| The Gardeners Glove |
| The Feathered Pen |
| Rooftops on the Horizon |
| by: C. Dianne Lieber © |
| Rooted In Time |
“That the future may learn from the past”
Fresh, sweet-smelling pine slowly formed into curls that rhythmically pushed out from the plane and dropped at
Tom’s feet.
Pausing to view his work, he critically sighted with his sharp blue eyes along the surface of the plank that would
soon be a shelf in the warm, busy kitchen of the house.
His roughened sun-browned hands caressed the length of the board. Then, with a satisfied nod of his head, he
gently laid the pine shelving on the old work bench that was criss-crossed with many saw marks and punched with
uncountable nail holes. He pressed his calloused hand flat on the roughness of the bench, thoughts racing in his
mind. This bench had been his father’s years ago. These tools had been Clarence’s.
He thought of the three graves, by now covered by prairie grass blowing in the wind, in the lonely cemetery.
“It seems like only yesterday that we were all together, Mother, Dad, Clarence, and the rest of the kids. How did it
all begin?
In his mind, time ran backward and against his closed eyelids he envisioned the meeting of his mother and father
on the trail west from Virginia and Kentucky.
“A second paradise”, Daniel Boone had called the state of Kentucky almost a hundred years ago, but it was more
like a roaring, frothy hell that year to the settlers living along the Ohio, as the turbid, swollen river reclaimed the
fertile tobacco lands and relentlessly dissolved homes and hopes in a terrible flood.
So Samuel Sanders, twenty, with his mother and father and the other four children, loaded the wagon with kettles
and frying pans, bedding and clothing, and fled from the muddy water flowing in the fields. They turned the mules’
heads toward Indiana.
At the same time, in a slow-moving, dusty wagon on its way from Virginia to Indiana, was Genevera, the strong-
willed daughter of the Thurston family. The Thurston’s’ cattle and slaves were gone and the tobacco plantation in
ruins after the war. Virginia was devastated so the family, determined to find a comfortable life once more, left.
They heard the government land grants had started the building of roads and canals in Indiana. The railroad was
pushing into the state and cities there were mushrooming.
The Thurston’s set out for Indiana after they had sold what they still owned and had bought a covered wagon and
oxen. They took with them several barrels of foodstuffs, a few pots and pans, some clothing and bedding, a tuneful
of personal possessions, and a cutting or two from the roots of the lilac bushes and roses.
The dust-covered wagon, pulled by the slow, deliberate oxen, had creaked westward, following the golden sun that
lighted the Wilderness Road cut by Boone out of buffalo traces and Indian trails. They painstakingly crossed the
Cumberland Mountains and most of the state of Kentucky.
Genevera, with a small-boned frame beneath soft curves, was strong enough on the trail to do her Mother’s work
and still dance to every tune when, at the campfire, her father’s fiddle set a fast pace. Then Genevera, her color
high, would match a movement to each note, her feet, shod in shoes patched with pieces of leather cut with her
Father’s pocket knife from tanned cowhide, skipping or pointing in turn.
Her linsey-Woolsey dress was not as bright a blue as it once had been, having gone through many washings. But
her vibrant youth still made it look pretty.
Genevera had always been pampered and protected, but she possessed an inner strength that can overcome
hardships and disappointments.
It was a soft spring night when the Thurston’s unhitched their oxen and built a comforting, blazing fire to cook
supper.
From the shadows beyond, a voice hailed them.
“Halloo, theah! We’re the Sanders from Kentucky. Been runnin’ from the Ohio, goin’ to Indiany. Can we join ya?”
“Welcome, welcome,” Genevera’s father shouted in the grayness outside the glow of the fire.
“Come join us. We’re the Thurston’s from Virginy. Goin’ to Indiany, too.”
Samuel, from his seat on the wagon, squinted at the figures around the fire. He could make out the dark silhouettes
of two women standing by a man who stood, lighted by the flames, on the other side.
His father pulled on the reins, bringing the oxen to a halt. Samuel and his parents climbed stiffly from the wagon.
“The youngun’s are all sound asleep. They’re tuckered out. We’d best let ‘em sleep a mite. They’ll sho’ be hungry
when they wake up! We’ve been traveling since noontime,” Samuel’s father said, coming into the firelight. He shook
hands with Genevera’s father and nodded to the others who watched him curiously.
Samuel looked at the young girl, Genevera. Her dark hair framed her face. Her eyes gleamed at him from under
lowered lashes. He watched her as she knelt to put sweet potatoes in the hot embers. Her full skirt made a blue
circle on the ground, her waist and bosom making a flower-like stem for her flushed face.
Having introduced themselves all around, everyone took plates of ham and potatoes and seated themselves on
logs, pulled close to the warmth of the dancing flames.
When the meal was over and the dishes scrubbed, both families, exhausted by the day’s journey, crawled into their
patchwork quilts in the wagons.
As the sun rose, all were up to eat breakfast and to spend the day washing and mending clothes and repairing the
wagons.
Samuel’s mother showed Genevera how to make broom weed tea.
“This is real good for the grippe,” she explained.
She gathered the foliage of weed, washed it and steamed it in a small amount of water.
When it was well steamed, she drained it and assed a little honey.
“Doesn’t taste bad a’tall,” she said proudly.
Since the supply of soap was low, the woman got things ready to prepare enough to last for the rest of the way to
Indiana.
While Samuel built a hot fire beneath a big kettle, his brothers and sisters filled it with meat scraps and fat. When
they were sizzling, his mother and father carefully lifted the heavy hopper into which water and ashes had been put
to make lye strong enough to float an egg. They slowly poured the lye into the scraps.
The women took turns stirring the mixture with long-handled wooden spoons until it was thick. The smoke stung
their eyes and the smell made them wrinkle their noses. At last it was ready. The kettle was set off the fire to cool.
They cut the top soap that was hard into bars. The rest was soft and they put it into a barrel to be dipped out with a
gourd.
The old iron kettle was used for the laundry. Samuel set it again over the hot fire. The children raced, shouting, to
and from the creek for buckets of water to fill it. Then soap and clothes were put into the hot water. Genevera’s
mother stirred the boiling soapy water until the clothes were clean.
Samuel’s mother rinsed then cold water and the children spread the wrung-out clothes on the bushes and
branches to dry and bleach in the sun.
While the women made the soap and washed, the men drove wooden wedges under the iron rims of the wagon
wheels to tighten them, and cleaned and trimmed the hoofs of the oxen. They chopped wood and mended worn
shoes with chunks of leather.
Toward evening, with hard work out of the way, the untiring children ran to and fro in the shadows of the trees.
When it was as dark as the inside of a pocket, they began a game of hide and go seek, their voices sounding shrill
in the woodsy quietness.
Samuel and Genevera sat close together on a log from the scrutiny of their parents. Glancing at Genevera,
Samuel took a mouth organ from a pocket, cupped his hands around it, and began to play a sad, throbbing
melody. His eyes closed to the sight of the dusty wagons and the deep, rutted trail they had followed. The music
made rainbows and magic. It pushed back the trees and made green lawns, rolling and lush, with horses catering,
tossing their manes.
Genevera touched his homespun shirt sleeve timidly and her eyes glistened with tears.
Her father, quietly slipping into his wagon, brought out his hand-made fiddle, polished so that it caught the
flickering firelight, and began to stroke the bow slowly across the taut strings. At first the strains were sad, blending
with the mouth organ, but then it picked up and gay, bouncing tunes led the harpist into the toe-tapping “Old Dan
Tucker.” First one, and then the other around the fire, began to sing.
“Old Dan Tucker was a fine old man.
He washed his face with a frying pan.
He combed his hair with a wagon wheel,
And died with a toothache in his heel.”
The children, clapping their hands, sat listening with rapt faces. When the tunes ended, they begged for more; but
bedtime had come, all to quickly, and with a long days journey facing them the next day, they needed a good night’
s rest.
“Why don’t we all travel together?” Samuel’s mother said.
And so it was agreed. In the morning, the families traveled onward, one wagon behind the other. Samuel and
Genevera stayed within sight of each other, sitting by the campfire at night, and wandering away from the prying
eyes of the others.
“I guess I’d better plan on giving up one of my new featherbeds for Genevera, “ her mother said knowingly.
Samuel’s mother nodded in agreement, her eyes filled with dreams that held a shadow of sadness.
So the two mothers, swaying on the wagon seat as if to take up in their bodies the unevenness of the sometimes
muddy, and nearly always rough road, sewed and knitted, getting things ready for a wedding.
“There will be a preacher in Orange County,” Samuel’s father said.
When they reached Orange County in Indiana, they hunted up the preacher and, before looking for a place to live,
had the wedding ceremony out in the open, under a blue, cloudless sky. Genevera, her face radiant, wore her
mother’s silk wedding gown that she had carefully unpacked from her trunk. Samuel placed his mother’s wedding
ring, that had become too tight long ago, on Genevera’s tapering finger.
After they married, they found a wide stretch of land by a stream in sight of a half dozen low, rectangular-roofed
houses on the horizon. There both families helped to cut and place pieces of sod, one on top of the other, fitting
them closely together. When the walls were all well over their heads, Samuel’s father made a roof of willow
branches and covered them with a matting of dried grass. On top of the matting, Samuel placed a layer of sod with
flowers and grass growing on it. Openings were cut in the walls for windows. Then Samuel and his father built a
heavy door, complaining of the greenness of the wood they had bought at the nearby town.
Both mothers gave the young couple the things they had made for them and what they could spare of their own to
help furnish the house. Then, the two settled at last, their families continued their journey to town’s father to the
west.
As the years passed, the two of them became a family with five sons and three daughters. Tom was the third son,
born only ten months after the death of a year-old first daughter and a year from the birth of the second. A third
daughter arrived two years after Tom and another son, Clarence, two more years after that.
Tom blinked his eyes and picked up the plane from the bench. He looked at the deeply carved letters, “C. S.”, on
the handle and his thoughts drifted to his brother, Clarence.
Almost from the moment he could walk, Clarence followed Tom bout like a foreshortened early morning shadow. As
they grew older, they played, worked, and shared confidences that others were closed out of.
They were surrounded with love and their mother’s southern superstitions. (Always stir the lye and meat fat mixture
in one direction if you want it to make good soap… To get rid of warts, rub a stolen dish towel over them; then bury
the towel at midnight.) It was a way of life in which struggle was taken for granted and family ties were strong and
supporting. None of the family was lazy. They took fierce pride in the skill of their hands.
Samuel was a worker in wood and his sons followed his trade, becoming well-known carpenters and cabinet
builders. They were ambitious and hard-working, sometimes to the point of exhaustion. It made no great difference
whether it was profitable financially or not. To do the job and to do it well was the goal of father and sons.
Tom remembered that when he was twelve and Clarence eight, the family pulled up stakes and moved farther west.
They left the familiar tobacco fields of the south to travel across the maturing country to a small, quiet town on the
Kansas prairie. They could see the wind here. It would begin far away with a ripple of light on the long grass and
then would come, wave after wave, rushing full of power, like the sea.
Here, in a small frame house, the last of the children, a son, was born. It was a difficult delivery and Genevera, her
strength exhausted, grew paler as the months passed. She could no longer find the energy she once had. When
the baby was eight months old, Genevera, unable to rise from the bed, one morning turned her head to look at
him, and shudderingly sighed her last breath.
She was laid to rest in the new cemetery where there was just a sparse scattering of graves not yet
compassionately softened by green meadow grass.
Tom no longer attended school, but, because of mounting expenses, took on the man-size job of building homes
and stores in the rapidly growing town.
It was some years later that Tom and Clarence decided to become partners in contracting carpentry jobs. People
who knew the boys grew accustomed to seeing them at various building sites, working agreeably side by side, Tom,
with his hat jammed on squarely, and Clarence with his set jauntily on the back of his head.
That was when Tom fell in love with Annalee.
Annalee was a willowy, olive-skinned girl, with flashing dark eyes and winsome ways. She was at the church social
that Tom went to one Friday evening. Tom was sharply aware of her gypsy beauty.
Annalee smiled approval of this wiry, well-knit young man who stood just under six feet tall. His black hair and
eyebrows shaded quick blue eyes that could not hide his admiration.
From that night on the two of them were often seen together and Clarence was locked out of this private world of
concern for each other.
But six months later, Tom’s sweetheart was suddenly stricken with a quick and fatal fever. Tom felt as though a part
of him had died, too. He moved like a shadow of himself for weeks, and the two brothers were tossed, by Tom’s
sorrow, together again.
The months went by and Tom found that his loneliness was not soothed by his brother’s presence. One April
afternoon, as Tom was idly reading the small-town newspaper, his eyes were drawn to a name in the pen pal
column. Lillian Greenlee. The name somehow glowed in his mind. He felt the rhythm of the name and said it aloud,
“Lillian Greenlee.”
He hurriedly searched out a pen, ink, and paper and began to write, “Dear Lillian….”
For nearly half a year, words expressing thoughts filled with poetry and sometimes loneliness, flowed from Lillian’s
pen, and, in return, from Tom’s.
When they met at last in her home town in Oklahoma, Lillian’s shy brown eyes let him know she was right for him.
They were married in December by a judge in the Kansas town where they were to live. Here, three children were
born to them in the next seven years -- John, Ellen, and Ruth.
A year later, Clarence, straight-backed, well-built, with dark brown hair and mocking blue eyes that were an echo of
Tom’s, found Jewel. She had flirted with all the boys in town and was ready to settle down with the first one that was
willing to put up with her whims and selfish demands. She carefully kept her high temper under control, and
Clarence, blinded by the rosy veil of love, saw only lively, fascinating beauty of a delicate sixteen year old girl with a
sweet mouth and eyes that could open heaven for him.
So he had married her. It was a marriage that the family disapproved, Tom recalled. But Clarence had insisted.
Then he found himself hemmed in and baffled by a flighty wife and a round-eyed daughter with wispy blonde
ringlets and disconcerting dimples.
Abruptly running his hand through his black hair, now touched with gray, and rapidly blinking his eyes to clear them
of their visions, Tom straightened his bowed shoulders that strained against his old blue work shirt and crossed
straps of striped overalls. He wiped the plane clean and put it in the worn tool chest that was scarred and
weathered from long use. Tucking the finished wood under one muscled arm, he started up the cellar stairs, his
round-toed, saw-dusted shoes making soft thuds on the thick wooden treads.
It seemed to him, as he reached the top step, that his memories were burned into his life. He paused, remembering
that day, when, arriving at the isolated home site, he had recklessly climbed from the yard, carpeted sketchily with
clumps of meadow grass, onto the firmly erected and braced scaffolding around the frame house on the wind-
swept Kansas plains.
He had gaily shouted a greeting to Clarence, who already sat easily at the far side of the roof. Then he moved
lithely to the peak and kneeled nimbly near a bundle of red cedar shingles. He filled his mouth with big-headed
roofing nails from out of his overall apron pocket, holding them captive skillfully with his tongue. Spitting them out
one by one, he hammered them quickly into the precisely placed shingles.
From the other side of the roof came the sound of the hammer Clarence was using. Clarence pushed even farther
back on his brown hair the soft felt hat placed carelessly on his head. His blue eyes measured the completed work
and then calculated the remaining stretch of unfinished rooftop.
Together, the two hammered away, the sound beating a pleasant tattoo in the morning air. By noon, with dark
stains on their once freshly ironed blue shirts, they were ready for a rest and a home-packed lunch of thick pieces
of bread holding tender roast beef slices and hot coffee poured steaming and sugary from new De War vacuum
flasks.
After downing the sandwiches and coffee, they sprawled comfortably in the sun-laced shade of a sycamore,
munching crisp, juicy apples. They talked quietly.
“Tommy, I don’t know what to do---- Jewel doesn’t care anymore how tired I am when I get home. Oh, it could be
that it’s because she’s tired herself. Now, last night, when I stepped in the door, I saw the pile of ironed clothes on
the table. She was yelling at Nona, so I guess she was already upset. She wouldn’t talk to me during supper. And
when I forgot to hang up the towel at the sink, she grabbed it and threw it at me with all the force she could muster.”
“Women have the dangedest moods,” Tom said.
“This has been going on for weeks! Then she wouldn’t let me come into the bedroom, so I spent the night on that
hard sofa. I got up at daybreak, packed my lunch and came out here so she could have time to simmer down. I don’
t know why she’s mad at me. I haven’t done anything.”
“She’ll probably be over it by this evening,” Tom said.
“I sure hope so. I can’t stand these flare-ups. And little Nona doesn’t know what to think. She runs and hides when
Jewel has one of her conniption fits.”
“Maybe, if you go to that store in Tulsa, you can take Jewel and Nona with you. The work there looks promising.
You can probably work steady for the next couple of years there,” Tome said.
“It might work. Maybe she needs a change of scenery. What about you, Tom? You said you thought you’d take the
store job. Are you going to take Lillian and the kids? It’ll be hard---pulling up roots and taking John and Ellen out of
school,” Clarence said.
“I’m going to tell Lil tonight,” Tom answered. “This house is just about finished. There’s no more work around here
now,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll have to find something, somewhere, even if it does mean having to move.”
“I’ll try to talk to Jewel tonight, too, if she’ll listen,” Clarence added bitterly.
“Well, let’s get back to work,” Tom said briskly, as the sunlight, filtered between the leaves, struck his eyes.
They rose and stepped to the crockery water cooler in the shade of the house. They drank deeply, tossing the cold
water left in the dipper carelessly to the pile of brown and gold leaves that shifted with a soft rustle as the wind
stirred them into a slowly whirling farewell dance.
Then both men resolutely climbed to the roof again and took up the hammer rhythm, pausing only to gather a fresh
supply of nails from their nail aprons.
The sun crept toward the west and the soothing, varied trill of a mockingbird threaded itself into the breeze and
was carried to the ears of the kneeling workers. By now they had covered the slanting surface with closely laid
shingles.
The shadows moved and the leaves lay dulled in the late afternoon shade.
Suddenly Clarence stood, stretching his sinewy arms over his head and tilting his sun-reddened face upward for a
long look at the sky that was beginning to fill with raveled clouds. He moved his head to relieve the tired kink in his
neck. His hat slipped from his head. With a quick turn he clutched at it, but missed and with a single shout he was
falling, his arms grabbing and his feet useless at the end of his rushing body.
He lay still on the ground. The song of the mockingbird wove and rewove it sweet, sad call.
Tom rose swiftly and climbed hurriedly down the scaffolding. Kneeling by Clarence, he felt at his throat for a life
signal. With a sob choking him, he put his ear to his chest.
There was nothing.
Frantically he looked up, but he was utterly alone. Tears welled in his eyes and he blindly groped in the leaves for
the old felt hat. Gently he placed it on the chestnut brown hair and covered the face with his handkerchief.
Tom ran two miles to the nearest house for help. The body was taken back to town to the funeral parlor. Jewel
gave an agonized cry when she was told, and froze into a waxen, unseeing figure, walking when someone took her
by the arm to lead her, and sitting when someone gently pressed her into a chair. Lillian came to help with Nona,
who understood very little of what had happened.
The day of the funeral began with a pale sun veiled by gathering clouds. The family arrived in hushed groups at
Jewel’s house. Jewel, in black silk, sat unmoving, her face a mask, her eyes dry and staring.
The woman moved about with soft rustling sounds as they opened the door to neighbors, their faces full of
compassion, bringing covered dishes of food.
At noon the food was placed on the table and all the family, with carefully controlled faces, sat down to the
pretense of eating. The children, forgetting it was a solemn day, occasionally laughed and were quickly hushed.
Then it was time to go. They rode in carriages, drawn by horses, to the funeral home, a somber, dimly lighted stone
building with a garish purple sign hanging prominently at the enterance---”Rindt Funeral Home.”
Then the mourners were seated, Preacher Fritzpatrick spoke of Clarence’s youth and the skill of his hands.
“He was a good man, a hard worker, a kind husband and father…”
Jewel, sitting between grieving Samuel and Tom, covered her face and sobbed aloud. Then she was quiet.
They filed by the coffin of mellow pine rubbed to a satin sheen. When they looked for the last time upon Clarence’s
peaceful young face, Nona, in Jewel’s arms, looked once and did not give another glance to the one who had been
her father. She leaned down to look in her mother’s face and was surprised to find that there were tears on her
checks.
Tom asked to hold Nona during the burial in the cemetery where Genevera lay. The coffin was carried there in a
carriage closed in by black leather curtains. The other carriages followed slowly behind.
Then Jewel stood by the grave, a white handkerchief pressed to her eyes. Tom, with Lillian beside him, stood by
Jewel.
Lillian’s eyes brimmed with tears. With a gentle hand, she reached up to pat the child in Tom’s arms.
Clouds rolled up, lighted wickedly around the edges. Thunder muttered ominously. The few leaves on the black
tree limbs barely moved. An eerie light made the small knot of people around the open grave look ghostly lowered.
Gathering a handful of dirt, the preacher sprinkled it on the top of the pine box.
“….Dust to dust and ashes to ashes,” intoned the preacher’s voice.
And the service was over.
Those gathered there looked fearfully at the boiling clouds and hurriedly climbed into waiting carriages.
Samuel was guided tenderly by his oldest son to his carriage to be taken home.
Tom and Lillian helped Jewel and Nona in to their carriage and returned to the house they had left, an age ago, it
seemed.
They steeled themselves to enter the silent house.
The wind began then. It scattered the flowers for the grave and rattled the coverings on the carriages. They barely
reached the house when the rain started, drumming loudly on the rooftops.
That evening, Tom and Lillian stayed with Jewel. Jewel wanted to remain in this house where she and Clarence had
lived and where Nona had been born. She had no one to turn to, and, at least, she had the house, although it
would be full of regretful memories.
“I’m good at sewing. I’ll do the sewing for the ladies in town,” Jewel declared stubbornly.
“Remember, we’ll come any time you need us,” Lillian told her.
“Any time,” Tom echoed.
With an effort, Tom forced the painful memories away, and went a few strides from the cellar steps to the generous
back porch that was screened against the onslaught of awkward June bugs and hungry flies and mosquitoes. His
steps took him through the sturdy doorway into the kitchen filled with fragrance of jelling fruit.
“Here it is, Jewel,” he said, placing the shelf with care on the wooden brackets on the wall. With a dozen deft blows
of his hammer, he nailed it in place.
The blue eyes of seven year old Nona, her curls hiding part of her face, watched solemnly as she stood nearby.
“Uncle Tom, can I go home with you?” she blurted out, clutching her hands in front of her face and ducking her
head.
“Maybe next time, Nona,” her mother injected, too quickly.
Tom turned to look at Nona and winked. He reached into a side pocket of his overalls and pulled out a wrinkled
dollar bill. He pressed it into Nona’s hand and smiled.
The shelf was up. Jewel arranged jars of freshly made jellies on it, the colors of grapes and peaches catching the
sunlight as it passed warmly through the clear window, and making soft reflections on the kitchen wall.
Then he was gone; the tools that had been Clarence’s lovingly tucked away by Tom. The silence that followed
echoed briefly with the good-bye of the young widow and her daughter.
Hearing Tom’s footsteps on the gray-painted wood porch, Lillian gave a final stir to the stew bubbling in a large pan
on the black iron cook stove and turned to greet him.
Unconsciously, she patted her thick auburn hair-- that in the sunlight could flame to red--and smoothed her pink
flowered apron over her startched dress that smelled of recent ironing. Her brown eyes--set wide apart in a face
with delicate fairness and yet hinting of Indian with its straight proud nose--watched expectantly as the screen door,
patched with tiny squares of screen laced in place with black thread, swung open.
“Hello Tom. How were Jewel and Nona?” Lillian said as Tom entered.
“Both were fine. They sure need a man around the house though.”
Lillian’s lips tightened and the color mounted in her cheeks. She turned to stir the stew.
“Clarence used to keep everything in good shape, but now the house is starting to look tacky. Jewel just won’t
touch a finger to a hammer or a screw driver to fix anything. That sewing she does takes up her whole day, to hear
her tell it. And Nona, well she just sort of takes care of herself.” Tom shook his head.
“Get any mail?” he asked, hanging his hat on the peg rack behind the door.
“Oh, we got a letter from Papa,” Lillian said, glad to change the subject.
Papa lived on an unprofitable farm in Oklahoma with his second wife, Mary, and Kenneth, Lillian’s brother.
“He says that Kenneth wants to try some apple tree on the south forty. He studied about orchards at Tulsa
University, so maybe it’ll work out for him. He needs something to get him out of the rut he’s in. The crops have
failed the last two years. The farmers down there in Konawa are all moving away.
“When did we get that last letter from Kenneth? Tom asked.
“It must have been a month or so ago. He never did like to write letters. When he was a boy, it was like pulling teeth
to get him to write thank you letters to Aunt Alma for her birthday presents he got from her. I remember when he
got so down right stubborn that I had to write the letter for him and then have him sign his name to it.”
“How old was Kenneth when your mom passed away, Lil?”
“He was just a baby,” Lillian replied, folding her arms and tightly holding them to her thin body, as though feeling
again the anguish of her mother’s death.
“Just two years old,” she continued. “He almost broke our hearts when he wandered around looking and calling for
Mama after she died. I was the only mama he had until Papa remarried. I was only sixteen and a scared, lonesome
girl. Iva was eight and Ethel thirteen when Mama died of typhoid. After her death, we all ran from the old house and
didn’t even close the door behind us. We never did go back. Our things were brought to us by friends to our new
place on the other side of town.”
Lillian stepped to the back door and called to the four children who were deeply engrossed in the game in the back
yard. A few days ago, Tom, with the children trailing every move, had contrived a small golf course in the big yard
that had refused to yield anything other than a few onions and radishes in a small garden and a stubborn mat of
Bermuda grass. He had used tin cans for the holes, lumber scraps for long and short ramps, nail kegs with arched
openings so that, when set upright, a small tunnel presented a difficult passage, and stove pipes, some curved and
some straight, half-buried lengthwise.
The children’s faces were solemn as Ellen braced herself to swing the toy club at the battered golf ball. She curled
her long sensitive fingers around the wood. A slight breeze lifted her bobbed light brown hair and flattened her
knee-length skirt against her long, graceful legs. Her brown eyes carefully sized up the tunnel the ball must go
through.
Twelve year old John leaned on his club and let his dream-filled hazel eyes wander to the elm tress where
quarreling blackbirds perched, looking like exclamation points in the topmost branches.
Ruth, six, her dark brown hair cut in a Dutch bob with bangs drawing attention to her sad brown eyes in a tender
face, pressed her lips together in concentration. She spun the golf club in one hand, looking at Blaine, the
youngest, who had just had his second birthday.
Blaine sat worshipfully at John’s feet, staring with chocolate brown eyes.
Ellen swung at the ball and triumphantly watched as it went easily through the nail keg tunnel.
With one final swing of his club, John tossed it aside and motioned for the others to come in with him. They ran in
noisily, their faces pink from the warm sun, and, panting, washed grimy hands and Blaine’s grimacing face at the
sink in the far corner of the kitchen.
The family sat down around a massive oak round table that was supported by a claw-footed center pedestal. Hot
carroty stew was ladled into generous sized bowls and store-bought bread, spread aparingly with butter, was
passed around.
Lillian and Tom took up the threads of their conversation about Kenneth, while the children ate and listened, their
eyes wide with interest.
“I recall one time when Kenneth was about four years old. Ethel and I decided to walk to town from the farm, a
distance of about two miles. We were leaving Kenneth and Iva at home with Papa. While we were getting dressed,
Kenneth disappeared. When we missed him, we hunted frantically for him and finally decided he’d gone to town.
So, we started out, inquiring of neighbors along the road whether they had seen him or not. When we got to the
edge of town, we found him at a friend’s house. She had seen and recognized him and, as he told us, she had
‘captured’ him and ‘was holding him prisoner.”
Lillian spooned another mouthful of stew, then continued.
“When I was small, we lived in a little farm house with two big rooms and a side room, or shed, built on the back,
that we used as a kitchen. There in Indian Territory, where we had our home, there was free range and only land
under cultivation, the orchards, gardens, and the houses and barnyards were fenced by stake and rider, or ‘snake
fence.”
“What was that?” Ellen said.
“That was a fence built of rails, one on top of the other, laid in a “V”, or zigzag shape, with a post in the small part of
the “V” for support. As I said, the stock was allowed to graze at will on the rest of the land.”
By now the family had finished the stew and Lillian was cutting wedges of cinnamony apple pie, fresh from the
oven. Placing a dish of pie at each place, Lillian went on.
“There was a settlement of Seminole Indians a few miles northeast of our place and they would round up our cattle
at night, drive them to their place and pen them up. Then the Indians would demand that Papa pay to get them
back. He finally got tired of paying, so he just went over and drove them home. A few nights later, the Indians got
them again and penned them up. Then they cut off their tails and hacked them in the flanks with axes. After that,
they turned them loose. We hunted for the poor things, and when we found them, we doctored those terrible,
bloody gashes. And they survived!
“Now tell about the peaches, Mamma,” Ruth begged.
Blaine’s round rosy cheeks bulged with the last bite of pie. His head was nodding and his drooping eyelids
struggled to lift.
“Not tonight,” Lillian replied.
Into the tub with you, Blaine. Maybe I’ll tell about the peaches tomorrow.”
With that, she led Blaine to the deep bathtub with its four knobbed feet lifting it several inches from the bathroom
floor. The other children took down library books from the shelf in the front room to read until their eyes grew heavy
with sleep.
When the children had reluctantly closed their books and had crawled under the warmth of the quilts on their beds,
Tom wound the black mantle clock that sat on the oak desk he had made. Lillian slid the bolts shut on the front and
back doors.
Yawning, they turned the lights out together and quietly slipped on their nightclothes and into the soft featherbed
covered with sun-fragrant sheets and quilts.
“Bed sure feels good,” Lillian sighed.
“Lil,” Tom said in a half-whisper, “Jewel is all keyed up over something. She had only a half dozen words to say to
me. She did manage to thank me for doing those odd jobs around the house, but I don’t know whether she really
like me helping or not.”
“Jewel is that way,” Lillian said, wanting to comfort and yet feeling a sense of reief at his words. She turned softly
and laid her hand on Tom’s chest. “But I think she just doesn’t know how to say thank you and really mean it. She
is probably mighty grateful for what you did! I think you’re right--she needs a good man. She just better not be
looking in your direction!”
Tom grunted a pleased “Humph”, and yawned hugely.
The moonlight fell in patches patterned by the shadows of tree limbs on the quilts. Lillian lay quietly as Tom
dropped off to sleep, his arm around her. His snores came soft, regular rhythm. Lillian sighed again, thinking of
Jewel, and slipped into an uneasy slumber.
Mild autumn days flowed into crisp winter. The children found their days filled with activities and friendly
encounters. They rushed home from busy hours spent at desks and games at recess to tell excitedly of moments
of triumph or to moan over disappointments.
The Christmas season was fast approaching. Many whispered consultation were held in this corner or that.
Drawers and shelves held cleverly hidden gifts.
The family ignored the increasing chill in the air, to shop for presents. Trees were naked, waiting for white snow
sweaters. Tall tufts of dried grass bent to the wind that was sharp with needles of cold. Frost made feathered swirls
on the windows.
The three children came home from school, shivering, to stand close to the small gas radiant stove that reddened
their knees while goose bumps were still rising on the backsides.
One afternoon, Ruth could not seem to get warm. With falling dusk, she appeared listless, and, by suppertime, her
face showed the warning flush of high fever. Lillian tucked her into bed in the front bedroom and gave her aspirin.
The following day Ruth show no improvement, and on the next day, when Lillian took her temperature and looked
at the pencil of red in the thermometer, a shadow fell across her eyes.
Snowflakes began swirling down that night, softly tapping with ghostly fingers on the windows. With fever-bright
eyes, Ruth could see the Christmas tree that was set up in the front room. Then she slipped into a fitful sleep,
groaning with dreams peopled with grotesque creatures. All night Lillian kept vigil, gently placing cooling cloths on
Ruth’s burning forehead and stroking her restless hands. Tom came in occasionally to look at Ruth and to put his
arms around Lillian as she sat, her eyes dry and burning.
The next morning, Ruth was no better so Lillian called Doctor Beatson, the family physician who had brought Blaine
into the world and had tended the family during their illnesses. Hearing the anxiety in Lillian’s voice, the kind, plump
doctor came briskly to the door a half hour later. His eyes, in a ruddy face interrupted briefly by a small, neat
mustache, showed concern. He spoke to Lillian in a rough but strangely pleasant voice.
“How is Ruth?”
“She has been ill for several days now, Doctor. She has a high temperature and aspirin and cold cloths don’t seem
to help.” Her voice was low and tense.
Doctor Beatson removed a stethoscope from his small black bag and handed it to Lillian.
“Please warm this a bit,” he said. He walked quickly to Ruth’s bed and took her wrist in his pudgy hand to feel its
swift pulse. His eyes blinked comfortingly at Ruth as, uncovering her chest, he began to tap exploringly. When
Lillian brought the stethoscope, he listened thoughtfully with it, moving the cup shape end of tubing about on her
small ribs. All the while, his face expressionless, he murmured to himself, “Um-hum. Um-hum. Hum.”
Ruth watched apathetically as he rose and went into the front room, Lillian following closely behind. There was a
conversation in undertones---”…pneumonia…drugstore…in bed…see that she is kept covered.” The doctor was
gone, closing the front door softly.
Shortly afterward, there was a knock at the door and Lillian opened the door to a drugstore deliveryman. She took
the package from him and went swiftly into the kitchen, opening it as she went. She lifted a spoon from the drawer,
reading the white label on the medicine bottle. Going in to Ruth, she poured a spoonful and urged it gently
between her dry lips. With soft, cool hands that held magic to calm and comfort, she stroked her fevered forehead.
Ruth slept.
The family moved on quiet feet. Conversations was limited and visitors came and went softly. The doctor stopped
by each morning and evening.
“The crisis should come tonight,” he said. “I’ll stop by to be with her. Just give her the medicine and be sure to keep
her warm. There is nothing more we can do.
“She may not live,” Lillian told them gently, struggling to keep her voice steady. “I think maybe we should give Ruth
some of her Christmas presents now. Perhaps it will make her feel better.”
She disappeared into the back bedroom where she groped in the far corner of a closet for an oblong box
containing a smiling doll dressed in a ruffled pink dress and bonnet.
John dug deep into a drawer in a chest and pulled out a set of miniature dishes. Ellen lay on her stomach by the
bed in John’s and Blaine’s room and reached back into the shadows to get a box of wooden doll house furniture.
Blaine watched solemnly, twisting a button uncertainly on his coverall.
They tiptoed to Ruth’s bed, bravely forcing strained smiles, and gave her the gifts.
Ruth looked at their faces as they stood there, a sudden awareness filling her mind. Even in her fevered state, she
knew why they were giving the presents to her now. It was a strict family rule that NO presents were opened before
Christmas Eve. She fought the tears gathering behind her eyelids. She managed a trembling smile with her
parched lips and tried to open the boxes without shaking.
John quickly lifted the lids for her. The rims of Ellen’s eyes were red as she watched Ruth lift out the tiny dresser
with its silver paint mirror and the little cloth-covered bed and bench.
The small dishes were smooth and cool in Ruth’s hot fingers as she carefully touched each piece. The doll box was
opened last. Ruth’s eyes grew round as she saw the rosy-cheeked doll. John lifted the doll out and placed it in the
bed with Ruth.
“Thank you,” whispered Ruth, hugging the sawdust-filled body to her. Her eyes moved from face to face---John,
Ellen, Blaine---Mama.
Lillian placed her hand on John’s shoulder and guided the children from the bedside.
When Tom came home, his face reddened from the wind on his long walk from work, he warmed his hands a
moment, then went to Ruth’s bed.
He patted her tenderly and kissed her cheek. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a quarter and placed it in
Ruth’s dry hand.
“For my good girl,” he said, with a strange masked look in his eyes.
She smiled weakly and pushed the coin under her pillow.
After supper, Jewel, who had talked to Lillian on the ‘phone, left Nona with a neighbor and came from across town
to help so that Lillian could stay by Ruth’s side. No sooner had she put away her coat and boot, then there came
an unexpected rap at the front door. Jewel opened it to a bulky, chilled figure standing on the lighted porch.
Kenneth, Lillian’s brother, had come from Konawa to be nearby if he was needed.
“Come in, Kenneth,” Tom said, going to Jewel’s side. “This is my sister-in-law, Jewel. Jewel, this is Lil’s brother,
Kenneth.”
Jewel took his coat and showed him where to put his suitcase. She looked appraisingly at his rugged face with its
high cheek bones and strong nose. His penetrating eyes seemed to communicate strength tempered with
compassion.
Kenneth went in to Lillian and laid his hand on her shoulder, speaking low.
“Lillian, Tom called me. If there’s anything I can do…”
“There’s nothing we can do,” she answered. “The crisis will come in a few hours. The doctor will be back to stay
with her then.” She choked back a sob.
Ruth was delirious. She moaned and stared vacantly, moving her head from side to side.
Jewel beckoned to Kenneth and held out a cup of steaming coffee.
“Cream or sugar?” she asked softly.
Giving a negative shake of his head, Kenneth went to her and took the cup from her. While he gulped the hot
liquid, he looked at Jewel gratefully. He saw her clear-cut features and her graceful, too thin figure that had, when
she was a little younger, brought boys clustering around her like fruit flies around overripe peaches. The pupils of
his eyes dilated with pleasure. Without a wife or child, he was utterly alone. Somehow a chord of response was
sounded.
Jewel sensed his approval and composed her face in a pleasant smile.
The hours ticked by slowly. Night came. Bitter cold crept along the floor with its linoleum covering and the fluttering
gas flame in the heating stove was turned up high to drive it back. The children huddled miserably in the kitchen.
They lighted the oven and, when it was warmed, opened the door beneath it to let the heat out to comfort them.
Jewel quietly washed the dishes. Kenneth awkwardly dried them and put them in the home-made cupboard in the
corner.
The doctor came, stamping his snow-covered boots at the doorway, and going promptly to the room where Ruth
lay, tossing feverishly and pushing the covers back from her burning body.
Lillian firmly pressed the quilts over her and looked helplessly at Doctor Beatson.
“It will be soon,” he said.
Then Ruth lay still, her breathing barely moving her chest, her eyes closed. The doctor placed his thermometer
under one of her arms that has thinned pitifully in the short days of her illness. Her temperature was dangerously
high.
The doctor sat silently with Lillian, his eyes fastened on Ruth’s pinched face. He held Ruth’s wrist in his hand. Her
breathing rattled with each short intake. She lay unmoving.
Tom stood in the shadows of the doorway, watching the three still figures.
Lillian looked at her child, this gentle, somehow wise, little creature, and thought, “The good always die young…”
She saw a slight relaxing of the child’s face, a shuddering sigh, and an easier, calmer breathing. Drops of
perspiration appeared on the child’s forehead.
Lillian looked quickly at the doctor.
“It’s past,” he said. “She’ll make it now.”
Jewel, waiting with Kenneth in the other room, went to get a hot cup of coffee for the doctor.
Lillian still sat by Ruth’s side, her eyes at last spilling undimmed tears. Tom went to her and held her close.
Tucking the covers carefully around Ruth, Lillian rose and went with Tom into the front room. Doctor Beatson,
tipping his cup to drain the last swallow from it, gave Lillian a comforting pat and in a firm tone, gave instructions for
Ruth’s care.
Picking up his black bag, he left, stepping through deep drifts of snow to his car.
The children clustered around Tom and Lillian, their whispered questions answered. Their faces broke into smiles
while they peeked timidly into the room where Ruth lay, breathing easily now.
“Go to bed now, Lillian,” Jewel said. “I’ll sit with Ruth.”
“I’ll sit up with you,” Kenneth said.
Lillian, numbed by the long hours waiting willingly did as Jewel said.
Tom sent the children to bed and glanced at Kenneth as he turned the lights out, leaving only one dim light
burning. He caught a visible interest flickering in Kenneth’s eyes as he settled himself by Jewel’s side to talk into
the chill hours of the morning.
It was Christmas Eve at last! Ruth awoke to a room warmed by sunshine coming through the windows onto the gay
patchwork quilt that lay over her. The snow outside was sparkling with tiny prism colors. It creaked with the
footsteps of people going by. She saw the green tree in the next room and thought of her doll.
“She called weakly, “Mama.”
But it was Jewel who came.
“Your Mother is sleeping,” she said. “How is my little Ruth?”
“I’m all right,” Ruth said, surprised to see Jewel. “Where’s my doll? How did you get here?”
“I came the night you were so sick,” Jewel said, bringing the doll and straightening the bed covers. “And your Uncle
Kenneth is here, too.”
Her face looked different, somehow---younger and with an inner glow. She laid her hand on Ruth’s thin cheek and
smiled confidently.
Ruth felt a happy warmth flow through her body. She knew she was getting well. Then she smiled, too. This was
going to be the best Christmas, ever!
Lillian arose, refreshed and strengthened, to begin the process of helping Ruth back to health. Jewel returned
home to her house, her sewing--that each day became more hateful to her--and to Nona, who every day grew
more and more a reminder of her father. Clarence’s presence lurked behind Nona’s blue eyes and the very way
she had of tilting her head made Jewel look away, quilt and shame squeezing her insides.
Jewel shoved the nagging thoughts away and concentrated on Kenneth. She pleasurably recalled his strength and
quiet, unsophisticated manner. She shivered a little as she remembered his brown hands with their evenly shaped
fingers and well-groomed nails.
“Even if he is a farmer, he keeps himself neat,” she thought.
She breathed deeply, imagining the clean, man-smell of him.
Nona, unnoticed at the other side of the room, watch her mother and wondered at the change she saw. She looked
at the half-smile and relaxed, knowing that today would be a good day.
Kenneth stayed for two weeks. Jewel found excuses to come each day, ostensibly it was to see how Ruth was
mending. Jewel, long ago deserted by her close friends, felt she needed to tell someone of her feelings for
Kenneth and, even though Ruth was just a child, she became the confidante of Jewel, listening to her as she talked
of him.
“Isn’t he a wonderful man? He is so good-looking. I don’t see how he got away from all the girls!”
Sometimes Jewel brought some of her jellies or a bright scarf she had made to give to Lillian. Often she bought
Nona with her.
Now that Ruth was getting stronger, she was allowed to sit by the window in a rocking chair padded thickly with
quilts and pillows.
Nona found Ruth an agreeable playmate as they shared paper dolls cut from Montgomery Ward catalogs.
Jewel managed skillfully to be where Kenneth was, offering him a taste of the jelly, or to pop an unneeded unction
behind him.
Kenneth enjoyed the unaccustomed attention and before he was aware of what was happening, found himself
promising to come to visit often--and to drop over to Jewel’s house.
“You should see the shelves Tom built for me. I don’t know what I would have done without a man to help!”
Tom listened is surprise. He had not known the shelves were such a valued piece of work. He glanced at Lillian and
saw a little one-sided grin on her face.
“It wasn’t really all that fancy a job,” Tom laughed.
Jewel insisted and Kenneth was coaxed to take her and Nona home.
And so the weeks passed. Lillian knew what Kenneth was in for, but was relieved that Tom was in no more danger.
“Kenneth can handle her,” Lillian told Tome one evening when Jewel had baked a cake at home and had invited
Kenneth to come over to sample it.
“Kenneth needs a wife, but he needs a farm woman, not a party girl,” Tom said. “Clarence couldn’t please her. He
was always too tired to take her any place after work.”
“Kenneth’s temper can match hers, though,” Lillian said. “I think they can make a marriage that will be solid.
Anyway, I hope so. Kenneth doesn’t want a “farm girl”, anyway. He wants something pretty around the house. She
can fill the bill. I’m just going to wish them all the luck in the world!”
And so it was that by the end of Kenneth’s visit, the two were engaged and a February date set for their wedding.
Business slumped all across the country and in the small Kansas town fewer and fewer buildings went up until they
stopped entirely. Tom was faced with days of idleness and no paycheck coming in.
Defeated men sneaked down alleyways to stand humbly in bread lines to get a sack of beans and, if they had
children, cans of milk. Tom, with his face turned away from anyone that might recognize him, became a part of the
long lines seeking work and food.
He hunted up all his friends to ask if they had any knowledge of prospective work.
“Sorry, Tommy, we’re in the same boat,” they answered glumly.
At last Tom talked to old Jim who always knew what was going on in town.
“They’s an ol’ lady, you know ol’ lady Morris? Her ol’ man runs the Kanotex refinery. She been sayin som’thin ‘bout
some cupboards.
She might could use a carpenter.
Old lady Morris lived in a fine brick mansion on the east side of town. Tom put on his fresh clean overalls and,
carrying his heavy wooden tool carrier and his lunch pail, walked across town to knock on the back door.
“Yes, I do need some work done on some cabinets and a door,” said the well-nourished lady when he asked if she
needed a carpenter.
She fluffed her gray marceled hair. Her red mouth moved in her powder-camouflaged face. Her rouged cheeks
drooped into fat folds.
“These cabinets don’t close as they should,” she said as she led him into the bright kitchen.
“I want all the hinges replaced with these polished aluminum ones and new catches put on. Then fix the back door.
It never did close easily. Are you the Tom Sanders I’ve heard of? The one that built the Weston house?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tom said already taking his tools from the box.
Satisfied, the secure old lady waddled from the room.
Tom started the work eagerly. Skillfully he removed the hinges and pushed his plane to even up the doors. He went
from cabinet to cabinet in the well-furnished kitchen with its shining up-to-date refrigerator and stove and expensive
table and chairs.
He was only half through at noon. He went outside to sit on the back steps of the house to eat his lunch. He saw
the well-kept flower gardens with the pond and bird bath. A black man in blue overalls was kneeling in one corner,
digging up the red geraniums and pushing spring flower bulbs into carefully measured holes in the rich soil.
“Working hard?” Tom called out in a friendly voice.
“Sho’ am! De ol’ lady got t’ git ready fer de winter.” The black man grinned, showing a row of white teeth with two
gaping spaces.
“She sho’ is a slave driver,” he chuckled.
Tom laughed.
The lunch hour over. Tom went back to the cabinets. Finishing them, he worked on the heavy door, taking it from
its hinges and propping it up so he could shave off fractional slivers of wood, until it looked just right. Then he lifted
it back into place and tapped the pins into the hinges. The door opened and closed with ease.
He gave a satisfied glance around the room. The cabinets were closed neatly, the door shut easily. Tom thought of
the groceries she could buy with the money he would get. He swept up the shavings and gathered his tools. He
carried them out to the back of the house, then rang the back door bell.
“Through?” the fat woman said. She looked around her. Reaching into a bulging red purse, she fished out a silk
coin purse. Her fingers, choking with jeweled rings, snapped it open and pulled out a coin. She held it out and Tom
numbly took it.
For a moment, he stared, unbelieving----a quarter!
“A quarter?” he was saying, his voice beginning to quiver with anger; but the door slammed shut.
Tom still held out his hand as if paralyzed.
With an effort, he turned on his heels and stumbled down the steps and lifted his tool box.
He strode across town, the box a burden he scarcely noticed. He stared straight ahead, his mind a tumult of revolt
and disappointment.
When he reached home, hardly knowing what he did, he threw the tool carrier to the ground by the lean-to and
burst into the kitchen.
“Lil---”, he choked.
Lillian came, startled at the tone of his voice.
“What----”
“A quarter! That old tight wad gave me a quarter! How can a man feel his youn’uns on a quarter?” he shouted in a
strangled voice.
He slammed the offending coin down on the dining table and, his eyes burning with anger, he tore out of the room
and down the street. Lillian ran to the door to stare after him, her face drawn in anxiety.
Tom walked fast, almost running, until his lungs hurt. Then, when he could hardly breathe, he slowed down. He
found himself on Main Street. The pale street light began to come on, lighting the shadowy corners.
Tom stopped at the curb, lifting his face to the starless sky, and prayed, “Oh God, what can I do? Help me!”
The autumn wind stirred, forced its way along his sleeves and down his back, sending chills along the length of his
body.
Shivering, he looked down. At first he saw leaves moving with the wind. He watched, seeing and yet not seeing, his
thoughts boiling and churning. Bitterness funneled his vision and he focused on something green in the crisp mass
in the gutter. He became more aware of the greenness; it was too green for a fall leaf. He bent down, his eyes
probing.
He quickly reached down and pulled up---his eyes must be deceiving him---a green bill.
“It is! It is! A dollar bill!”
He turned it in his hand, holding it so the street light fell on it.
“By gollies! It’s a FIVE dollar bill!”
He laughed aloud and couldn’t stop. He laughed until the tears ran down his face. Exhausted then, he started
home.
“Lil’s go to see this to believe it!”
He stopped in his tracks and lifted his eyes heavenward, where a sprinkling of stars were just beginning to appear,
and winked.
Tom sat in the cushioned rocking chair and opened the daily newspaper. He glanced at the date--November 10,
1933. He looked at the headlines in the bold black letters. The Great Depression was spreading across the
country. People had no money to buy food. Millions feared what could happen next. President Roosevelt’s new
program, the New Deal, was going to help the ‘forgotten man.”
“Listen, Lil,” Tom called to her as she stepped quickly about in the kitchen, setting the table and stirring the gravy
in the skillet. “President Roosevelt has a whole list of initials for agencies of the New Deal--the AAA, the NRA, PWA,
TVA, RFC. I thought the CCC was enough!”
“Lillian stood still a minute, then moved to the doorway to say sharply, “You ought to be glad there is the CCC for
John to go to. He’s up there in the evergreen forest by those beautiful lakes in Minnesota. He’ll be well fed and
cared for, besides making a little money.
“Yeagh, Lil, I know. And I’m thankful that I have a job now with the PWA. It breaks a man’s spirit to have to stand in
a line to have food doled out to him. F.D.R. knows what he’s doing.”
Tom was at last able to hold his head high and look his neighbor in the eye. The PWA offered full time construction
work for him, and though the wages were not high, they were adequate for meeting expenses of daily living.
John had been away for a half year with the Civilian Construction Corps and faithfully sent a large percent of his
paycheck to Lillian every month.
The outlook of the family was brightened and they began to feel the worst was over, that nothing else could
happen that could bring fear to their hearts. But that was before that terrible November 11th came.
It was Saturday. Ellen, Ruth and Blaine were glad to have w weekend from school work. It had been frantic in class;
the teachers were pressing hard to get all the required material covered before the Thanksgiving holiday began.
The day began as usual with Lillian and Tom rising early. Lillian packed a couple of sandwiches and a fat triangle
of cake for Tom’s lunch pail and poured a mixture of coffee, canned milk, and sugar into the thermos bottle.
Tom gave her a quick hug and hurried out the door as his working pardner drove up in a noisy truck that looked
ready to fall apart. With a cough and a load backfire, the truck carried Tom off to work.
The children straggled into the kitchen one by one, their hair tousled and eyes squinting against the morning sun.
Ruth sat at the table, her hands cupped around her eyes.
Ellen and Blaine jostled each other and, grumbling, sat at their places. Lillian brought warm plates of egg and toast
and placed cups of hot cocoa beside them.
“Get dressed when you finish breakfast, kids,” Lillian said.
“We need to straighten the house and you should take your books to the Library. Aren’t they about due?”
“Can I go see Buck Jones, Mom? He’s on at the Starr today,” Ellen said.
“Pick up your toys and clothes. Then we’ll see,” Lillian answered.
The children ate breakfast slowly to stall for time. Then reluctantly slipped from their chairs to dress and begin the
Saturday cleaning.
By ten o’clock the house looked neat and well-scrubbed.
Ruth got out her “Little Women” paper dolls and laid them in a row in the middle of the waxed front room floor. She
carefully dressed the Kathryn Hepburn doll that was Jo in the story and laid the Jean Parker doll that was Beth on a
box-bed.
A sudden change in the light in the room caused her to look up; the sunlight warming a huge square of linoleum
beside her was no longer a brilliant saffron, but was changing to a sickly greenish yellow.
She stared about the room. It was getting darker. She jumped to her feet and ran to the window, pushing the sheer
curtains aside.
“Mom!” Ruth shouted.
Lillian and the other two children came running in. Ruth ran to the door and opened it to a queer, whirling wind that
lifted the row of fragile dolls on the floor and scattered them about the neat room.
The sky was filled with huge masses that looked like thunderheads. But they weren’t. They were dust clouds. A fine
mist of dust sifted silently down. The sun was a dim red disk shedding a smoky light. Shadows ceased to exist.
Sounds were muffled in the choking curtain.
The family gathered on the porch, watching. They began to gasp and turned quickly to go inside. They closed the
door, but the dust was so fine that it seeped between the joints of the windows and drifted beneath the door. It
covered the floors and furniture. It lay in a dull brown layer on the bed covers.
The darkness increased so that noon was like midnight without stars. It became more difficult to breathe. Blaine
began to cough and sneeze. Lillian moistened some of Tom’s big handkerchiefs and tied them over mouths and
noses, making the children look like a team of surgeons in a nightmare world.
By now their eyes were puffy and still the blackness of the dust storm wrapped the world in a silent, fearsome
blanket.
Tom came home early. He was coughing and his eyes looked out of a dirty mask almost as though he wore make-
up for a minstrel show.
He stuffed pieces of rags under the doors and around the window sills. When he turned on the lights, they burned
with an eerie half-light.
By suppertime, the storm began to lessen and gradually it moved to the north and east. The bright sun shone
down briefly before sunset on a scene of drifts covering the sidewalks and anything left in the yards. Dust lay like
dry riverbeds showing wave marks.
Lillian opened the icebox, she found that dust had even penetrated there. Dust covered everything; all had to be
thrown out that was not in a covered dish.
Supper was served at last on the table that was again freshly cleaned. The family ate in an awed silence. They
bathed before bedtime and were amazed at the blackness of the water that was left in the tub.
When the children were snuggly in bed, Lillian and Tom stood in the open doorway, looking across the yards. They
saw the unfamiliar swirls and contours made by the dust, transforming the scene before them.
“What is going to happen to us next?” Lillian said, still a little frightened.
“Whatever it it,” Tom said, holding Lillian close, “we can face it. It is the endurance of hardship that makes us
strong!”
Together they watched a huge, bright moon rise in a clear, pure sky. It lighted the treetops and touched with silver
the rooftops of the houses on the far horizon.
| Take The Thyme |
| Next Story |
This is a "writers corner" area set
aside by the creator of TGG. Here you
will find a few creative writings that
hopefully will inspire you to write.
aside by the creator of TGG. Here you
will find a few creative writings that
hopefully will inspire you to write.
| Written by: C.Dianne Lieber 2000-2008 © |
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