A Place of Our Own

By Joy N. Hulme

The tears just wouldn’t come anymore. I had squeezed out the last one. Now my eyes were stiff and dry like a lemon that has been wrung out for lemonade.

Crying wasn’t any use anyway. I’d tried it all afternoon and I was still lost. Whatever direction I looked I couldn’t see anything but sand—and more sand. There had been hills of it this morning, but now, as the evening shadows stretched out, the sand dunes looked more like mountains. Just the thought of climbing another one made me too tired to start.

I knew now I would never find my way back to the wagon. Soon it would be night and even if someone came looking for me, it would be too dark for them to see. Have they even missed me yet? I wondered. In a family the size of ours we had to learn to look out for ourselves. Maybe Ed has missed me and will come looking, I hoped.

“Mama! … Papa! … Ed!” I called again, but only a hollow echo came back, hoarse like my voice.

The sun was gone now. I had to find a place to spend the night while I could still see. I knew there would be no light from the moon, because I had seen the silver sliver sink out of sight soon after the sun had set. The thought of darkness brought to my memory the howling of coyotes. When I’d shudder up to Papa for comfort as I listened to them at home, he’d always say, “Don’t be afraid. They are clear out in the sand dunes. They’d never come this close.”

Now I was out in the sand dunes, too, and a new terror took possession of me. How can I protect myself from those demons of the night? I worried.

There was only sand, endless sand and the prickly bear grass that hugged it into little clumps. I wanted to be near the top of a hill so I could see as far as possible, but I knew a hollow would be warmer when the sun left the sand and the chill of night settled down, so I dug a little cave near the largest bunch of grass I could find. I pulled a handful of the spiny stems to beat back the coyotes if they came near, and I backed into my cavern.

I tried to figure out how our annual plum-picking outing that had started so happily could be ending so sadly. Our Indian Grandma had told us where to find the reddest and sweetest of the marble-size fruit, and we came every year and picked as many as we could find. The plums were beautiful, all rosy-cheeked on the sun-kissed side, golden yellow on the stem side, and frosted with a gray sheen that made them shine like silver balls underwater when we put them in the pan to wash them. They tasted mealy and sweet at first bite, but sour if chewed close to the skin or pit. They were especially good for jelly, jam, or when bottled fresh. Plum picking became an annual outing with a picnic for lunch. This day I had become tired and ached to go rest in the shade of the wagon for a little while.

Papa said, “Do you know the way back to the wagon?”

“Sure I do, Papa. You go straight back over those first three hills and it’s just a little way from there.” I pointed out the direction.

“That’s right,” he said, and I started off.

I couldn’t figure out where I’d gone wrong. I’d spent all afternoon climbing hills and looking for the family, but all I saw were hills—more and more hills. My bare feet were used to the prickles of the bear grass and the heat of the sand and I had wandered for a long time. Now I was lost and maybe miles from the wagon.

I’d been so sure I could find my way back that now I was ashamed to be lost. I hadn’t even bothered to ask Heavenly Father to help me. But now I had to ask Him. If I didn’t get some help soon, I might have to stay here until I died. So I talked to Him about it as I crouched in my little hideaway and I soon felt better.

I watched the sky as the stars came out one by one, until it was filled from edge to edge with little pinpricks of light. They seemed to twinkle a message of hope. But when I heard the lonely wail of a far-off coyote, the prickles on my skin lifted into little goose bumps, and the hope of a moment before turned into fear.

Then I noticed a new light, bigger than the stars, and it seemed to be moving in circles. Someone’s looking for me, I thought excitedly.

I wanted to run and find whoever it was, but I decided to stay in the same place because Papa had always told me to do that if I ever got lost. I crawled out of my hole, stood at the top of the hill, and tried to call but I couldn’t utter a sound. I tried again, but it was no use. My throat was as dry from calling all day as my eyes were from crying.

I watched the light. Finally I decided to start toward it, for I just knew it was my only chance.

As I went down the hill, I lost sight of the lantern, but I could see it again when I came to the top of the next knoll. I never quit looking in the direction of the light, even when it faded from view as I went up and down, and at last I could tell I was getting closer. I ran the last few steps and grabbed the legs of the person swinging the lantern. I couldn’t let go.

“You all right, Dora?” a man’s voice asked. It was Mr. Cooper, our neighbor. He gave the signal that I was found and carried me back to the wagon.

Then there was such excitement! All the neighbors had been looking for me. Mama grabbed me in a tight hug and kissed me like I never remembered before, and no one scolded me for getting lost.

Later Papa made a hole in the wagon rim that left a little rounded hump in the dirt every time the wheel made a complete turn. After that it was easy to spot the wagon’s track and to follow it, and it led us to where we wanted to go.

The seventh anniversary of our arrival in New Mexico was close, and we were becoming more and more excited about getting the title to the land.

Mr. Talbot from the homestead office came by to make sure everything was in order. “How do you want your name to be printed on the deed?” he asked Papa.

“Alfred Blaine Cookson,” he said. “And Betty Harding Cookson.”

Mr. Talbot wrote that down and Papa added, “I want all the kids’ names on it too.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Mr. Talbot said.

“I don’t care about necessary,” Papa said. “I care about wise. We worked too hard to get this piece of property to let it out of the family. I want them all on there in case something should happen to any of us.”

“It’d automatically go to the next of kin,” Mr. Talbot resisted.

“Don’t care about automatic either,” Papa insisted. “I just want their names on that deed.”

“How many more is that?” Mr. Talbot asked.

“Twelve,” Papa said.

“I don’t think there’s room.”

“Then make room. Every last one of them has worked along with me to get this land and I want them to look at that piece of paper and remember what it cost us and that it’s part theirs. And I want them to be proud of it.”

Mr. Talbot sighed. “How do you want them listed?”

“Oldest first,” Papa said. “That’s Caroline Catherine.”

Mr. Talbot wrote while Papa named us off in order. “I don’t know how I’ll get them all on the paper,” Mr. Talbot said. “But I’ll figure out a way and have the deed ready for you to pick up next Friday morning.”

The next Friday was a holiday at our house. We finished the chores early and dressed in our best clothes for the trip to Harmony. Mama packed a lunch to take so we could stop for a picnic on the way home, and we were parked in front of the homestead office when Mr. Talbot arrived. He had a special deed made up at the printing office that was long enough to list all our names. They were written in beautiful curly letters that twisted in spirals at the beginning and end. I never knew my name could look so beautiful. After everyone signed the paper, Mr. Talbot stamped it with a big seal to make it official, rolled it up, and handed it to Papa.

Papa gave it to Mama and kissed her on the mouth. “We’re landowners, honey,” he said. “Now let’s go celebrate.”

He took us to the general store and told us each to pick out a nickel’s worth of candy. While we were deciding what to get, he asked Mr. Younger for a picture frame for the deed. “And make it a gold one,” he added. “This is very precious.”

After they’d selected the frame, Mr. Younger filled our orders for candy, giving each of us a separate bag. It made me think of the peppermint stick back in Salt Lake the day I had my tongue cut. It was the first time since then I’d had a whole nickel to spend on candy. I chose the kinds I could make last the longest.

Then Papa told Mama to pick out the goods for a new dress. “A nice one,” he said.

She gave him her are-you-sure-we-can-afford-it look and he said, “Don’t worry. I’ve been saving for today for a long time. I want everyone to remember it.”

How could we forget? We had a place of our own at last.

Illustrated by Paul Mann