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ROLL OF THUNDER HEAR MY CRY
MILDRED D. TAYLOR
NEWBERY MEDAL WINNER
Author's Note
My father was a master storyteller. He could tell a fine old story that made me hold my sides with rolling laughter and sent
happy tears down my cheeks, or a story of stark reality that made me shiver and be grateful for my own warm, secure
surroundings. He could tell stories of beauty and grace, stories of gentle dreams, and paint them as vividly as any picture with
splashes of character and dialogue. His memory detailed every event of ten or forty years or more before, just as if it had
happened yesterday.
By the fireside in our northern home or in the South where I was born, I learned a history not then written in books but one
passed from generation to generation on the steps of moonlit porches and beside dying fires in one-room houses, a history of
great-grandparents and of slavery and of the days following slavery: of those who lived still not free, yet who would not let
their spirits be enslaved. From my father the storyteller I learned to respect the past, to respect my own heritage and myself.
From my father the man I learned even more, for he was endowed with a special grace that made him tower above other men.
He was warm and steadfast, a man whose principles would not bend, and he had within him a rare strength that sustained not
only my sister and me and all the family but all those who sought his advice and leaned upon his wisdom.
He was a complex person, yet he taught me many simple things, things important for a child to know: how to ride a horse and
how to skate; how to blow soap bubbles and how to tip a kite knot that met the challenge of the March winds how to bath a
huge faithful mongrel dog named Tiny. In time, he taught me the complex things too. He taught me of myself, of life. He
taught me of hopes and dreams. And he taught me the love of words. Without his teachings, without his words, my words
would not have been.
My father died last week. The stories as only he could tell them died with him. But his voice of joy and laughter, his enduring
strength, his principles and constant wisdom re- main, a part of all those who knew and loved him well. They remain also
within the pages of this book, its guiding spirit and total power.
MILDRED D. TAYLOR
April 1976
One
'Little Man, would you come on! You keep it up and you're gonna make us late.'
My youngest brother paid no attention to me. Grasping more firmly his newspaper-wrapped notebook and his tin can lunch of
cornbread and oil sausages, he continued to concentrate on the dusty road. He lagged several feet behind my other brothers,
Stacey and Christopher-John, and me, attempting to keep the rusty Mississippi dust from swelling with each step and drifting
back upon his shiny black shoes and the cuffs of his corduroy pants by lifting each foot high before setting it gently down
again. Always meticulously neat, six-year old Little Man never allowed dirt or tears or stains to mar anything he owned.
Today was no exception.

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