Nice Little Girls Don't

These are two versions of the same story, one I tried to write as a 4 year old and the second from a different point of view.

June 1955



It's sunny outside. We had eggs for breakfast, and I don't like eggs. The runny yellow stuff always gets on the front of my clothes and Momma yells at me for being messy. She doesn't understand it's the eggs that are messy, not me. She is making me wear a dress today because we are going to the store. I don't like dresses. I want to wear my shorts that I play in all the time, but Momma says no. Nice little girls don't wear shorts to the store in June 1955, she tells me. I'm four years old.

Daddy is at work. Momma doesn't drive a car like he does so we're walking to the store. It isn't that far. Momma needs something for dinner, so we are going. We walk to the store almost every day. Daddy works at the sawmill, he pulls the green chain. I'm not sure why they made his chain green but I like that color.

There are green lawns around all of the houses on our street. Willow trees that droop down to touch the grass, the leaves on the tree are more yellow than the grass. Daddy makes me get a switch from our willow tree when I do something bad, but I still like the willows. The one in our yard makes a good hiding place where the branches fall all the way down to the grass. It is my secret place.

The neighbors have different trees in their yards. One of them drops little things my Momma calls acorns, and another has great big leaves that look almost like the picture of an elephants ears in my book. Of course, the leaves are green and the ears are gray, but I still call it the Elephant tree. We walk past these houses on our way downtown.

We walk past the little white church on the corner. We used to go to church there but they didn't like me very well, and my daddy said we would never go back. I'm glad, sitting in that place wasn't any fun.

The people that live two doors down from the church have a deer in their yard. It is tied up like a doggie. My momma tells me it's their pet. It has antlers. It is chewing something from the yard and it watches us as we walk by. My little brother wants to run and see it, but Momma picks him up and carries him past that house everyday. To me the deer doesn't look very happy.

We walk past the VFW hall. It is painted a funny green color, like the mints Momma buys when people are coming for dinner. It's a grown-up place that I don't know. I don't go there ever. The sidewalk has six steps up to the level of the street here, and Momma puts Mike, my baby brother, down so he can walk up these steps. I hold his hand because he walks where we want to go better. Momma tries to get his hand but he puts it behind him, away from her. He likes holding my hand though. When we get to the road, we stop and look both ways. Momma says it is very important.

There is a big white building kitty-corner across the street. A lot of trucks are parked outside of it. Men unload silver milk cans onto a place with little rollers and the cans move down the line into the building through a place that has blue strips of canvas. This is the creamery where they get the milk into bottles the milkman leaves at the door of our house. I know that milk comes from cows like the ones at Grandpa's farm. When it comes from the cow it's all warm and bubbly. It tastes different from the milk in the bottles we get at the door. I don't like the milk in the bottles as well. My grandma grows chickens too, and I like to gather eggs with her. When I was little, last summer, I was afraid of the hens, I thought they would peck me when I took their eggs. But they don't pay any attention to me now, and I'm a big girl and not afraid any more. Not much anyway.

We have to cross another big street before we get to the part of the street with stores on it. This is Main Street, and there is a light on the corner that tells us when we can walk across. But Momma reminds us to watch both ways even if there is a light. She tells me to hold on to my baby brother, he is my responsibility. I stick my tongue out at him, and she tell me nice little girls don't do that. I don't think I want to be a nice little girl.

There are other businesses we have to pass on the block where McFadden's Grocery Store is. On the corner leaning against the wall by a bar is an old man. He doesn't have many teeth, like my brother. My Momma says hello to him. I don't know his name. He grabs me by my arm and I let go of Mike's hand. The old man wraps his arms around me and won't let me go. He says he likes little blond girls with curls. I try to tell him my hair isn't curly, Momma puts rags in it at night to make it look curly, but he doesn't listen to me. He laughs and I smell something nasty on his breath. My Momma laughs too. He says he should just keep me. I struggle to get away, and begin to cry. I know I won't ever see my Daddy again if this man keeps me. He might be the husband of the witch in Hansel and Gretel, he looks like he could be. That means he will eat me and I'll be all gone. I cry for my Momma to help me, but she laughs again.

“Well Mr. Wilson, we have to get to the store. I don't want to be out walking when it gets hot.” Momma tells him holding out her hand to me. He lets me go and I grab her hand like it will make me safe. I don't let go of her hand all the way to the store. I don't even try to look at the boot and saddles in the leather shop. My little brother is patting my arm, as tears still drip down my cheeks.

“Terri, you are just being a baby. Stop that crying.” Momma says, making me let go of her hand. “I can't hold you and shop.” She sounds mad at me, like she did when I got the runny yellow stuff on my dress at breakfast.

I hold my brother's hand and we look around the store. The floor is wood and worn uneven in places. The things that hold the vegetables are wooden bins.

“If you kids behave,” Momma tells us. “I'll buy you some gum.”

Mr. McFadden tells Momma, “Hi, Blackie. How are you today?”

“Pretty good. It's gonna get warm today.” Momma looks in the meat case and picks out four pork chops. “I'll take those.”

Mr. McFadden wraps them in white paper writing the price on the outside. Momma pays him for it and a pack of Beamans gum. We leave the store to walk back home. I wish Momma would walk on the other side of the street, but I know she won't because that is where the sawmill, and the creamery are. There are no sidewalks there only places for trucks to park as they deliver milk and pick up the wooden boards at the sawmill.

The old man isn't on the corner as we walk home. I don't think I want to walk back to the store with Momma tomorrow.

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