December 12
Dear Mr. Henshaw,
I was surprised to get your postcard from Wyoming, because I thought you lived in Alaska.
Don’t worry. I get the message. You don’t have a lot of time for answering letters. That’s OK with me, because I’m glad you are busy writing a book and chopping wood to keep warm.
Something nice happened today. When I was hanging around behind the bushes at school waiting for the ten minutes to come before the first bell rings, I was watching Mr. Fridley raise the flags. Maybe I better explain that the state flag of California is white with a brown bear in the middle. First Mr. Fridley fastened the U.S. flag on the halyard (that’s a new word in my vocabulary) and then fastened the California flag below it. When he pulled the flags to the top of the flagpole, the bear was upside down with his feet in the air. I said, “Hey, Mr. Fridley, the bear is upside down.”
This is a new paragraph because Miss Martinez says there should be a new paragraph when a different person speaks. Mr. Fridley said, “Well, so it is. How would you like to turn him right side up?”
So I got to pull the flags down, turn the bear flag the right way and raise both flags again. Mr. Fridley said maybe I should come to school a few minutes early every morning to help him with the flags, but please stop walking backwards because it made him nervous. So now I don’t have to walk quite so slow. It was nice to have somebody notice me. Nobody stole anything from my lunch today because I ate it on the way to school.
I’ve been thinking about what you said on your postcard about keeping a diary. Maybe I’ll try it.
Sincerely,
Leigh Botts
December 13
Dear Mr. Henshaw,
I bought a composition book like you said. It is yellow with a spiral binding. On the front I printed
DIARY OF LEIGH MARCUS BOTTS
PRIVATE—KEEP OUT
THIS MEANS YOU!!!!!
When I started to write in it, I didn’t know how to begin. I felt as if I should write, “Dear Composition Book,” but that sounds dumb. So does “Dear Piece of Paper.” The first page still looks the way I feel. Blank. I don’t think I can keep a diary. I don’t want to be a nuisance to you, but I wish you could tell me how. I am stuck.
Puzzled reader,
Leigh Botts
December 21
Dear Mr. Henshaw,
I got your postcard with the picture of the bears. Maybe I’ll do what you said and pretend my diary is a letter to somebody. I suppose I could pretend to write to Dad, but I used to write to him and he never answered. Maybe I’ll pretend I am writing to you because when I answered all your questions, I got the habit of beginning, “Dear Mr. Henshaw.” Don’t worry. I won’t send it to you.
Thanks for the tip. I know you’re busy.
Your grateful friend,
Leigh Botts
PRIVATE DIARY OF LEIGH BOTTS
Friday, December 22
Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,
This is a diary. I will keep it, not mail it.
If I eat my lunch on the way to school, I get hungry in the afternoon. Today I didn’t so the two stuffed mushrooms Mom packed in my lunch were gone at lunch period. My sandwich was still there so I didn’t starve to death, but I sure missed those mushrooms. I can’t complain to the teacher because it isn’t a good idea for a new boy in school to be a snitch.
All morning I try to keep track of who leaves his seat to go behind the partition where we keep our lunches, and I watch to see who leaves the room last at recess. I haven’t caught anybody chewing, but Miss Martinez is always telling me to face the front of the room. Anyway, the classroom door is usually open. Anybody could sneak in if we were all facing front and Miss Martinez was writing on the blackboard.
Hey, I just had an idea! Some authors write under made-up names. After Christmas vacation I’ll write a fictitious name on my lunchbag. That will foil the thief, as they say in books.
I guess I don’t have to sign my name to a diary letter the way I sign a real letter that I would mail.
Saturday, December 23
Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,
This is the first day of Christmas vacation. Still no package from Dad. I thought maybe he was bringing me a present instead of mailing it, so I asked Mom if she thought he might come to see us for Christmas.
She said, “We’re divorced. Remember?”
I remember all right. I remember all the time.
Sunday, December 24
Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,
Still no package from Dad.
I keep thinking about last Christmas when we were in the mobile home before Dad bought the tractor. He had to dodge the highway patrol to get home in time for Christmas. Mom cooked a turkey and a nice dinner. We had a Christmas tree about two feet high because there wasn’t room for a big one.
At dinner Dad remarked that when he was driving along, he often saw one shoe lying on the highway. He always wondered how it got there and what happened to its mate.
Mom said one shoe sounded sad, like a country-western song. While we ate our mince pie we all tried to think up songs about lost shoes. I’ll never forget them. Mine was worst:
Driving with a heavy load
I saw a shoe upon the road
Squashed like a toad.
Dad came up with:
I saw a shoe
Wet with dew
On Highway 2.
It made me blue.
What’ll I do?
Mom’s song really made us laugh. It was the best.
A lonesome hiker was unluckee
To lose his boot near Truckee.
He hitched a ride with one foot damp
Down the road to Angels Camp.
Dumb songs, but we had a lot of fun. Mom and Dad hadn’t laughed that much for a long time, and I hoped they would never stop.
After that, whenever Dad came home, I asked if he had seen any shoes on the highway. He always had.
Monday, December 25
Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,
Last night I was feeling low and was still awake after the gas station stopped pinging. Then I heard heavy feet coming up the steps, and for a minute I thought it was Dad until I remembered he always ran up steps.
Mom is careful about opening the door at night. I heard her turn on the outside light and knew she was peeking out from behind the curtain. She opened the door, and a man said, “Is this where Leigh Botts lives?”
I was out of bed and into the front room in a second. “I’m Leigh Botts,” I said.
“Your Dad asked me to drop this off for you.” A man who looked like a trucker handed me a big package.
“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks a whole lot.” I must have looked puzzled because he said, “He sent out a call over his CB radio for someone coming to Pacific Grove who would like to play Santa. So here I am. Merry Christmas and a ho-ho-ho!” He waved and was off down the walk before I could say anything more.
“Wow!” I said to Mom. “Wow!” She just stood there in her robe smiling while I began to tear off the paper even if it wasn’t Christmas morning. Dad had sent what I always wanted—a quilted down jacket with a lot of pockets and a hood that zips into the collar. I tried it on over my pajamas. It was the right size and felt great. Getting a present from my Dad in time for Christmas felt even better.
Today Katy invited us for Christmas dinner even though this has been a busy season for catering. She also had some of the other women who work with her and their kids and a few old people from her neighborhood.
On the way home Mom said, “Katy has a heart as big as a football stadium. It was a lovely dinner for lonely hearts.”
I wondered if she was thinking about last Christmas when we tried to make up songs about lonely lost shoes.
Wednesday, January 3
Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,
I got behind in my diary during Christmas vacation because I had a lot of things to do such as go to the dentist for a checkup, get some new shoes and do a lot of things that don’t get done during school.
Today I wrote a fictitious name, or pseud. as they sometimes say, on my lunchbag. I printed Joe Kelly on it because that was the name of the boy in Ways to Amuse a Dog so I knew it was fictitious. I guess I fooled the thief because nobody stole the water chestnuts and chicken livers wrapped in bacon that Katy broiled just for me. They are good even when they are cold. I hope the thief drooled when he watched me eat them.
Monday, January 8
Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,
Dad phoned me from Hermiston, Oregon! I just looked in my book of road maps and saw where it is, up there by the Columbia River. He said he was waiting for a load of potatoes. I could hear a juke box and a bunch of men talking. I asked about Bandit, and he said Bandit was fine, a great listener on a long haul even though he doesn’t have much to say. I asked Dad if I could ride with him sometime next summer when school is out, and he said he’d see. (I hate answers like that.) Anyway, he said he was sending the support check and he was sorry he forgot and he hoped I liked the jacket.
I sure wish Dad lived with us again, but he said he would phone in about a week and to keep my nose clean. He had to go to make sure the potatoes were loaded so they wouldn’t shift going around curves.
This has been a good day. My lunch was safe again.
Mr. Fridley is so funny. Lots of kids are having their teeth straightened so when they eat lunch, they take out their retainers and wrap them in paper napkins while they eat because nobody wants to look at a spitty retainer. Sometimes they forget and throw the napkin with the retainer into the garbage. Then they have to hunt through the cans of gooey garbage until they find their retainers because retainers cost a lot of money, and parents get mad if they get lost. Mr. Fridley always stands by the garbage cans to make sure kids who buy school lunches put their forks and spoons on a tray and not in the garbage. Whenever someone who wears a retainer scrapes his plate, Mr. Fridley says, “Look out. Don’t lose your false teeth.” This has cut down on lost retainers.
Mom says I take after Dad in one thing. My teeth are nice and straight which is a big saving right there.
Tuesday, January 9
Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,
My little cheesecake was missing at lunchtime which made me mad. I guess somebody noticed Joe Kelly’s lunch was really mine. When I went to throw my lunchbag in the garbage, Mr. Fridley said, “Cheer up, Leigh, or you’ll trip over your lower lip.”
I said, “How would you feel if somebody was always stealing the good stuff from your lunch?”
He said, “What you need is a burglar alarm.” A burglar alarm on a lunchbag. I had to laugh at that, but I still wanted my cheesecake.
Dad should be phoning any day now. When I said that at supper (chili out of a can), Mom said for me not to get my hopes up, but I know Dad will remember this time. Mom never really says much about Dad, and when I ask why she divorced him, all she says is, “It takes two people to get a divorce.” I guess she means the same way it takes two people to have a fight.
Tomorrow I am going to wrap my lunchbag in a lot of Scotch tape so nobody can sneak anything out of it.
Wednesday, January 10
Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,
It’s funny how somebody says something, and you can’t forget it. I keep thinking about Mr. Fridley saying I needed a burglar alarm on my lunchbag. How could anybody put a burglar alarm on a paper bag? Today I used so much Scotch tape on my lunchbag, I had a hard time getting my lunch out. Everybody laughed.
Dad should phone today or tomorrow. Maybe if he came home he would know how I could make a burglar alarm for my lunchbag. He used to be good about helping me build things, except there wasn’t much room in the mobile home we lived in, and you had to be careful where you pounded because a piece of plastic might break off something.
I read over the letter you wrote that time answering my questions and thought about your tips on how to write a book. One of the tips was listen. I guess you meant to listen and write down the way people talk, sort of like a play. This is what Mom and I said at supper (frozen chicken pies):
ME: Mom, how come you don’t get married again?
MOM: Oh, I don’t know. I guess men aren’t that easy to find when you are out of school.
ME: But you go out sometimes. You went to dinner with Charlie a couple of times. What happened to him?
MOM: A couple of times was enough. That’s the end of Charlie.
ME: How come?
MOM: (Thinks awhile.) Charlie is divorced and has three children to support. What he really wants is someone to help support Charlie.
ME: Oh. (Three sudden brothers or sisters was something to think about.) But I see men all around. There are lots of men.
MOM: But not the marrying kind. (Sort of laughs.) I guess I’m really afraid I might find another man who’s in love with a truck.
ME: (I think about this and don’t answer. Dad in love with a truck? What does she mean?)
MOM: Why are you asking all these questions all of a sudden?
ME: I was thinking if I had a father at home, maybe he could show me how to make a burglar alarm for my lunchbag.
MOM: (Laughing.) There must be an easier way than my getting married again.
End of conversation
Dear Mr. Henshaw,
This is a real letter I am going to mail. Maybe I had better explain that I have written you many letters that are really my diary which I keep because you said so and because Mom still won’t have the TV repaired. She wants my brain to stay in good shape. She says I will need my brain all my life.
Guess what? Today the school librarian stopped me in the hall and said she had something for me. She told me to come to the library. There she handed me your new book and said I could be the first to read it. I must have looked surprised. She said she knew how much I love your books since I check them out so often. Now I know Mr. Fridley isn’t the only one who notices me.
I am on page 14 of Beggar Bears. It is a good book. I just wanted you to know that I am the first person around here to get to read it.
Your No. 1 fan,
Leigh Botts
January 15
Dear Mr. Henshaw,
I finished Beggar Bears in two nights. It is a really good book. At first I was surprised because it wasn’t funny like your other books, but then I got to thinking (you said authors should think) and decided a book doesn’t have to be funny to be good, although it often helps. This book did not need to be funny.
In the first chapter I thought it was going to be funny. I guess I expected it because of your other books and because the mother bear was teaching her twin cubs to beg from tourists in Yellowstone Park. Then when the mother died because a stupid tourist fed her a cupcake in a plastic bag and she ate the bag, too, I knew this was going to be a sad book. Winter was coming on, tourists were leaving the park and the little bears didn’t know how to find food for themselves. When they hibernated and then woke up in the middle of winter because they had eaten all the wrong things and hadn’t stored up enough fat, I almost cried. I sure was relieved when the nice ranger and his boy found the young bears and fed them and the next summer taught them to hunt for the right things to eat.
I wonder what happens to the fathers of bears. Do they just go away?
Sometimes I lie awake listening to the gas station pinging, and I worry because something might happen to Mom. She is so little compared to most moms, and she works so hard. I don’t think Dad is that much interested in me. He didn’t phone when he said he would.
I hope your book wins a million awards.
Sincerely,
Leigh Botts
January 19
Dear Mr. Henshaw,
Thank you for sending me the postcard with the picture of the lake and mountains and all that snow. Yes, I will continue to write in my diary even if I do have to pretend I am writing to you. You know something? I think I feel better when I write in my diary.
My teacher says my writing skills are improving. Maybe I really will be a famous author someday. She said our school along with some other schools is going to print (that means mimeograph) a book of work of young authors, and I should write a story for it. The writers of the best work will win a prize—lunch with a Famous Author and with winners from other schools. I hope the Famous Author is you.
I don’t often get mail, but today I received two postcards, one from you and one from Dad in Kansas. His card showed a picture of a grain elevator. He said he would phone me sometime next week. I wish someday he would have to drive a load of something to Wyoming and would take me along so I could get to meet you.
That’s all for now. I am going to try to think up a story. Don’t worry. I won’t send it to you to read. I know you are busy and I don’t want to be a nuisance.
Your good friend,
Leigh Botts the First
FROM THE DIARY OF LEIGH BOTTS
Saturday, January 20
Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,
Every time I try to think up a story, it turns out to be like something someone else has written, usually you. I want to do what you said in your tips and write like me, not like somebody else. I’ll keep trying because I want to be a Young Author with my story printed (mimeographed). Maybe I can’t think of a story because I am waiting for Dad to call. I get so lonesome when I am alone at night when Mom is at her nursing class.
Yesterday somebody stole a piece of wedding cake from my lunchbag. It was the kind Catering by Katy packs in little white boxes for people to take home from weddings. Mr. Fridley noticed me scowling again and said, “So the lunchbag thief strikes again!”
I said, “Yeah, and my Dad didn’t phone me.”
He said, “Don’t think you are the only boy around here with a father who forgets.”
I wonder if this is true. Mr. Fridley keeps an eye on just about everything around school, so he probably knows.
I wish I had a grandfather like Mr. Fridley. He is so nice, sort of baggy and comfortable.
Monday, January 29
Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,
Dad still hasn’t phoned, and he promised he would. Mom keeps telling me I shouldn’t get my hopes up, because Dad sometimes forgets. I don’t think he should forget what he wrote on a postcard. I feel terrible.
Tuesday, January 30
Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,
I looked in my book of highway maps and figured out that Dad should be back in Bakersfield by now, but he still hasn’t phoned. Mom says I shouldn’t be too hard on him, because a trucker’s life isn’t easy. Truckers sometimes lose some of their hearing in their left ear from the wind rushing past the driver’s window. She says truckers get out of shape from sitting such long hours without exercise and from eating too much greasy food. Sometimes they get ulcers from the strain of trying to make good time on the highway. Time is money for a trucker. I think she is just trying to make me feel good, but I don’t. I feel rotten.
I said, “If a trucker’s life is so hard, how come Dad is in love with his truck?”
Mom said, “It’s not really his truck he is in love with. He loves the feel of power when he is sitting high in his cab controlling a mighty machine. He loves the excitement of never knowing where his next trip will take him. He loves the mountains and the desert sunrises and the sight of orange trees heavy with oranges and the smell of fresh-mown alfalfa. I know, because I rode with him until you came along.”
I still feel terrible. If Dad loves all those things so much, why can’t he love me? And maybe if I hadn’t been born, Mom might still be riding with Dad. Maybe I’m to blame for everything.
Wednesday, January 31
Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,
Dad still hasn’t phoned. A promise is a promise, especially when it is in writing. When the phone does ring, it is always a call from one of the women Mom works with. I am filled with wrath (I got that out of a book, but not one of yours). I am mad at Mom for divorcing Dad. As she says, it takes two people to get a divorce, so I am mad at two people. I wish Bandit was here to keep me company. Bandit and I didn’t get a divorce. They did.
Thursday, February 1
Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,
Today there was bad news in the paper. The sugar refinery is going to shut down. Even though Dad hauls cross-country now, I keep hoping sometime he might haul a really big load of sugar beets to Spreckels. Now maybe I’ll never see him again.
Friday, February 2
Dear Mr. Pretend Henshaw,
I am writing this because I am trapped in my room with a couple of babies sleeping in baskets on my bed. Mom has some of her women friends over. They sit around drinking coffee or herb tea and talking about their problems which are mostly men, money, kids and landlords. Some of them piece quilts while they talk. They hope to sell them for extra money. It is better to stay in here with the babies than go out and say, “Hello, sure, I like school fine, yes, I guess I have grown,” and all that.
Mom is right about Dad and his truck. I remember how exciting it was to ride with him and listen to calls on his Citizens’ Band radio. Dad pointed out how hawks sit on telephone wires waiting for little animals to get run over so they won’t have to bother to hunt. Dad says civilization is ruining hawks. He was hauling a gondola full of tomatoes that day, and he said that some tomatoes are grown specially so they are so strong they won’t squash when loaded into a gondola. They may not taste like much, but they don’t squash.
That day we had to stop at a weigh scale. Dad had used up enough diesel oil so his load was just under the legal weight, and the highway patrol didn’t make him pay a fine for carrying too heavy a load. Then we had lunch at the truck stop. Everybody seemed to know Dad. The waitresses all said, “Well, look who just rolled in! Our old pal, Wild Bill,” and things like that. Wild Bill from Bakersfield is the name Dad uses on his CB radio.
When Dad said, “Meet my kid,” I stood up as tall as I could so they would think I was going to grow up as big as Dad. The waitresses all laughed a lot around Dad. For lunch we had chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with lots of gravy, peas out of a can, and apple pie with ice cream. Our waitress gave me extra ice cream to help me grow big like Dad. Most truckers ate real fast and left, but Dad kidded around awhile and played the video games. Dad always runs up a high score, no matter which machine he plays.
Mom’s friends are collecting their babies, so I guess I can go to bed now.