Through Tender Thorns

by Barbara Morriss

  He spent the winter in the cave keeping himself warm and fed. In spring, as bluebells sprouted and bloomed, he built a two-room cabin near Hattie’s grave. The spot was chosen for its proximity to the artesian well and reservoir and flat enough for a little farming and grazing. The oak tree under which Hattie was laid to rest was only a short distance from his door.

  In 1880, Buckus purchased the land from the government with his father’s antebellum gold and silver. He continued his godly ways, kept to himself, and made it his life’s work to survive on the land in solitude. He tended to a kitchen garden and chickens. When he needed to, he hunted for game. He never went hungry, worshipped the Lord in his own way, and stayed out of area politics. His trips to town were infrequent. He had no need or desire for socializing.

  One day in the fall as he rode his horse around his property, he stopped at the hedge trees that marked the road to the cave and artesian well. The row hedge was about fifty feet long and seven feet high, the foliage lush, the long thorns plentiful. Such a landmark clearly called out the entrance to Buckus’s home. Climbing off his horse, he kicked around the base of the Osage orange trees1 and saw a few seeds. Sifting through the loose dirt he picked some up and placed them in the palm of his left hand. The seeds were brown and dry, about a half inch long and ready for planting. With the heel of his boot he dug a narrow trench across the opening in the hedge. Placing seeds a foot apart, he covered them with loose dirt and used the water in his canteen to moisten the soil. If the seeds took hold, one day the entrance to the wagon road would be blocked. He picked up fallen fruit and took them back to the cabin to extract more seeds and dry them for planting. Returning to the hedgerow again and again he planted more seeds along his property line. The seeds sprouted and grew vigorously. Buckus knew a single row of orange hedge trees planted one foot apart would yield a fence “horse high, bull strong, and hog tight.”

  Because Buckus was an industrious sort, he decided to plant a living orange tree fence all the way around his enormous tract of land. He worked hard on this venture and took great satisfaction in his hedge. Year after year in the fall he gathered the fruit, which were loaded with seeds. In the spring he planted more and more trees, pruned the ones already planted, and wove the lower branches. After ten years and twenty miles of toil, he had marked the boundaries of his land with the amazing fence. He created a new entrance away from the main road, known only to him and a lone neighbor who brought him moonshine from his still.

  On many occasions Buckus would mount his horse and ride the edge of his property feeling every bit the king of his dominion. No one ever bothered ol’ Buckus. Some thought him odd; others admired his tenacity. “Who would have the patience to plant and tend an orangewood fence when barbed wire and post would do?” some farmers said. “Perhaps someone who has nothing else to do,” others offered and then laughed. Buckus never raised horses, bulls, or hogs although he was quite sure one day the living fence would be used to enclose them. Over the years the trees naturalized and the fence became thicker and more formidable. This is God’s work, thought Buckus. He has heard my prayers. The fence was planted, grown and groomed for protection, a barrier from the hatred that lay beyond.

  Buckus Del Henny died in 1915 at the age of 65, but no one knows exactly what day. Some say he was tending his fence when he had a heart attack. A neighbor offered to see Buckus to his grave, meaning that neighbor was the only one who knew where the old man was buried. Buckus left no last will and testament, so it became the government’s charge to auction off the property. Sad, some thought. But in truth, Buckus Del Henny had become what most could not—a legend in his own time—and the fence, his legacy.

  * * *

  1Osage orange trees were prevalent in the Midwest. The strange-looking fruit is inedible to humans and most animals. The skin of the fruit resembles the convoluted texture of a human brain. The wood is yellow-orange in color and was used to make beautiful bows, spears, and tools by the Osage Indians, who lived and moved around Missouri. The thorns of the tree are impressive.

  Chapter 3

  The Arrival

  In April 1931, spring came early to Glidewell Ranch, and the weather was unseasonably warm. Mary Glidewell looked over her desk and sighed. It was so difficult turning job applicants away. So many people needed work—good people with families to feed. She and her husband, James, took great pride in the people they hired. They looked for the skilled—the experienced—first, but they were willing to find jobs for the needy. Today there were ten needy people on her porch looking for work on the ranch, but she had no jobs that required immediate filling. Having the power to make or break weighed heavily on Mary’s mind.

  “This eez Maizee Freedmon.” Leon, the French houseman, sous chef, and chauffeur, announced the next applicant.

  “Merci, Leon.” Mary stood and welcomed the job candidate. “Good morning, Maizie. Please sit down.” Mary pointed to the chair on the other side of her desk. A girl appearing to be in her teens looked around the room. Putting down her bag and hat, she took a seat. She was wearing a dress and an old pair of ill-fitting shoes. Dirty socks hung around her ankles.

  “Would you like a glass of water?” asked Mary. “It comes from an artesian well on our property. It’s very pure, not like the city water.”

  “No thank you, ma’am.”

  Mary looked up at the young girl seated before her. Her eyes were deep blue and captivating, her hair a dark brown, wavy mop.

  “Maizie is your name?”

  “Yes ma’am. Maizie Sunday Freedman.” The girl shifted in her seat and folded her hands in her lap like a well-behaved child.

  “That’s an unusual name: Maizie. It’s a nice name.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You can call me Mrs. Glidewell.”

  “Yes ma’am—I mean Mrs. Glidewell.”

  “You live around here?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not too close.” Maizie’s hands moved from her lap to the arms of the chair. Mary took a clean sheet of paper from her desk drawer and wrote the young girl’s name at the top.

  “Did you walk here?”

  “My mama helped me get here. She was thinkin’ you might have a job for me.”

  “So your mother brought you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “So you came on your own accord.”

  “That’s right.”

  “No matter. Most of our employees live here. Where you live now is not a problem.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “’Mrs. Glidewell.’ Please call me that.”

  “Oh yes, sorry. Just that I am used to calling fine ladies ‘ma’am.’”

  “I see, but I prefer ‘Mrs. Glidewell.’ So Maizie, shall we get started with the job interview?” Before Maizie could respond, a well-dressed gentleman wearing a very clean leather cowboy hat came into the office. He was holding a few packages and letters.

  “Mary, here’s the mail,” he said and bent down to give her a quick peck on the cheek.

  “Thank you, dear. James, this is Maizie Freedman. I’m interviewing her for a position.”

  “Good Morning, Maizie. I’m Mr. Glidewell.” Maizie simply nodded and shifted her gaze to the mail on the desk.

  “I have to get down to the backside and check on the horses. I wish we had more jobs to fill.” Maizie eyes were downcast as she seemed to look at her feet. She put her hands back in her lap and sighed.

  “Maizie, let’s begin our interview. I never hire anyone without getting answers to a lot of questions.” Mary smiled and looked again into Maizie’s blue eyes. There was so much sadness in the young girl’s face. Mary felt her heart breaking.

  “Mrs. Glidewell?”

  “Yes, Maizie.”

  “See, I never been in such a nice house before.”


  “I’m glad you like it. My husband bought this property a decade or so ago. Then we built this ranch.”

  “It’s just so big. I’m not sure I’m fitted for such a place. Don’t know how to act, really.”

  “Well you are here. I’m here. You are acting just fine. Let’s do the interview. Can’t hurt.” Nodding, Maizie looked around the room and nervously adjusted her dirty socks. Then the interview began.

  Chapter 4

  Maizie’s Diary

  March 23, 1931

  I have been here for a few days now. Mrs. Glidewell, she’s the boss, gave me this diary. I don’t know much about diaries, but she said it was a book to write in. I didn’t know what to write, so she said that my first few pages might tell who I am. So, here goes.

  Everyone calls me Maizie, but I am Maizie Sunday Freedman. That’s my whole name. I was born on a Sunday in 1915. I don’t know what date. Mama said it wasn’t important. My mama thought I was born at the end of February, but she wasn’t sure. It could have been March. She was in hiding at the time. February was a tricky month with leap year and all, and she didn’t have a calendar to look at or anyone to tell her what the date was. She said she knew it was a Sunday because she could hear a choir singing from a church the day I was born. That’s what she told me. She was always telling me stories, some made up, some not.

  My mama wasn’t married and she was very poor. She was having a baby all by herself. A white girl delivering a lightly colored child was wrong to folks in Mississippi. She was scared and alone. She said she laid in tall grass and looked up into the sky when her pains came. She told me about one cloud that looked like an angel. It was comforting, she said. My mama was always talking about angels who watched over us. Some were in the sky and some were right here on earth. You can count on them, she told me. I had to believe my mama, ’cause she was all I had.

  She loved telling me stories about angels. She wondered why an angel wasn’t watching over my daddy. You see, my daddy was lynched for loving her. When she told me, I didn’t know what lynched was. “White folks killed him,” she said. The white people who looked after my mama sent her away because she was having a colored baby. Told her to leave and never come back. My mama said that was fine ’cause her home wasn’t a home anyway. I don’t know who the people were. Mama never told me.

  My mama had secrets, I guess. She told me my father was a good man—smart, the color of coffee with lots of cream. She told me he had a beautiful singing voice that lifted her soul and a laugh that filled her heart. What girl wouldn’t be proud to have a father like that? The stories of my father stopped when my mama died. I’m alone now, like my mama was. I have no family. My mama is gone but I remember her stories. My mama often talked about ranches. She always said she would find us a ranch someday. She’d heard about a ranch in her family when she was just a little girl. She wanted to live on a ranch where birds sang and bluebells grew in the spring. She’d been hearing about a ranch five miles from Springfield. She said that maybe we could look for a job there. She said they had jobs for cooks, housekeepers, stable hands, and handymen. Well, I sure wasn’t one of those, but I hitched a ride there anyway. I knew how to hitch a ride—my mama taught me. Been doing it since I was little.

  I wasn’t sure I could even get a job, being so young. I had no place else to go except back to the shelter and I didn’t know how much longer I could stay there. They were good to Mama and me when Mama was so sick. But seemed life might have something else in mind for me, since Mama died. There is something about being alone that made me brave.

  It’s real tough times right now for most folks. Even folks been doing jobs for years can’t get work. Some folks don’t have food to eat. Seems a lot of rich folks lost money in the crash two years ago. I’m learning when the rich don’t have money, the poor suffer for it.

  When I got to the ranch, my eyes couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t like any ranch I’d ever seen. Why, there was a horse racetrack and stables and bunkhouses. There were other folks waiting for an interview. Seemed like everyone was looking at me suspicious like, like I was trash or something. But I’m not. I know right from wrong, mostly. The sun was shining really bright and folks were getting hot and sweaty. I think ’cause they were nervous. I was.

  When it was my turn, I went into the house carrying my mama’s old satchel. The room was big and beautiful. I saw one like this in a movie at the free picture show downtown, but never been in one. The stone walls and huge wood beams made you feel like you were in nature somehow. The fireplace was so big you could get in it and stand up straight. There were leather couches, fancy chairs covered in cow hide, and a big piano.

  It was cool and pretty in the room where I was interviewed. A woman sat at a desk and smiled at me. She asked how old I was. I lied, told her I was twenty. She smiled again, really nice like, and wrote that down. I must have looked hungry ’cause she asked me if I’d had anything to eat. I told her I was fine, but I wasn’t. She also asked about my family. Now this was hard, and my eyes tried to cry, but I wouldn’t let them. She asked again, quieter this time. Your family? I told her I didn’t have one. Then I saw tears in her eyes.

  Mrs. Glidewell spent a lot of time with me. She asked me what I thought I could do to help out at a ranch. I know some things, but I don’t know nothing about a ranch. I didn’t know what to say. So she started by asking me if I could sew. I said no. ’Cause I don’t know how. That was the truth. She asked me if I could cook. I said no, not really. She asked me if I could play a piano. I said I sure can’t do that. She laughed and said, “Well, I can’t either.” She asked me if I had good penmanship. Now here was something I was good at. I learned it in school. Even shelter kids had to go to school in Springfield. I got my hand smacked with the ruler when my letters weren’t pretty, so I learned to make them real nice. I said yes, I’m good at writing letters. I know the Palmer Method I said, and that was the truth. I told her about how I liked to write stories ’cause my writing was so pretty. I thought the two kind of went together. Now that I come to think about it, that is probably why she gave me this diary, ’cause I said the thing about writing down stories.

  Then she asked me what year I was born. Now here is where I should have stopped and thought for a moment, but I said 1915 real fast. She looked down at her paper for just a minute, and then with sad eyes she said: “If you were born in 1915, you are only fifteen or sixteen, Maizie, not twenty.” She had me in my lie. I was embarrassed. I stood to leave, and Mrs. Glidewell looked at me real warm like, kind of like she knew all about me. I don’t know how she was so smart. “Maizie, I’d like to hire you today,” she said. “Would you consider being my assistant?”

  I never went back to the shelter ’cause I didn’t have anything to get. The clothing on my back and my mama’s satchel was all I had. My mama always said when something good happens there is a guardian angel somewhere near. I looked around for a guardian angel. But I saw no one other than Mrs. Glidewell.

  Now about a secret. In my mama’s satchel, there is a calico print flour sack filled with my mama’s things. The shelter folks didn’t think they were important—that I should look at them and then throw them away. I don’t want to just yet. Something about my mama dying makes looking at her stuff hard.

  Good night.

  Chapter 5

  The Glidewell Kitchens

  Thelma Wood knew how to run a kitchen. As a child in Iowa, she had learned how to cook, farm style, and had been cooking ever since. At Glidewell she was more than just a cook. She was the overseer of the domestic side of the backside. She ran the mess hall and made sure housekeepers did their jobs.

  Thelma was hired at the Glidewell Ranch to cook hearty breakfasts, the main meal at lunchtime, and a light supper in the evening. She cooked casseroles, soups, eggs, chicken, and pot roast. Grub is what the ranch hands called her cooking, “plain ol’ grub.” She prided herself in her good sense, hard work, and that
she didn’t need praise to get the job done. So Thelma and her assistant, Billy Wood, who was also her husband, worked as a team to prepare the backside meals.

  Thelma and Billy were an odd-looking couple who barely talked with each other yet moved through their jobs with efficiency and ease. Thelma was short and stout. She wore a farm-style apron, her hair neatly braided and pinned into a woven bun on the back of her head. Unfortunately she had an angry countenance etched into her chubby face. Billy, on the other hand, was tall and lanky, his face lean and angular. He had few teeth and no hair on his head and kept quiet when working. However, using his bushy gray eyebrows that grew in all directions, Billy said a lot without saying a word.

  The two of them had come to Glidewell Ranch in 1927 after the backside (the racetrack, barn and stables) was completed. Thelma and Billy worked in a makeshift chuck wagon-type kitchen until the mess hall and kitchen were finished. Why they left Iowa, no one knew for sure. Thelma would only say they needed to breathe new air and be around new folks.

  The first plate of food Thelma prepared for Maizie was chicken, sweet-potato mash, and gravy. Thelma didn’t like serving Maizie in her kitchen or letting her eat at the table but she kept it to herself. She and her Billy needed this job. So when she put food out for breakfast a few days later, she tamped her feelings down as she watched Maizie dish herself a plate of eggs, sausage, and toast and take a seat at the mess table with the other women who worked the backside. Thelma couldn’t be sure, but she believed the new girl might be colored. There was something about her.