Joanna Cooke - Call Me Floy

CALL ME

FLOY

JOANNA COOKE

YOSEMITE CONSERVANCY | YOSEMITE NATIONAL PARK

Yosemite is pronounced yoh-SEM-ih-tee.

Text copyright 2020 by Joanna Cooke

Published in the United States by Yosemite Conservancy. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Cooke, Joanna, 1975- author.

Title: Call me Floy / Joanna Cooke.

Description: [Yosemite National Park, California] : Yosemite Conservancy, [2020] | Audience: Ages 9 to 12. | Audience: Grades 4-6. | Summary: Floy Hutchings, nearly twelve, struggles against the expectations of 1876 society as she fights to protect her beloved Yosemite Valley and dreams of climbing Half Dome. Includes tips for visiting wild areas and historical note.

Identifiers: LCCN 2019053558 (print) | LCCN 2019053559 (ebook) | ISBN 9781930238992 (hardback) | ISBN 9781951179038 (epub)

Subjects: CYAC: Sex role--Fiction. | Family life--California--Fiction. | Grandmothers--Fiction. | Indians of North America--California--Fiction. | Yosemite Valley (Calif.)--History--19th century--Fiction. | California--History--19th century--Fiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.1.C64753 Cal 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.C64753 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019053558

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019053559

Cover art by Zeke Pea

Book design by Melissa Brown

Map by Gary Bullock

Manufactured using recycled paper from sustainable sources.

Printed in Canada

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To all young people:

Go write your own story.

Contents

NOT MANY PEOPLE, let alone a girl my age, can say they are the heroine in a real novel. The book was published when I was only eight years old, and I am just shy of twelve now. But being cast as a heroine has been worse than scrubbing Grandmothers underthings. When people meet me, they expect the girl from the novel. Her nickname was Squirrel, just as mine once was. And she is mischievous, like I am prone to be. But I am not her.

I am Florence Hutchings, and you may call me Floy.

ONE

I f theres one thing to know about me, its that I do not like walls.

Specifically, the walls of Mrs. Pinkertons classroom, where I sit now. She stands at the chalkboard, with her back to the class. My younger sister, Cosie, sits next to me, hands folded, listening like the good girl she is. I have long since ceased paying attention, but the last words I remember Mrs. Pinkerton saying are, Never forget to cross your ts. An uncrossed t is just an l. Perhaps she has moved onto arithmetic now.

I wouldnt know.

My eyes trace a path along the pipe of the woodstove, as I slide into my imagination. There I am, completing the first ascent of the most iconic mountain in my former home of YosemiteHalf Dome. For as long as I can remember, Ive wondered how one might climb to its top. Half Dome rises into the sky like a roll of bread cut in two. A sheer face and rounded curves polished to a mirrorlike sheen. Climbing such a peak is impossible! Yet just last autumn, Mr. George Anderson scaled the mountains eastern side, drilling bolts into the rock and climbing to the top.

How did he manage it? Was he not scared?

More than one visitor to Fathers Hutchings Hotel endured my tales about completing the climb, but only a fool would have believed me then. I was six! After telling the tale often enough, I surely felt as if I had climbed the mighty Half Dome. Now, in my imaginary climb up the stovepipe, I do not falter. My feet step firmly on the smooth granite, and my grip on the rope is unwavering. I have almost reached the summit, with Clouds Rest and the glaciated peaks beyond, when Cosie shifts loudly in her seat, and my eyes open.

Drat.

The walls around me are not granite and moss-covered but wood-paneled and decorated with the alphabet.

Cosies eyes are glued to the front, her pencil hovering over her workbook. Mrs. Pinkerton has just begun writing out a long exercise for us to copy, handwriting being critical to our development as capable citizens. This process will take her a while. Who could stand another minute of such drudgery? My gaze turns toward the window and the gray sky of San Francisco above.

Im not one to pass up an opportunity.

I reach out and touch Cosies elbow. She turns to me, eyebrows pinched in concentration. I tip my head toward the door, and her eyes widen. She does not say its a bad idea, though it always is. Instead, Cosie waves me off encouragingly. I hold her gaze a second longer in thanksshell take my books home like she always doesand then slip from my chair and out the door.

I run.

The road is packed hard beneath my feet, and my knees ache. Never did my body hurt during my explorations in Yosemite. There I could hop from boulder to granite boulder, ascend rugged trails, and splash across creeks without a moments discomfort. But San Francisco is absolutely unforgiving in every way. The air smells of coal-fire smoke and horse manure. I must dodge through crowds of people. All stare at me as I push past. There arent even any trees to line my way!

Life in the city threatens the soul.

When I have finally run far enough, I slow to a leisurely stroll. This is not my first escapenor will it be my last.

At Pine Street, I turn right toward the docks, instead of left toward Grandmothers boardinghouse. Mother will likely be absent, fussing over some new artist friend as usual. And Fatherhell have his nose pressed against another one of his magazine articles, proofreading the final version before printing. So there is little for me at Grandmothers, save a lecture from her. She shall be furious to learn Ive skipped out of school again.

Third time this week!

Soon the salt of the bay stings my nose, and I pull my skirt up at the knees and begin to run again. At last I find a street lined with budding trees. City houses all look the same to me, but ask me to identify one of the sparse trees in San Francisco and I can name them all. That skill comes from Mother. For all her artistic sensibilities, the woman loves plants. I touch the trunks as I move past. Alder, locust, oak. Truly, there are too few.

Oh, to run as far as Yosemite!

I would gladly shout out the names of the thousands of trees lining that valley, if only it would mean I could stay there forever.

Ahead loom the piers of the San Francisco harbor where Russian sailors haul cargo off merchant ships just in from the Pacific. Disappointed miners drift along the docks, searching for boats to return them to cities in the East. Rows of steam ferries line up to transport travelers across the bay and up the Sacramento River. My eyes settle on one named