For fans of Kristin Hannah’s The Four Winds and Lisa Wingate’s Shelterwood comes a heartwarming historical novel following a homeless young girl as she struggles to survive during the Great Depression.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Charlotte Whitney’s A Tiny Piece of Blue, which releases on February 18th 2025.
Rural Michigan, 1934. During the throes of the Great Depression, thirteen-year-old Silstice Trayson finds herself homeless, abandoned by her parents after a devastating house fire. Nearby, aging midwestern farmers Edna and Vernon Goetz are pillars of the community, but when do-gooder Edna takes up Silstice’s cause, Vernon digs in his heels, displaying his true nature as an ornery curmudgeon.
Theirs is a quiet-seeming community, but danger lurks beneath the bucolic façade. With so many youngsters leaving home to make it on their own, child trafficking has grown rampant, and Silstice and her two spirited young brothers soon find themselves in the sights of a ring of kidnappers that’s exploiting local children into forced labor—and worse. Meanwhile Vernon finds himself at risk of losing everything.
Narrated by Silstice, Vernon, and Edna, A Tiny Piece of Blue sets the customs and traditions of rural Michigan against a backdrop of thievery, bribery, and child-trafficking—weaving a suspenseful yet tender tale that ultimately winds its way to a heartwarming conclusion.
The fire had demolished most everything, but rubble littered every space. I stumbled around the remains of the old woodstove, through the communal kitchen-living area, past the bedroom shared by Ma, Pa, and the boys, making it over to the area on the far side of the house to the girls’ bedroom space. Scouring the entire area looking for any coins or unburned dollars, I found nothing, only charred bits of paper. Then I sifted through ashes, hoping to find anything of value. I must have gone through all the remains a dozen times until fatigue overwhelmed me.
All I wanted to do was lie down on a mattress and fall asleep, my body craving rest. Of course, no mattress materialized. Nothing remained but the charred cookstove and cold ashen muck. Resisting an inner voice telling me to leave, I lay down in the mud and closed my eyes, hoping for a sign from God. I counted to a hundred. Then a thousand. When I got to ten thousand, no miracle had occurred. Nor any sleep. Instead, my body trembled.
While shifting into a fetal position, I felt snowflakes land on my face and melt into cold, wet spots. What had I done to end up here? I had listened to Mrs. G and practiced everything she taught me, even bread baking. But how was I supposed to bake a loaf of bread without a kitchen? I got straight As. That was supposed to get me noticed and, perhaps, a college scholarship. But no one offered me anything, not even a breadcrumb.
My mind wandered to my previous life. Until I stole from the school, I’d always followed the rules, but my parents abandoned me anyway. Other than Alberta, Mrs. G was the only person to pay attention to me, yet she was beholden to her cantankerous, miserly husband. She never stood up to him but instead went behind his back and stole his stamp. Like me, an unforgiven thief.
I found myself shaking, thinking about courage, literally wallowing in mud, like one of Mr. G’s pigs. I’d waited for someone to rescue me, but that hadn’t happened. Well, it was clear no one was going to drop out of the sky and take me away. Whatever success I’d have, I must do it on my own.
Pulling myself up out of the cold sludge, I decided I’d ride my bike to the library. Once inside where it was warm, I’d decide my fate. Hopefully, Alberta would be there, and we’d figure it out together. Mud covered my coat and winter hat, and the dirty residue stuck to my shoes as I trudged back to the kitchen area of the burned-out pit.
The cloying muck made it difficult to move. It forced me to delib- erately pick up one foot at a time. My fingers tingled even though I wore Mrs. G’s old gloves, now covered with filth. When I reached the place where I had jumped down, I looked up. The wall stood a few inches higher than me. I’d measured five foot six in September when I started physical education, one of the tallest girls in my class, so the drop must be around six feet. Looking above for something to grasp, I found nothing.
I tried jumping, reaching my hands up high to grip the edge of the earth above. Each time, my hands slipped as I plunged into the cold mud below. Trying this a few more times, I stopped, realizing no matter how many times I jumped, I wasn’t going to leap high enough to pull myself up.
What I needed was a ladder. To my surprise, I found myself laughing; the idea of finding a ladder in this burned-out hole was preposterous, but I gazed over at what was left of the old cookstove. Perhaps, just perhaps, I might be able to move the cookstove over to the shallower end, climb up on it, and get out.
The metal stove was broken in two pieces. I tried moving the smaller part, which was closer to my exit wall, but it wouldn’t budge. So I looked around for a stick or lever I could use to dig it out of the mud. Trudging to the far end of the ruins, I pulled up a metal brace, which must have been part of my parents’ bed. Encouraged, I started digging around the metal stove. It took what seemed like a half an hour to even make it budge, but I did notice how my body had warmed up, and I could feel my hands and feet. The stove wobbled only a bit.
Realistically, I knew my strategy wasn’t going to work, so I stag- gered over to the larger part of the cookstove, jumped up, and stood on top of it to test if it would hold my weight. When I stepped down, it moved easily. That surprised me. Why was the larger part so much lighter? A peek underneath answered my question. It was merely a large empty compartment, the firebox.
Encouraged, I tipped over the large stove piece again and again, rolling it over toward the closest wall. Both mad at myself for not trying this in the first place and triumphant that I could now envision my escape, I stepped on top of the flat surface and peered out over the top of the hole with my neck at the level of the earth. I could pull my arms up onto the soil, but I worried if I didn’t make it on the first try, I would fall on the sharp edges below and bleed to death.
I stepped down and sat on the stove to think. No choice occurred to me except to move the metal contraption to the shallow end. I was cold, tired, and thirsty. Hungry too. My lunch bag sat in the bicycle basket above. I reached into my pocket to find anything edible. I pulled out the blue ribbon. What a waste. All those 4-H girls got so excited about earning blue ribbons, but ribbons didn’t buy food.
Taking a deep breath, I heaved the metal box one time, then another, then another, and finally one last time. My heart jumped like an auctioneer’s lips. Who’ll give me one, one, one. Now who’ll give me two, two, two. Three, three, three. Who’ll give me four, four, four. Sold, for four, to the girl in the back.
By this time, I was resolute. If I could manage myself out of this hellhole, I could face anything. I would no longer wait for miracles. I’d take matters into my own hands even if it meant stealing.
I scrambled up to the highest part of the stove. Looking at my destination, the muddy earth above, I knew it was possible. But I needed to make a successful attempt the first time around. No longer panting, I knew the time had come to make my escape before my hands and feet grew numb with frostbite.
“One, two, three!” I shouted out loud.
I heaved myself up and thrust myself onto the earth above. My right side made it, but my left leg hung over the pit with gravity pulling it down into the precipice. I drew in a breath and, with one enormous effort, pulled the leg up. I found myself lying prone on the ground alongside the pit with my left leg parallel to the rim. Afraid I might fall back in, I rolled in the direction of the shed. Now on my back, I looked up. The dark gray sky arched above me, except on the eastern horizon, where I glimpsed a tiny piece of blue.
Except from pp 117-120 A Tiny Piece of Blue by Charlotte Whitney © Charlotte Whitney
CHARLOTTE WHITNEY grew up on a Michigan farm and often heard stories about the difficult years of the Great Depression. Her widely acclaimed debut historical novel, Threads: A Depression Era Tale was followed by the historical mystery The Unveiling of Polly Forrest, which won multiple awards. She is also the author of two nonfiction books and a romance novel.
Find Charlotte on Facebook, Instagram, Tiktok, and at her website.
