Over the Hills and Far Away

More Stories from Southern Illinois

written and illustrated

by Norma Jacke Tucker

This collection of stories is the heartwarming sequel to her first book, Between the High Knob and the Devil's Backbone. Over the Hills and Far Away is a teen's-eye view of play parties, revivals and romance. Set in the late 1930's, the book is a coming-of-age story in a world that would be changed forever by war.

Norma Jacke Tucker has included fourteen original scratchboard drawings.

Excerpt from Over the Hills and Far Away:

"The young folks beg the old folks to throw a party. The old folks hem and haw, then they cave in. The word spreads and people come from miles around to dance the Pumpkin Vine. The best play parties need a moonlit night, dew on the grass, fire flies, tree frogs and crickets. There is the perfume of flowers. In April, dogwood and redbud are in bloom. In early May it's lilacs. In June it's roses. Spring nights are best for a play party, but autumn with a nip of frost can cause people to kick up their heels, too.

One night, our dad, Vevas Tucker, set the pace and five Tuckers, one Vinyard and three Pattersons legged over to Hicks Branch for a play party in someone's back yard. The party size was likely twenty-five dancing, four playing Snap, ten lookers-on, two slouchers and five porch setters. Some folks were too old to play. They couldn't keep up. Some children were too little and could get tromped. The night was filled with laughter, giggles, pinches and kisses. We made our own music, singing old favorites with wild abandonment. Once There Was a Miller Boy, Swing Two Gents Across the Hall, and Let's All Go Down to Rowsers. Dance the Pumpkin Vine was the most popular dance. Snap was the favorite game.

The night of the Hicks Branch play party, I wore my dirndl skirt, the one my sister Virginia had made for me. It flared out ever so pretty when I twirled around. My blouse had puffed sleeves. I was liberally doused with "An Evening in Paris." That is an especially romantic perfume and comes in a blue bottle. The only problem with "An Evening in Paris" was its popularity. Half of the girls at the party smelled like "An Evening in Paris."

It was a joyous party. I played Snap three times and I got kissed three times. Two pecks and one genuine smackeroo. I rolled an eye, looking for my dad. If I got too flirty I'd hear about it.

Out of nowhere a boy came up and asked, "Can I walk you home tonight?"
I was startled and extra pleased. I'd never been asked. I turned away, shook my head and whispered, "No."

He said, "Maybe your Dad won't let you have a boy walk you home?"

I told him, "My Dad don't care. I make up my own mind."

"Then can I walk you home?"

"No! I don't care to be walked home." My heart was pounding. Likely I was going to die, then and there. He was a looker. He wore a red satin shirt!

Around ten o'clock the party broke. We trailed after Dad. He swung his lantern and it bobbled up and down, forming spooky patterns over the bushes. We all trooped homeward. Except me. I think I floated.

Next day I got cozy with sister Virginia. Soon as I thought I had her softened up, I asked her about the boy who wore the red satin shirt.

"He's a cowboy," she said. "Don't you know nothing? Cowboys wear real silk shirts for dress and every one of them plays a guitar. They sing real good, too. You better not hang around with no cowboy. They are plumb wild. That boy was likely visiting. I never seen him around. They come from some place off from here. Did Dad see you making eyes?"

I felt defiant. "No! Dad did not see me making eyes."

Hurschel did. Hurschel never missed anything that was going on. Now he could plague me, which he did for a week. He would chant,

"Oh, the moon is shining bright,
May I see you home tonight?"
"Well, the stars are shining, too,
I can get home without you!"

Mother told him to shut up. Then she told me I was acting addled.

Dad said, "She ain't acting. Eula, send your daughter back into the house. Tell her to wash that lipstick off of her face. It looks like she put it on with a trowel. Wednesday night prayer meeting ain't a suitable place for a girl to wear lipstick, rouge and powder."

I almost scrubbed the skin off of my face.

Mother said, "It's not right your Dad has to scold you. You shouldn't fret your Dad. You know what's right."

No, I didn't. Every day I was turning into a grown-up. No way could I tell when I was right. Somebody else usually told me when I was wrong."

 

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