said, and then strode out of the church into bright sunlight. He didn’t look back.

As she stood there, her mouth open in amazement, the choirs' song grew to a thunderous crescendo... until Aunt Vera hit a note that couldn't be right. It sounded like the buzzer on an alarm clock.

And it was an alarm clock. Somehow Lizzie was suddenly back in bed.

                                  

                                                    Vera Clyke carving in Truro, NS

Chapter 2

Buddy Paris was in the living room reading the local newspaper when Lizzie rushed through the front door. He waited for his youngest daughter to bellow out her usual greeting "Hi Dad, I'm home" and was surprised when it didn't come. The only sound was the pounding of small feet on the wooded stairs,followed by the closing of the door to Lizzie's room.

Buddy finished an article about town council's approval of plans for a new modern elementary school to replace Willow Street and two older schools, and then sat listening for sounds from upstairs.

 If he could hear Hannah Montana, it meant Lizzie had slapped a CD into her portable stereo and was already working on her homework. If there was laughter, she was probably on the phone to Shanice. A metallic pinging would mean her PS3 was back in action (after a glorious three month reprieve)  and he'd have to call his pig-tailed darling at least three times before she'd come down to dinner.

But today there was something he was not used to: silence.

He put the paper down and crept to the bottom of the stairs.

"Lizzie honey, is that you?" he called. No answer. "Lizzie?"

Buddy climbed the stairs and walked to Lizzie's door at the end of the hall. He knocked gently on a space between two Twilight posters and pushed the door open. His daughter was lying face down on her bed, sobbing into her pillow.

"I hate school," she said turning to confront her stunned father. "I'm never going back, and you can't make me."

"It's okay baby, don't cry," he whispered. He lowered himself   carefully onto the bed and wrapped his arms around his daughter. "Whatever happened, we'll make it right."

Lizzie resisted the bear hug for an instant, and then collapsed into the security of his arms.

They're pretty hairy arms, Lizzie thought fleetingly, before she let the tears flow.

Buddy's distress for Lizzie was mixed with joy that his pre-teen daughter could still find comfort in his arms. Lizzie was an affectionate child, but in recent months she'd stopped reaching out for his hand when they walked together, and she didn't always seek that kiss goodbye when he dropped her off at a friend's house for a sleep-over.

As Lizzie stirred, he reluctantly let her go. She grabbed a tissue from her bedside table, and blew her nose loudly.

Before Buddy could ask what was really wrong, Lizzie hopped across the small room and began rooting in the yellow backpack. She produced a green binder with a fuzzy Webkinz cover and pulled out a two-page report written in pencil. She handed it to him like a prosecutor presenting damning evidence to a witness in court.

The writing was smudged, but he immediately recognized the paper as a project Lizzie had been working on in front of the television two nights ago. He'd started to tell her to go work at her desk, but sadly, got distracted by the program himself.

The essay was about the importance of neighbours. There were a few spelling mistakes and some missing punctuation, but Buddy thought the paper, on whole, made some fine points.

"So what's the problem?" he asked, now genuinely confused.

Lizzie rolled her eyes and huffed, exasperated. She poked at the teacher's comment written neatly in red ink in the corner.

Take more pride in your work.

"He hates me. He's hated me since the first day of school. He hates everything I do. That note proves it."

"Hold on second. What do you think this comment means?"

"It means he hates me. He's going to flunk me and I'm going to spend the rest of my life stuck in the Grade 5 classroom."

As if the matter was settled, she flopped back on her bed and stuck her face deep into the feather pillow.

Buddy stifled a laugh. Lizzie was so much like her mother.

"Sweetie, I don't think that's what he means at all. I think Mr. Thompson is trying to send you a message."

Lizzie rolled over, listening.

"I think Mr. Thompson wants you to try harder. He knows you're a good student, but he doesn't think you're giving it everything you've got. Maybe he thinks you're coasting."

"He's got some funny way of showing that he thinks I'm good."

"Maybe you're just not showing him how good you really are. Let's take this essay for instance. Is this REALLY your best work? Can you really tell me a smart girl like you doesn't know how to spell beautiful?"

Lizzie fiddled with one of her hair elastics and avoided her father's gaze. She picked at a piece of fuzz on her pants, hoping her father would say something and break the silence.

"Look at me," he commanded gently. "The only way you are going to get anywhere in life is to work hard at it. Whether you're a musician, a writer, an athlete or a welder like me, hard work is the key. If you work hard, you'll win - if you don't, you won't.

"When I was playing basketball, we'd always say a quick prayer just before the game would start. Then the coach would tell us: Nothing will work unless you do. I think that's all Mr. Thompson is trying to say. He wants you to get off the bench and start shooting for the hoop."

Lizzie had never thought about it like that. Maybe Mr. Thompson didn't hate her. Maybe he was just trying to get her mojo going.

"Dad," said Lizzie putting her hands on either side of his face and looking into his eyes. "Do all your words of advice come from old basketball coaches?"

In the two seconds it took Buddy to figure out she was kidding, Lizzie threw her arms around his neck, and climbed onto his back.

"Okay, I think I get it," she said. "Can we please go downstairs now for a snack before dinner? I'm going to have to keep my energy up if I'm going to start sinking those baskets for Mr. Thompson. Isn't that right coach?"

Chapter 1

Lizzie didn't hear the big grey door slam shut as she rushed down the stone stairs. She didn't hear her friend Shanice call out her name. Nor did she see the terror on the face of the driver who nearly hit her as she stormed across the school parking lot.

"Stupid school," she muttered. "No wonder they want to tear it down."

She smiled briefly as she imagined pulling bricks out from around the window of her second floor classroom and dropping them onto the pavement. She could almost hear them explode with a satisfying crack.

The curly-haired crossing guard, Mrs. Henderson, mistook the smile for Lizzie's normally cheery manner and playfully swatted the Fifth Grader with her stop sign.

 Lizzie scowled. She was not in the mood for games. She was angry, more angry than she’d been in her entire life.

 "Stop it," she barked at Mrs. Henderson. "Leave me alone."

 "Bad day Lizzie?" asked the guard, lifting the stop sign over her head and advancing into the crosswalk.

 "The worst," mumbled Lizzie. "Don't expect to see me again. I'm not coming back."

Tears welled up in the 11 year-olds dark brown eyes. As she raced toward home, she didn’t see Mr. Peters mowing his grass or Mrs. Mellor painting the gingerbread trim on the porch of the magnificent Victorian style home just two blocks from the school. She was simply focused on not crying. She wouldn't give Mr. Thompson the satisfaction of shedding tears.

 Mr. Thompson “with a p” was her teacher at Willow Street Elementary School. She'd been excited last June when she learned he'd be her teacher, but from the first day of classes, it hadn't worked out very well.

On the first day of school in September she'd been playing four-square in the playground with Shanice, Cassie and Emily. It was warm and the sky was blue and cloudless. The girls were trading stories about their summer adventures when Dennis (the Menace) Borden kicked a soccer ball into the middle of their game.

Lizzie knew he'd done it on purpose, so with a nod of encouragement from her friends, she grabbed the ball. With a major leaguer's concentration, she pitched it back at his head. It would have hit him too, if Mr. Thompson hadn't come out the basement door at that exact moment, and taken the ball in the chest.

For those 10 seconds it seemed to Lizzie that the world had stopped spinning. Children that had been running and laughing were now frozen in place, unsure where to look first, at Mr. Thompson or at her. Even the birds in the maple trees that ran between the school and the car lot next door seemed to stop singing so they could watch and see what might happen next.

They didn't have to wait long.

"I guess you'll be spending some time with me after class today, won't you Miss Paris?" said Thompson. It wasn't really a question.

He approached her, adjusting his tie. Her dark cheeks flushed as his eyes bore into hers, like a drill bit chewing through a piece of pine.

"No more four-square for you today, and I guess, nobody will be using this ball until tomorrow either."

After standing there for what seemed to be an eternity, Mr. Thompson turned away silently and disappeared back into the school, the soccer ball tucked beneath his arm.

Within seconds Dennis Borden was at Lizzie’s side.

 “You're done for now Lizzie," he whispered, obviously pleased with the havoc he'd created. "A detention on the first day of school. What's your father going to say?"

 Lizzie started to yell at him, using words that would make her father cringe, but the bell rang, and the insults were lost under the noise of 200 students scrambling to line up at the school's side door.

 That first day was a blur of activity. A new classroom, new desks, and even a couple of new students. Mr. Thompson seemed to have forgotten the soccer ball incident as he handed out textbooks with a smile and gave the class their first ever French lesson.

 Recess without a four-square was an unpleasant reminder of what lay ahead, but Lizzie managed to convince Shanice and Emily to play tag on the back field, far away from Dennis Borden, their new sworn enemy.

When the bell ending the school day finally sounded, Lizzie joined the other students gathering up books and papers, stuffing hers into a faded yellow backpack. With one eye on Mr. Thompson seated at his desk, head down working, and another at the door, Lizzie started casually for the hall.

 "Are you forgetting something Miss Paris?" Mr. Thompson asked without looking up.

She stopped. "No sir," she said, hoping it really was a question this time.

He let her stand there in an uncomfortable silence while the clatter of her departing classmates faded, and then disappeared altogether.

 "I thought you were going to be one of the students I could count on," he said finally. "Mrs. Butler had such good things to say about you."

"It wasn't my fault," she started. "Dennis Borden..."

He cut her off with a look that would have brought a tractor trailer to a halt.

 "It's time to start taking personal responsibility Ms. Paris. If you're going to succeed in this class you're going to have to control your temper and think for yourself. I want a one page essay by tomorrow on the importance of respect.

"You may go now. Don't disappoint me again," he said.

She'd completed the essay, and as the first weeks passed, she managed to steer clear of any further confrontations. Still, she never felt comfortable in her seat at the back of the second row, and her marks were never quite as good as she thought they should be. It seemed to her Mr. Thompson only called on her for an answer when she didn't put her hand up.

 Gone were the beautiful flowing script A's that topped her work when   Mrs. Butler was her teacher. This year it was a succession of assignments topped with unflattering B's and even one C+.

Today, though, as she stormed home with tears pulling at the edge of her eyes, a C+ would have looked good.

Introduction

Jerry's Medal

 An historical fiction novel for young readers

Introduction 

I started writing a book about Jeremiah Jones when my children were in elementary school. Both my daughters are in university now and yet the fascination continues.

Jerry was a farmer from Truro, Nova Scotia who was desperate for a little adventure in his life. He lied about his age so he could enlist in the military and became one of the few blacks who actually saw action at Vimy Ridge.

According to accounts recorded in the local Truro newspaper, Jerry was promised a Distinguished Conduct Medal (DCM) after an act of heroism on the battle field,  but he never received it. Family members fought for the recognition for years after his death and in February 2010 he was finally awarded a Canadian Forces Medallion for Distinguished Service.

In my unpublished book, Jerry's Medal,  I recount the story Jerry's life through the eyes of a young black girl from Truro who stumbles upon his story when a wood carving of the soldiers' likeness seems to come to life. I wrote it as young adult fiction in the hopes the story might be accessible to students in elementary school and junior high school.

The use of the wood carving as a story device seemed like a good idea at the time. Ten years ago there were dozens of wood carvings in Truro honouring notable residents from the past. There was a brochure available at the tourist centre and people would come to town and marvel at how the statues carved from dead elm trees gave many corners in the small town lots of character.

Unfortunately, most of the carvings have rotted away, including the 10-foot tall Jones piece by local artist Bruce Wood. There are still a few around, including one of Vera Clyke, an organist from Zion Baptist Church, who appears briefly in the book.

Although I interviewed many members of the Jones family, and used the best records I could get from Veterans Affairs, the book is a fictional account. The conversations in the dark trenches and the recounting of the Gentle Giant's bravery on the battlefield are my best guess at what might have happened - nothing more.

With the 100th anniversary of Vimy just weeks away, I decided to get the book out of the basement and into the hands of at least a few people who might appreciate it. The book is 20 chapters long. I'll be posting a new chapter at least once a week.

The first few chapters set the scene in Truro and introduce the main character Lizzie Paris, a precocious 11 year-old who travels back in time to accompany Jerry as he prepares to face the Germans at Vimy.