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Now that her beloved mother has died, nine-year-old Ociee Nash is the only girl in the Nash family. Even in the modern times of 1900 it’s hard to get good grades, learn good manners, and stay out of trouble on her papa’s Mississippi farm. Ociee is always up for adventures with her adoring brothers. Deciding his daring daughter needs a woman’s influence, Papa Nash sends Ociee to live with her lovable Aunt Mamie in the big city of Asheville, North Carolina. There Ociee makes some fascinating friends, including one of the Wright brothers, but doesn’t give up her adventurous ways.

Tom Sawyer. Huckleberry Finn. Anne of Green Gables. Pollyanna, Laura Ingalls Wilder. In the tradition of those classics and others, Bell Bridge Books proudly presents the sweet, funny, poignant and mischievous adventures of ten-year-old Ociee Nash, a likable tomboy who turns her grief over her mother’s death into a talent for recognizing lonely people who need a friend. Travel with Ociee as she spends time in the big city of Asheville, North Carolina, where she struggles to become a lady under the tutelage of her Aunt Mamie; then as Ociee returns to her Mississippi town for more daring-do as she be-friends a Gypsy, and now as she, Papa, and brother Ben move to the bright lights of Memphis, Tennessee, where a “witch woman” captures Ociee’s tender heart.

Atlanta author Milam McGraw Propst was awarded Georgia Author of the Year and a national Parent’s Choice Award for the first book in the Ociee Nash series, A Flower Blooms on Charlotte Street, which then became an acclaimed film in 2003 as THE ADVENTURES OF OCIEE NASH, starring Skyler Day, Keith Carradine, Mare Winningham, and Ty Pennington

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Excerpt

Chapter 1

“Where are you, Ociee?” shouted Ben as the kitchen door slammed loud behind him. “You gotta see, you just gotta see!” My brother’s blond curls dripped wet from running hard. Ben’s gray green eyes wide, he sputtered out the words, “It’s a real gy­psy, Ociee! And he’s set up his camp down by Miller’s Creek. Come on, quit fooling with those dern beans, girl. Come on, aren’t you hearing me?”

I tossed the handful I’d been stringing back in Mama’s blue bean bowl. Annoyed as much as curious I said, “What’s this commotion about a gypsy, Ben Nash?” At that time, all I knew about gypsies was exactly what folks said. I heard that they were strange, strange, and dangerous. What’s more, I believed we were smart enough to leave them be. I picked up a bean and shook it at him saying, “Can’t you see I’m busy getting supper ready?” “Gracious sakes, Ociee,” he panted, “Supper’s every night, the gypsy is right now!”

There was no saying “no” once my brother got going on anything. I don’t know why I tried that time either. I hardly got my apron off when he pulled me from my chair and pushed me out the kitchen door.

Ben was talking fast as lightning. “Ociee, I was up on the top of the rise watching as that old gypsy stopped to give his horse a drink from the creek. He looked around real careful, kind of like he was making sure no one saw him. Then he said some foreign stuff to the horse. Next thing I knew, he was settling in and starting a campfire. I came straight home to get you.”

I couldn’t argue. Ben was right. Imagine, a really and true gypsy was camped near our farm. We had to watch what he was doing. Surely Papa would understand why I had to go with Ben.

He wouldn’t worry, not for a minute. Papa would say, “Ociee, go on, see for yourself.” Well, maybe he would.

We raced like wild ponies straight toward Miller’s Creek. Through the apple orchard, up the clay bank, around the old Indian burial ground, my heart pounded. Thoughts of gypsies pushed me faster than I had ever run before. We reached the crest of the hill.

“Stop!” Ben threw his arm back across my chest. Putting his finger to his lips, he said, “Shhh! See! What’d I tell you? There it is, an honest to gosh gypsy wagon.” His chest puffed out with pride.

“Gracious, Ben, I never saw anything like it, look, oh just look at that.” I breathed in the scene.

The gypsy didn’t appear to be there, so we decided to creep closer to take a better look. Easing downhill toward the creek bank, we gripped each other’s hands as much for courage as to balance ourselves.

I was excited, scared, but mostly, proud that Ben had asked me to go with him.

We made our way across the creek struggling on its water-slick rocks. We approached the camp like two wary deer in search for food.

“Easy,” urged Ben.

“Easy, yourself, Ben Nash. I’m just fine,” I frowned at him. What I wanted him to notice was how brave I was acting.

The gypsy wagon loomed much larger as we got close to it. “Ben, it’s tall as our barn!” I exclaimed. That August afternoon in 1898, our barn suddenly seemed farther away than the country mile we had just run. That afternoon, Marshall County, Mississippi, our home, was as far away to me as Papa’s favorite star.

Inquisitive more than courageous, we inched ever closer. The side of the wagon we could see was the rich blue of a sky in autumn. In the center, sunshine sparkled on a gold border which outlined the fancy painting of odd-shaped trees and extraordinary birds that surely never nested anywhere near Mississippi.

The best part was the beautiful lady in the center of the picture. She was olive-skinned with crystal blue eyes. Her gold earrings glistened through her long curly brown hair. She wore a bright purple veil and her shoulders were draped in a deep red shawl with black tassels. Other people were painted far back almost as if they were walking toward us from a deeper place hidden inside the wagon.

I felt like I was under a magic spell. “Oh Ben, it’s so pretty. Look at the blue and gold sky. It makes me think of the painting on the back wall in Sunday School class. Why, it looks like Heaven.”

“The pretty lady makes me think of Mama,” he said. “Does she look like Mama to you?” Mama had been dead almost a year, but it was like the sad just kept hanging on to us all: to Ben, to Papa, to our big brother Fred, and to me. Sometimes I’d open my eyes in the early morning. I’d feel happy just for an instant only to be jolted awake by the dreadful memory of Mama lying there in that cold pine box in the front of church.

I studied the painting on the gypsy wagon.

I couldn’t say whether the lady really looked like Mama or not. The fact was I had a hard time remembering exactly how Mama looked. I squeezed my eyes shut to try to clear my memory’s blurred picture of Mama’s joyful face. Like always, the image faded until it was gone.

Ben kept right on talking. “I’ll bet those are angels in the way back part of the picture,” he said setting his jaw. He squinted hard looking for details in the painted faces.

A sudden burst of wind shattered my gentle daydream. Even though it was hot summertime, a horrible chill seized me. A noise came from inside the wagon. The hairs on my arm stood straight. A second sound. I couldn’t move for fear.

BAAM! Crash!

The door of the gypsy wagon flew open. I heard an ominous roar. The enormous man thundered out from inside his wagon. The earth rumbled as he stomped down the trembling wood steps. His greasy curls were tied back in a red bandanna, a single gold earring swung back and forth in a hole stretched long from time. The gypsy spat with the breath of a fiery dragon and bellowed, “You keeds, get away from here, or I weel eat you for my supper.”

“Run for home, Ociee!” shouted Ben.

My eyes riveted on the monster man, yet somehow my feet obeyed my brother’s voice. We took off and ran straight through the creek. No slippery rocks would trap us. Wet shoes wouldn’t matter because we were running for our very lives. I chanced to look back. Putting his massive hands on his brown belted hips, the gypsy man reared back his head and laughed. His laugh welled up from way down inside his big belly.

The sound echoed through the valley way past the Indian mound. We raced for the safety of home. I wondered if the spirits of those long-dead Indians shuddered in their graves at the sound of his deep roaring bellow.

I stumbled and fell over a broken tree limb. I landed on my arm. My elbow was bleeding, but I wasn’t about to cry.

Ben doubled back to help me up. “Are you okay?” “‘Course, I am, Ben. Let’s go.” “Hurry then,” he shouted.

“Oh, Ben, I hope Papa’s home.” “Me, too, Ociee. Or, at least, Fred.”

We made it through the orchard. No gypsy followed. Our farm was mercifully in sight. Closer and closer we got to the shelter of home. Then, thank the good Lord, I spotted Fred coming in from the pasture. I knew we’d be safe with him in sight. We charged through the chicken yard. “Out of my way, Hector, you old rooster.” Dirt dusted up, chickens scattered.

Up the steps, we charged across the porch and into our house. Ben slammed the door behind us and held it tight with his whole body. We were panting our lungs out. Caked with dirty sweat, grass, leaves and water, I took a deep, deep breath and collapsed at the kitchen table.

Fred raced up onto the porch. As he kicked the rail to get mud clods off his work boots, he hollered, “What in the world have you two been up to now? I just saw chickens flying every which away.”

I ran outside into my brother’s huge arms. Ben charged up behind me and grabbed Fred’s shoulders shouting, “A gypsy, Fred, a gypsy chased me and Ociee all the way home.”

My hands on Fred’s cheeks, I turned his head toward me and screamed, “He must be ten feet tall.”

Fred listened.

“And sure as sunshine, he breathed fire right on us.” I showed my elbow. “See, this is my burned place.”

“Ociee, that’s where you fell,” Ben interrupted. “After he breathed that fire on me.” I insisted.

Fred hung on every word. Even though he had never seen a gypsy close up, he knew a lot about most things and that, of course, included gypsies.

“Fred, he had a wagon tall as our barn,” I tried to tell, but, of course, Ben corrected me, “Two barns, at least, Ociee.”

Our big brother gently eased both of us back inside and asked, “Do you know why gypsies have such tall wagons?” Wide-eyed, we shook our heads no.

Scratching his chin, Fred explained, “That’s so they can keep farm children locked up in the top of the wagons and cook ‘em in big pots whenever they get hungry for supper!”

With that, he bit Ben on his neck. Ben jumped sky high.

I screamed at the top of my lungs.

Fred gathered us up into his strong arms and the three of us rolled around on the kitchen’s cool wood floor.

Ben raised up on his elbows, “Fred, you gotta go back with us. You just gotta see.” he pleaded.

“Tonight, when it’s good and dark?” suggested Fred.

“Well, maybe in the morning instead,” Ben said. “So we can see his camp site better.”

“Oh, so we can see better?” Fred was grinning.

“Let’s ask Papa to go, too,” I suggested. “Papa’s braver than that old gypsy. With Papa and Fred, we wouldn’t ever worry about being any gypsy’s supper. Supper! I clean forgot all about supper.”

Chapter 2

We all pitched in to fix our evening meal. Fred started a fire in the wood stove. I finished stringing the beans and buttered the leftover breakfast biscuits for toasting. Ben started to set the table, but, as usual, he found it necessary to complain, “A gypsy-chasing boy shouldn’t have to do kitchen work. It’s not right.” Fred cocked his head and said, “Who chased who, Ben?” “Well, I did have to see about Ociee,” Ben said.

“Is that how come you got across the creek long before me, Ben? You had to see about Ociee?”

I had him good, but lucky for Ben, he didn’t have to answer because I spotted Papa’s wagon coming up the road. With the excitement of Papa coming in, any squabbles always came to a halt. Papa’s homecoming was the best part of every day for us Nashes.

“Papa’s coming,” I said running outside. Ben jumped over the porch rail to beat me to him.

“I found a gypsy, Papa! He chased me and Ociee all the way home,” Ben was hollering out the story.

I shouted, “Fred said we were lucky he didn’t eat us there on the spot. Raw.”

Ben said, “Papa, he ran hard. But we got away.” “And Papa, he growled,” I added. “That’s when I saw his fangs.”

Papa jumped down and hugged us tight. “Lord help us. What are the two of you doing chasing after a stranger like that?” He put his mighty sunburned arms around Ben and me. With a look of worry in his eyes, Papa walked us inside and sat down to listen about our adventure.

We were telling him where the camp was set up when, all of a sudden, I touched my neck.

“Mama’s locket,” I shrieked. “Mama’s locket is gone!” “Oh no, Ociee,” moaned Papa.

In my panic, I tried to think. “I put it on this morning, like always.”

Papa told the boys and me to spread out to search.

“That locket is hiding just waiting to be found,” said Papa. “Let’s see who will be the first to see it.”

My heart ached as I began to look. How well I remembered the day it was given to me. We had just returned from the church, from Mama’s funeral service. All those people, the neighbors, the community had come to our house. The farmers dressed in dark suits, their hard weathered hands reached to embrace me. Their hands looked out of place coming from starched white cuffs instead of the colorful plaid sleeves that usually reached to give me a taste of cane sugar. The ladies weren’t wearing bright calico prints. They wore instead the black, the dreary black of mourning. The long black dresses flowed like a river of black. How I wished the dank, dark river would flow through my house and all the way out to the Gulf of Mexico.

I stood silently in the corner of our parlor. One of the black skirts drifted toward me. It said, “Oh, poor little motherless child.” The skirt enveloped me. I bolted and tried to run outside. I wanted to disappear.

Another skirt rushed in my path. It said, “Precious child, where are you going?” It spoke with a familiar voice. Emerging from my self-imposed mist, I recognized my Aunt Mamie, Papa’s sister.

“Oh, Aunt Mamie, I hate this so much. I hate all the ugly clothes and awful big black hats. Where is my Mama? I want her. Aunt Mamie, I don’t want all this noise in our house.”

She hugged me close. It wasn’t with the hug of people feeling sorry for me. It was the hug of a person to whom I belonged. We walked out the front parlor door and into the yard. I was crying so hard my eyes couldn’t see where we were going. Aunt Mamie dabbed away my tears with her lace hankie. “There, there, little girls are supposed to cry when they are sad,” she said. “It’s the way you wash away the hurt inside.”

She walked me toward Mama’s yellow rose bush.

Aunt Mamie took her arm from around me, reached up and carefully removed two blossoms. One she put in the band of her hat and the second she put through the button hole of my dress. She said, “I know your Mama wouldn’t like all this black either, Ociee. She would choose these bright colors to decorate the both of us.”

We went back inside and the next time I got sad with the black, I sniffed my rose and felt its warm color. That was the night that Papa and Aunt Mamie had given me Mama’s locket.

Now it was lost. I vowed to find it. The locket was really all I had of Mama that was just mine alone. I went to look in my room. I searched my washstand, the bed, on, under, and all around it, on the floor, all around the doors, the windows, in my trunk. I already had the sick and sad feeling Mama’s locket was somewhere between home and Miller’s Creek. Yet, I continued to search.

In a way, Mama’s locket belonged to the whole family even though Papa and Aunt Mamie had chosen to give it to me. Lost, lost, lost. It was like losing part of Mama all over again.

My brothers combed the dirt yard and down toward and around the barn, the coops, the smokehouse, and shed. Papa looked about the outside of the house and around the porch and down into the cellar.

Inside, I kept looking in the same spots over and over and over again. Discouraged, I wandered into the parlor and walked toward Papa’s desk. He kept his most important things in there, and we children weren’t allowed to go in the drawers. “Papa,” I leaned out the window and asked, “may I look in your desk?” “Here I come, Ociee. It’s worth our taking a look together.” That was just like Papa. He was always helping us and everyone else with anything we asked. I prayed that Mama swooped up the locket with her angel’s wings and carefully placed it in Papa’s drawer for us to find.

Together, Papa and I started to dig. There was no miracle. “Papa,” I pleaded, “Show me your college papers one more time.”

“Ociee dear, don’t you ever tire of seeing that ancient history?” he sighed. I think he was just as glad to get both our minds off the lost locket, if only for awhile. “Well, let’s see, here’s the story about the wagon train, oh, and my poems from English, business notes. Haven’t looked at this in some time, my letter of acceptance. Ancient history it is! But, I suppose your old father was smart enough to spend some time at the University of North Carolina.”

“And smart enough to be the very best farmer in the whole state of Mississippi,” I bragged.

“That, my daughter, remains to be seen. My heart isn’t as sure about this great venture of ours now that your Mama’s not at my side.” He got real quiet.

Then to break the sorrow, Papa clasped his hands together, looked at me and said, “Listen to me being glum when I have so much to cherish. I have you three, our land, this home. Here, give your Papa hug. I am a fortunate man.”

Together, we continued to search the desk. Records, receipts, some photos. All we were accomplishing was not finding the locket and seeing things with Mama’s handwriting. Papa said it wasn’t as sorrowful as it was finding more treasures. To me, however, Mama’s writing only made things worse.

Papa must have understood, “I’m too hungry to hunt just now. What do you say we call the boys in and feed this bunch of Nashes?”

I sort of agreed. But I wasn’t the least bit hungry.

True to his spirit, Papa tried to make things seem better than they actually were. “I’m sure we’ll soon find it, Ociee. But it’s getting late now. Don’t you worry just yet, that locket will find it’s way back to you.”

Papa was right about most things, but that time it seemed more like he was saying what we all needed to hear.

*

Ben stomped into the kitchen, “No luck yet, Ociee, but I’ll look for it all over Marshall County if I have to. I’ll get Mama’s locket back for you.”

Behind him came Fred saying, “It won’t be lost for long, Ociee.” They were George Nash’s sons all right. I acted like I be­lieved them all, but I didn’t.

Papa kicked off his boots and looked into the bubbling bean pot. Taking a big sniff, he said, “Mmm, something smells mighty good, I always perk up once I have a full stomach. Let’s settle down and have some supper.”

It was Wednesday, Ben’s turn to say the blessing.

“Lord, make us thankful. Papa, do you suppose he says grace?”

“He who, son?” “The gypsy, Papa.”

Fred jumped in, “Yes, Ben, tonight that man will likely pray, ‘Thank you, Lord, for that tasty farm boy I nearly caught today. I can’t wait for him to come back by here, amen.’”

“Oh, Papa,” I shrieked. Ben just stared mouth agape.

“Fred is teasing you both. He probably heard crazy stories like that when he was little.”

Ben stood up, then raring back his shoulders, he poked his nose way up and shouted, “Little? Look at how tall I am.”

Papa said, “Sit yourself down, Ben. You are both getting too grown up for me. You’re growing as fast as honeysuckle vines. In fact, you and Ociee are so big I believe right now is a fine time to learn something new about human nature.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ben. He shuffled in his seat. He didn’t always enjoy Papa’s teaching. Ben usually wiggled too much for learning things.

“Yes, sir,” I echoed, but all I was really thinking about was Mama’s locket lost out there in the almost dark.

Papa said, “Folks tend to tell tales so much they become true. Ben, I believe that gypsy means no harm to any one.”

“Papa, you didn’t see his mean eyes.” Ben insisted.

“Ben, Ben, calm yourself. He’s not what you’re accustomed to, so you are letting yourself imagine all kinds of craziness. Gracious sakes, I should be worried about his safety, now that Ben Nash is after him!”

We laughed, but Ben sat there and made a face.

“Ben, now promise me you won’t be bothering that man. Promise me, son.” Papa would use ‘son’ when he was serious.

“I promise,” Ben sighed. He was trying hard not to wiggle. I could tell.

I decided it was a good time to tell Papa about the painting. I said, “Papa, Fred, the gypsy’s wagon was decorated with pretty pictures like the ones in Sunday School. There was the most beautiful lady in a painting. She had a veil and gold jewelry and long pretty hair.” I tossed back my head to show off my own curls. “There were faraway birds and a blue sky filled with clouds and angels. We thought it was Heaven.”

“Not me,” said Ben. “I didn’t.”

“You did too think it was Heaven, Ben, remember you were looking for Mama in the picture,” I said.

“Well, all right, maybe I did.”

Papa smiled his sad remembering smile like always when folks talked about Mama. Then, like he also tended to do, he completely changed what we were talking about. He jumped up and said, “Children, I nearly forgot! Miss May fixed us a pie. It’s in the wagon unless, of course, Gray Dog ate it.”

With that, Ben yelled, “Last one to Papa’s wagon gets the little piece.” We charged outside. Ben beat me to it.

Papa reached down under the wagon seat and pulled out the prize. He rolled back the gingham cloth and showed us the still warm crust stuffed full of Miss May’s best peaches. His eyes meeting ours one by one, he said, “Now, children, take a whiff.” “Mmm,” I closed my eyes and said, “Peaches, butter, crusty sugar.”

He pointed to Gray Dog, dead asleep and snoring under the pine tree. “Too bad fellow, I’m sorry the pie smell didn’t quite drift your way. Lucky for us people, I’d say.”

Fred said, “Let’s take it inside. How about we cut it into four great big equal-size pieces?”

“Wait! I got here first,” objected Ben. Papa looked at Ben.

“That will be four equal pieces,” said Papa.

While Papa served the pie, I put our supper dishes to soak in thick, soapy water. Fred hurried outside to see to Papa’s mare, Maude. Ben went to help.

We soon gathered back at the table and ate every bite of that pie. “This one was the best Miss May ever made,” said Papa. Of course, that’s what we traditionally said about anything that lady would bake for us.

Then Papa said, “Fred, you and Ben finish for us. Ociee, you and I are going to sit on the front porch.”

Fred and Papa kind of eyeballed one another, but I didn’t think much about it until later.

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