Saturday, September 20, 2014

HER DREAM CAME TRUE; March 1919; Part 2

Both women dreaded and yet longed for the reply.

“It would be something to think about,” said Mary, wistfully.

“And yet,” said Miss Cornelia, thrusting away her embroidery frame, “do you know, Mary, sometimes I am afraid, just plain afraid! It seems almost like tempting fate. The sea took the best of my life away.”

Mary nodded understandingly.

“But it isn’t that way, honey. What comes from the sea this time will be making it up to you.”

Miss Cornelia looked at her doubtfully but said no more.

At last the expected letter arrived and Miss Cornelia carried it home with a wildly beating heart. She laid it before Mary, her throat too full for words.

Mary drew her silver rimmed spectacles down to her nose and squinted at the address. The romance touched her too.

Mrs. Cornelia Baker. I ‘spose she thinks you’re a widdy.”

Miss Cornelia flushed a little. “And am I not, Mary?”

“‘Deed, yes, honey, you are. Let’s open it and find out.”

There spilled out upon the table from the enclosed letter a slip of paper. They both looked down at it and then at each other. It bore the name of a man and the name of a ship. Mary put her arms around Miss Cornelia and a few tears of joy were shed on ample shoulder.

Presently they read the kindly letter together, and Miss Cornelia went away to write a reply of gratitude that a little astonished the earnest-eyed woman who helped motherless boys and boyless mothers to find one another.

The first letter from the good ship Michigan was a never-to-be-forgotten event in the life of the little white house set in the gay little garden. Miss Cornelia read and reread it, and then read it aloud to Mary whose eyes glowed as she listened.

November 3, 1918
Dear Mother:
When I got your letter, I wondered if here at last was someone who really belonged to me. Do you want us to really and truly belong? It isn’t just make-believe, is it? I don’t think from your letter that it is.

I will tell you about myself as you asked me to do. There isn’t really much to tell.

My parents both died in a fire in New York eighteen years ago when I was only a few months old. I was found and put into an orphan asylum where I grew up. From the time I was a little fellow, I have always had a hankering for the sea. There was a teacher in the orphans’ home that was good to me and helped me out, and after a good many ups and downs I got into the navy. It isn’t just what you would call an easy life but it is an interesting one. We learn a lot and we see a lot but it gets awfully lonesome sometimes. There’s a pretty good share of us haven’t any home at all. A fellow let me read a letter from his mother once and I cried like a baby over it.

I’m five feet, ten and a half, mother. How tall are you? I’ve just kind of got an idea that you’re little and sort of dainty and move quick, and your laugh--I can almost hear you laugh. That’s funny, isn’t it?

I'll send you my picture as soon as I can find one, and will send me yours? I want to know just how you look and not do too much guessing. And I’d like to know just a little bit about your life. I have a kind of an idea that you are a widow.

You will write again soon, won’t you?

Your loving son,
Ray Durkan

This letter also was addressed to Mrs. Cornelia Baker.

When she had finished reading it to Old Mary, she sat looking thoughtfully at the envelope.

“I must tell him the truth, Mary. There must be no deceit between me and--my son!” She dwelt lovingly on the word, with a dreamy smile in her eyes, then she tucked the letter into the bosom of her dress and went out to cut great bowls of bright cosmos and chrysanthemum to set about the house.

Her next letter included her picture and many questions about the boy’s work and plans and the happy assurance that they really and truly belonged to each other.

The part about herself she did not find so easy to write, but she launched into it fearlessly.

Monday, September 15, 2014

HER DREAM CAME TRUE; March 1919; part 1

When Is “An Old Maid” Not an Old Maid? When a Lad of Discernment Calls Her “Mother”

“Just your magazine today, Miss Cornelia.”

Not a single letter, Mr. Dempster?

A delicate flush rose in the thin face as the postmaster shook his head. Then the little figure in the gray gown resolutely set its bonnet straight and with a determinedly cheery “Good afternoon, Mr. Dempster!” sallied forth into the open sunshine.
The postmaster looked thoughtfully after her and addressed himself to the empty general delivery boxes.

“That niece of hers ought to write oftener. She doesn’t know what her letters mean to the little old lady.”

Now Miss Cornelia was not exactly old. This harvest marked her fifty-first autumn and she was still so young that her spirits were not long clamped by the lack of the looked-for letter. She smiled as a brown squirrel whisked into view, laden with a sample of his winter store. She stepped carefully to avoid the springing crickets that dotted the walk. And when she entered her own garden, she stooped to gather a few bright-faced pansies.

She put the flowers into a crystal bowl in her sitting room and seated herself to enjoy her magazine but her thoughts wandered.

Her gaze traveled over the trim garden into the watery sunlight of the empty street. The she looked around the luxurious little room and sighed involuntarily. She stepped to the diningroom door and called:

“Mary? Mary, bring your potatoes in here to peel.”

Mary came obediently, with two pans and a paring knife. She was used to these requests. She seated herself by the open fire.

Miss Cornelia watched her for a little then her gaze traveled to the empty street again.

Old Mary’s keen Irish eyes did not miss the movement and her voice was deep with tenderness when she spoke.

“What’s in your heart, honey?”

Miss Cornelia started guiltily, but answered frankly:

“I think I am lonely, Mary. I know it is weak, but, oh, Mary, if I had only had a little of life! If only a child had been left to me! Little feet to patter along the floors--muddy little feet, and burned little fingers to tie up with vaseline, and torn little clothes to mend--oh, Mary, Mary!”

Her clasped hands tightened in her lap. After a little she went on quietly.

“But I am too old for all of that. What I want now is a strong young arm to lean upon. And who knows, Mary?” Her face lit with a wildly happy thought. “Maybe even right today, we might be making wedding clothes!”

Mary laughed tenderly and Miss Cornelia raced on with imaginary details from the dressing of the bride’s hair to the color of flowers on the breakfast table.

She came back to earth as lightly as a snow-flake, laughing at her own extravagances.

“It is all very foolish but it did me good,” and she settled to her magazine with renewed zest, while old Mary’s eyes brooded upon the little gray figure, flashing out of the long ago. Miss Cornelia interrupted her thoughts.

“It tells here, Mary, about a woman who finds mothers for motherless sailor boys. She gives a boy and a mother each other’s address and they write to one another, and when the boy has leave he visits his adopted mother.”

Mary’s face lit suddenly, but she saw that the thought had not entered Miss Cornelia’s head. She hesitated a few minutes before she suggested:

“There’s a chance for you, honey--I think you could be making some sailor boy happier.”

“But, Mary, I am not a mother.”

“Oh, aren’t you, though? An’ who is it the kiddies are tagging along the street, and the big boys tipping their hats to so gentlemanly, and the big girls hurryin’ to catch up with? You’ve no born children, honey, but you’re all mother.”

Miss Cornelia’s face lighted but she said dubiously, “I am afraid--”

“Try it an’ see,” encouraged Mary.

It was two days before Miss Cornelia got her courage up sufficiently to write the woman in another state, telling her briefly that she was not a mother but that she wanted to be one to some orphaned sailor boy.

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

HOME AT LAST; Mrs. L. N.; West Virginia

My third book: The Farmer's Wife 1930s Sampler Quilt--Inspiring Letters From Farm Women of the Great Depression and 99 Quilt Blocks That Honor Them is due to be released in May 2015. I would have included the following letter in the book, but unfortunately it was too long. No matter--there are still 99 wonderful letters in the new 1930s book.

I am a young farm wife. My husband and I were both raised on a farm but when we married we worked in the oil fields so as to save enough to buy a little farm of our own. Finally, after much sickness and hospital bills, we managed to save enough to come back home and buy a small farm near my mother-in-law's.

When we came here, there were just so many acres of good land and an old log cabin for a house, with porches rotted down, windows broken out, and corn growing right up to every door. The sheep had been running in the house, and grain had been stored in it. So you can imagine what it was like. But it was home at last, and we started in with what vim and vigor we had to fix it up.

When we tore the old paper and canvas off the walls, we found pictures of the Civil War, and descriptions of Indian fights, so we were in an historical place.

We scrubbed, papered and cleaned from top to bottom and I arranged pretty pictures and curtains, fixed it all up cozy and bright inside, while Hubby built porches. Next thing we did was to put in a good telephone so Hubby could be called back to the oil fields to help pay for our home.

Night after night I lay awake with a baby on each arm listening to the limbs of the locust trees scrape and groan on the roof, the corn rustle, the rats run in the loft overhead.

Hubby came home once or twice a week, while the roads were good, but in winter not so often.  The winter was long and lonesome, with pigs, cows and a calf to feed, and milking to do, with an ear always turned to the house listening for the cries of a burned or hurt baby. Many nights I was up and down trying to forestall croup. And how did I feel when I went to the barn to feed, and found a man had slept in the barn loft!

But nothing really serious ever happened and we got through the winter fine. Now we have a new cellar and cellar house, a new barn and some new fences, the bottom in the meadow, the yard and garden fenced in, and are living fine. I'm very proud of my little log-cabin home.

Thursday, July 10, 2014

MY WEDDING RING QUILT; by Alta Booth Dunn; June 1933

You like the pattern called the Wedding Ring?
It is a glowing, many-colored thing
Like Joseph's coat of old--
Ten times tenscore of pieces in its beauty. 
I made it for a pretty coverlet to spread
Upon my best-room bed--
Not just for homely duty. 

Sometimes, when work is done,
I slip off here alone
And softly touch the blocks. It's sort of fingering
Keepsakes...Yes, memories here are lingering...
This lavender sprigged muslin was grandmother's gown
That once she wore to meet a man of high renown.
The figured linen of pale maize is from my courting days;
And that checked gingham, white-and red,
He gave me on our second wedding day--
He's always had a tender, thoughtful way.

Blue-stripe was sonny's first small romper suit--
My, but it made him look as cute as cute!
Pink-posied dimity was frock of baby girl's--
She loved to wear it with a pink bow on her curls.
This sheer white lawn is new grand-baby's dress;
It is the dearest piece of all, I guess...

Like you, I'm partial to my Wedding Ring;
It's such a lovely rainbow of remembering.

Sunday, June 15, 2014

AMUSING CHILDREN; February 1907; by Mrs. E. C. Rocheford

Rain, rain, and the children must be amused, and they must be kept quiet for there is sickness in the house, and the little ones are cross and peevish, and will slip away and get wet, and then the work of changing clothes and the trouble of drying them, and the crossness and scolding and temper matching the weather.

A bucketful of sand will amuse children for hours at a time. Newspapers, scissors and a pot of paste always delight children. They may string beads, the more colors the better; brushes and paints are a child's delight. Colored papers may be woven in mats or made in chains by pasting the links together and for pity's sake give the children plenty of room. They must have their rights, and they must have a happy childhood memory to follow them through life. Play with them, be real company for them. Teach them to work, to sew, to iron, to sweep, to fill wood boxes, to help wherever there is a chance for them to be of use. It is surprising how much children can do to lighten the mother's burden.

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

A FRUGAL HOUSE MOTHER; March 1912; Mrs. E. W., Kansas

Being a farmer's wife, we of course have no stated income, and can never tell what the amount of money will be that can be used in the home. But I always try to manage so the expense shall not exceed the income. Of course, we keep cows, and have our own milk and butter with some butter to spare to help out the grocery bill. We have a garden, but we do not always raise enough potatoes for our own use, and therefore we must buy. We try to sell enough of some other garden truck, that we have a surplus of, to pay for the potatoes. We keep chickens so that we have eggs and young chickens to use and sell. We have our meat and lard.

I have always tried to get what was needed about the house from the sale of poultry and eggs, or from garden truck. I have bought everything I have in my house with the money I made from the poultry, from a set of kitchen chairs to a $50.00 range and organ and my home is well furnished. Of course, I did not do all this in one year. We have a large family of children to clothe and send to school. I have kept them in school and last winter I put two of the eldest girls through a nine months' term in a city school, paying all their expenses from the proceeds of eggs alone.

I am obliged very often to exercise my wits in order to make a good appearance in matching up outgrown clothing for the little ones from the garments of the older ones; also in preparing food there is a great saving to be made, so that grocery bills shall not be charged at the store.

The farmer's income is very often much less than $40.00 per month and the saving and also earning pennies nearly always come from the good management of the house mother.

Thursday, June 5, 2014

FARM MEMORIES; 1907; American Magazine

One morning I was awakened with a strange new joy in my mind. It
came to me at that moment with indescribable poignancy, the thought of walking barefoot in cool fresh plow furrows, as I had once done when a boy. So vividly the memory came to me--the high, airy world, as it was at that moment, and the boy I was, walking free in the furrows--that the weak tears filled my eyes, the first I had shed in many years.

Then I thought of sitting in quiet thickets in old fence corners, the wood behind me rising still, cool, mysterious, and the fields in front stretching away in illimitable pleasantness. I thought of the good smell of cows at milking. You do not know if you do not know! I thought of the sights and sounds, the heat and sweat of the hayfields. I thought of a certain brook I knew when a boy that flowed among alders and wild parsnips, where I waded with a three foot rod of trout. I thought of all these things as a man thinks of his first love. Oh, I craved the soil! I hungered and thirsted for the earth. I was greedy for growing things.

Friday, May 30, 2014

JUNE'S VENTURE; January 1907; A Serial Story by "Gay;" Part 4 of 4

At bedtime Mrs. Gresham directed June up to the little room which was to be hers, a dear little nest of a room, so cool and clean. In spite of all the interesting things there were to think about June was asleep at once.

In a few days June felt as if she had always lived in the country. She was quick to follow directions and the little house shone as if its own mistress were about. June loved to get up early in the morning and go down to the little stone spring house and skim the yellow cream for breakfast. She never forgot some fresh flowers for the table to lend a little fragrance to the meal. She loved to be out in the garden hoeing and weeding and on rainy days transplanting little plants. She liked to gather the vegetables and cook them for the meals. She sang as she worked and her cheeks grew round and plump. She soon made bread and butter that Mrs. Gresham said rivaled her own, and that Mr. Gresham said were nearly as good.

June found the days all very full, but she was young and strong and delighted with the work, and never seemed to feel tired. She learned plain sewing, mending and darning, and though she liked the other work better she knew this must be done. Mrs. Gresham gained rapidly, and she was soon able to walk about again. She and June sang and laughed over their work, and each learned from the other. They put up preserves and sauce, until the fruit closet was so full Mrs. Gresham said it would burst, and besides, where would the tomatoes and pickles go? During the harvest June learned to milk; of course it took time, but she kept at it in spite of lame arms and at last grew to be very proficient. When Mrs. Gresham was strong enough they went into the woods and June soon loved the cool darkness of the hemlocks. On Sabbath
mornings the white haired minister always had a message for the girl, and life began for her. As she lay under the leafy boughs Sunday afternoon, gazing up through the leaves into the sky, she began to understand and feel the Divine help and to know that heaven was very near her all the time.

As autumn came there were apples to dry, tomatoes to can and pickles to make, and a hundred things to do to get ready for winter, but June found time for long tramps into the woods, gathering large bunches of asters, goldenrod, and bright leaves to adorn the house.

"Oh, how lovely the world is, and how happy I am," she would sigh.

At last winter came and covered the ground with a deep, soft blanket of snow, but still June enjoyed the country; the snow sparkled and the air was crisp and bracing. In January she received word from her aunt that the bank where the bulk of her  money was placed had failed, and for the present she was going to make her home with her son. "I am sorry for you, Janet," she wrote, "but I see no way to help you. If you had stayed with me I might have found a way. Now, you will have to care for yourself."

June wrote assuring her aunt she was doing well, and there was no need to worry.

The winter passed and glad spring came bringing back the birds and flowers. For the present June was to stay at "The Populars," and whatever the future held for her, she was content in the happy "today."

Sunday, May 25, 2014

JUNE'S VENTURE; January 1907; A Serial Story by "Gay;" Part 3 of 4

"I shall be so glad to have you," confessed Mrs. Gresham, "John, my husband, is so busy, it's hard for him to do it all. And then, housework belongs to women," with a little laugh, "and I can lie here and boss and watch you work. Would you mind getting supper for a surprise for John, when he comes?"

"No indeed, I'd like to if you can tell me how," responded June.

"That will be easy," was the answer, "and may I call you June? it's such a sweet, bright name."

"Oh, I'd love to have you," responded the girl, quickly, "and now, what shall I do?"

"First, you must have an apron, you will find one hanging behind the door, in that little closet. Dear, dear, how queer it seems to be unable to step to my own closet," exclaimed Mrs. Gresham, cheerily.

June found the apron and put it on. "How funny I look," she cried, "all lost in this thing. I never had an apron in all my life."

"We must make you one soon," declared Mrs. Gresham, "but now you can wear one of mine, I am only a little taller than you. Now the first thing is a fire; there are chips in the basket by the stove."

"I never made a fire in a stove," said June, "but I guess I can."

She followed the directions carefully, and after one or two failures, was delighted to hear the wood sputtering and crackling.

"Now, for some potatoes," said Mrs. Gresham. We don't have warm suppers, as a rule, but, the bread is gone, and I know John will enjoy a nice warm supper.

So, carefully following directions, June cooked potatoes, made some nice puffy biscuits and gravy, and brought in from the garden lettuce, radishes and onion. And by the time Mr. Gresham came in everything was in the nicest trim for supper. June liked him at once. He was so kind and bright and took such good care of his wife. Supper was a success and passed off gaily. The table was drawn close to Mrs. Gresham's bed so they could all be together, and roses nodded in from the open window and lent their sweet perfumes to fill the room.

After supper, Mr. Gresham insisted on washing the dishes, for he said June must be tired and they couldn't afford to lose her now they had just found what a treasure she was. June was amazed to see how handily he did the work.

"I think we must bake tomorrow," said Mrs. Gresham, when the supper dishes were put away, "and the bread ought to be set tonight."

"You may proceed with directions," laughed June. "I am ready for them."

"I suppose every housewife prefers her own bread; I know I do," said Mrs. Gresham. "I always use soft yeast that I make myself, you will find it in a glass jar in the spring-house; bring about half a cupful of it, then take three pints of warm water (not too warm or it will scald the yeast), put it in the bread pail that hangs there in the pantry, put in a teaspoonful of salt, stir in all the flour you can and set the pail on the stove pipe shelf until morning."

After this was done Mr. Gresham came in with a glass of new milk. "Here's our best country beverage," he said.

"Oh, how good it is," cried June, "I didn't know milk was so good. The country's the place, isn't it?

"It is, indeed," declared the husband and wife delightedly.

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

JUNE'S VENTURE; January 1907; A Serial Story by "Gay," Part 2 of 4

The question that had haunted her was what if her aunt should die or lose her money. What would happen then if she had not learned to do something?

When the train pulled up at Edgewater, June got out feeling strange and lonely. Her gay, independent feelings were gone for the time. What if she really could not find a place? what would she do? She couldn't, she wouldn't go back.

The station was small and dirty and only a few loungers were in sight. There were a few houses near, and all around lay the fields smiling in the early summer sunshine.

June decided to go farther back into the country, so she started down a shady road and soon was out of Edgewater, and with no human habitation in sight. The river flowed by the road on one side, its banks heavily fringed with willows, reflected in the clear water below. The birds sang from the thickets and June drank it all in with a delightful abandon. She sat down presently near a little spring which bubbled into the river, and ate her lunch. She knew that she ought to be on her way, but it was so delightful not to have her aunt remind her of any duty. At last she arose and hurried along the road. Night would soon come, and she did not care to spend it out of doors. Before long she came in sight of a small board house set well back in an apple orchard. Timidly she went up to the front door and knocked. In a few minutes the door was opened a crack and a woman's head appeared.

"We don't buy of agents!" she snapped.

"But I am not an agent," faltered June, her face growing hot.

The door opened wider. "What be you then?" asked the cautious inmate.

"I--I am looking for a place," was the answer.

"Well, we don't want any city servants," snapped the woman; "but, say, "relenting at June's sweet anxious face, "if you really want to work, I bet they'd take you up to Gresham's. She's laid up with a broken leg, and he has all the house work atop his own farm work to do. That's their place up by them Lombardy poplars."

June thanked the woman and started. Her courage seemed gone, why had she come? but pride and an empty pocket book forbade her return. As she drew near to "Gresham's," she was impressed with the well kept farm. The yard full of flowering shrubs and beds of flowers. Roses clambered over the porch, peeping in at the windows, and pansies lifted sweet faces below. It seemed almost like home to June.

In answer to her knock a pleasant voice bade her come in. The girl opened the door into a cheery little room. On a white bed lay a sweet-faced young woman, whom June guessed must be Mrs. Gresham, for she smiled and glanced inquiringly at her.

"Do you want a girl to work? faltered June, "I--I heard you did."

The little lady laughed. "Sit right down and rest and we will talk it over, you look very tired."