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fight.”
    Yolanda’s pa said, “If integration means whites and blacks are supposed to go to school together, white children can come to Bethune. Let
us
teach
them
a thing or two. Let
us
show
them
how the other half lives.”
    Clem was quick to point out, “They’re going to make our lives miserable. White folks can’t stand knowing we’re getting something they have. I’m not throwing my kids into that hornets’ nest. My children are staying at Bethune.”
    The reverend said, “This is a time of hope for our children. The best way to make that hope into something real is to rise and meet it. ”
    Soon it seemed everybody was discussing integration. If collards could talk, they would have been debating with Clem’s tomatoes.
    I was sick of it all. I’m glad I’d brought my baseball bat. I was able to rustle a game together.
    Reverend Collier volunteered to be the ump.
    Freddy Melvin was the pitcher. Freddy’s gotmore hot air than a wind balloon with a basket underneath it. He makes my gift of gab sound like mumbling.
    I was the first batter up. Freddy Melvin shouted, “Hey, grandma, you ready to play ball?”
    “Just pitch it, will you?” I said.
    Freddy pitched underhand, slowly. He was treating me like a girl player. When the ball loped at me, I caught it, didn’t even try to swing.
    I walked the ball back to Freddy. “Pitch it regular,” I told him. “I’m ready to bat — and to run.”
    “Don’t you need a cane for runnin’, little old lady?” Freddy said.
    Freddy knew I could bat the pants off anybody. He was just wisecracking.
    His next pitch came fast, overhand.
    Yeah, Freddy can call me “grandma” all he wants. But this granny hit a triple.
    “Here’s your ball back, gramps!” I called to Freddy. “I hear there’s a sale on canes down at Millerton’s. You might want to get one,” I hollered from third base.
    Roger Wilkes was up next. If I’m grandma and Freddy’s gramps, Roger’s great-grandpa. He moves slower than slow, and can’t bat wortha dime. “Bring me home, Roger!” I yelled.
    I sure wish Freddy had pitched Roger a slowpoke-y underhand girly pitch. Roger’s the one who needed it, not me.
    Freddy was making it worse by winding up his arm to show Roger he meant business. The pitch came—
shwoop!
Roger jumped back, out of its way.
    “Strike one!” called Reverend Collier.
    Freddy’s next pitch was faster than the first. It tore past Roger.
    “Strike two!”
    “I wanna go home, Roger! Home, you hear?” I shouted.
    Roger adjusted his eyeglasses. “Home, Dawnie.” He nodded.
    Schwooooop!
Freddy’s third pitch was a smear of white.
    Roger leaned in, and managed a good hit!
    He worked his way to first base.
    I hauled it home.
    Freddy came at me with the ball, trying to get me out before my feet landed on the base. But I was too fast for gramps.
    “Safe!” called Reverend Collier.
    It was sure true. Today in Linden Park, I was as safe as could be.
    Man, that baserunning felt good. As summer’s heat hugged its warmth around me, integration flew far out of my mind.
    Sunset’s light had called every mosquito in Hadley, inviting them to leave a dotty map on my arms and legs.
    Then came dusk. And fireworks dancing in the night sky.
Saturday, July 10, 1954
Diary Book,
    Today was Goober’s ninth birthday, and my turn to give him a special gift. I decided to take Goober to Ruttledge Street, where Mr. Albert sells bags of roasted peanuts with salt. He peddles peanuts from a cart, along with squash, peaches, rhubarb, and cukes. Mr. Albert is a member at Shepherd’s Way Baptist Church, and he told me to bring Goober by for the peanuts, for free, since it’s his birthday.
    Goober ate the peanuts fast. There was a film of salt left at the corners of his lips when he was done. He licked at the salt. “I’m thirsty,” he said.
    Every Negro child in Lee County knows that when you’re thirsty, and there’s no coloreddrinking fountain, you drink your own spit till you get