by Annie Boone
“I sometimes wonder if Pete will be as accommodating forever as he is now,” Minnie said. “I don’t doubt that he loves her. But she wants things that do not matter to him.”
“He loves her very much,” Hazel said, trying not to sound envious.
“And she loves being loved so much,” Minnie nodded.
“Yes, but they are happy enough, I think. She has adapted to the circumstances. She was not pleased with the outhouse, until she saw the mining camp and realized how others must manage. She was quite shocked at first, you know, when people would walk up from the camp only so they could look at the privy. Now, I think she is curiously proud of having the very finest privy in the area.”
The sisters smiled. Clara was often exasperating and she could be a trial, but she was uniquely herself.
“Do you know that she is planning to put on a Christmas program?” Hazel said.
“A Christmas program?”
“Yes. She was speaking to some of the children in the camp and, of course, many of the people there don’t speak English. Clara has gotten it into her head that they don’t know the story of the baby Jesus and so she is planning a performance. She expects us to attend, you know.”
“She has said nothing to me,” Minnie said. Then she smiled ruefully. “I suppose I have not been available very often for her to say anything to. Please let her know that I am not avoiding my sisters. I am tired, I think,” Minnie said.
Her eyes filled with tears. Immediately, Hazel hurried to her sister’s side. “Minnie, dear Minnie, are you unwell?”
“No,” Minnie denied this, even though the tears were pooling in her eyes and streaming down her cheeks. “I am not unwell. It’s just, sometimes, for no reason, I cry, just as I am doing now. I try not to cry in front of Gavin, because it troubles him. He thinks it is his fault because we must work so hard to make the sheep raising a success, but I don’t mind that, truly I don’t. I enjoy that work better than I do the cooking,” she declared with a laugh that broke through her tears. “But he thinks it isn’t suitable for me because my life was one of privilege in Boston.”
“You are sure that you are not unwell?”
“I am sure. There’s nothing wrong. I only fear what I told you, that I share Mother’s despondent nature.”
“Mother is mending,” Hazel reminded her sister. “She is going to be well. And when she is well, she and Father will visit us. I am convinced of it and you must be also.”
Minnie smiled sadly. “I wish I could believe that.”
13
Clara was quite occupied with her plans for a Christmas performance for the children of the mining camp, but her concerns for Minnie came first.
“We must make sure that she has a splendid Christmas,” Clara said. “We shall decorate a magnificent tree. Peter has shown me where we shall find the perfect one, in a forest just on the outskirts of Newton. And we shall prepare a wonderful Christmas dinner and we shall sing songs around your piano, just as we did at home, and then she will feel quite herself again.”
Hazel was not convinced that Minnie’s sadness would be appeased if the trappings of Christmas were transplanted from Boston to Colorado, but she knew better than to try to persuade her sister of this. Clara was always one to be dazzled by spectacle and Christmas was the spectacle that culminated the year.
“And when Christmas is over,” she said, “we shall celebrate the season. And on Twelfth Night, we shall have the Christmas performance. You will sing, of course, as will Minnie.”
“And you will have a solo, I suppose?” Hazel said, amused at Clara’s attention to her own talents.
“You and Minnie cannot hit the higher notes,” Clara said complacently. “I must sing a solo. But there will be many songs to sing and I cannot sing them all myself.” She frowned. “One of the miners plays the accordion. He is from one of those countries. It isn’t a piano, sadly, but I suppose it would be rather an ordeal to bring your piano to the camp.”
“It would be entirely too much of an ordeal,” Hazel agreed emphatically. “Have you forgotten the work that went into bringing it from the train station to the ranch? You shall have to make do with the accordion. Perhaps some of the other men could play, the ones who have instruments? I am sure there must be those who have guitars or banjos.”
Clara had not forgotten the effort involved in bringing the piano to its destination, but she could not help wishing that it were easier to transport, for a piano was a much richer instrument than a banjo or a guitar or an accordion, she thought. “I wish we had a stage here,” she said, looking around her intimate little home as if one would materialize if she waited a sufficient amount of time. “The mining camp is dismal, you must admit.”
Hazel did not dispute this. To herself, she thought it rather a good thing that the mining camp, dismal though it might seem to Clara’s discriminating eye, was close by. It had taught Clara to be satisfied with what she had and her lovely home, built with loving hands by a husband who did not want his mail-order bride to pine for Boston. It was a pleasant place. The sun entered the rooms at just the right angle and even on overcast days, the light still filled the area. The curtains that Hazel and Minnie sewed at such a feverish pace continued to add vivid color to the warm wooden walls of the dwelling. The house was very neat and tidy, for Clara would tolerate no less, even though she had to do it herself, but it was not without a coziness all its own. She knew that her sister was determined, when Peter’s mine struck the vein of silver that would make them rich, to build a bigger and more impressive mansion on the land where the house now stood. But Hazel could not help wondering whether Clara would find the same happiness in that mansion that she had now, for this home had been built just for her, by a loving husband who sought her pleasure above all things. No trained architect could promise such a feat.
“Could you not paint scenes on cloth,” Hazel suggested. “Something to show the manger, another to show Herod’s castle?”
“Oh, Hazel, you have hit on it, the very thing! Yes, of course. We must paint the scenery. Peter will build a makeshift stage for the curtains. Yes, that is what we shall do. Do you think Minnie could help?”
“Minnie is very busy with the sheep,” Hazel reminded her sister.
Clara emitted an extravagant sigh. “Really, I don’t see why Gavin didn’t stick to cattle as Harley has done.”
“Gavin lost his herd in the snowstorm.”
“Yes, but he could have bought more cattle instead of sheep.”
“Sheep are less expensive to buy and to raise.”
“How are you such an expert on the beasts?”
“Minnie told me.”
Clara made a face. “She knows more about sheep than any woman of my acquaintance,” she said. “I suppose it is just as well that Mother and Father cannot come to visit. They would be quite horrified, I am sure, to see that Minnie is now tending to sheep.”
“They would not be horrified,” Hazel disagreed, but her mind was traveling down the other sentence that her sister had spoken. “I suppose it is just as well that Mother and Father cannot come to visit.”
As she rode Juno home, Hazel’s mind could not help but consider that statement, assessing it from all possible angles.
Why could Mother and Father not come to visit?
Money, of course. But Hazel had not doubt that Harley, if she asked him, would be willing to pay for railroad tickets for her parents to come to Colorado for the holidays.
Why could Mother and Father not come to visit?
Mother’s health had been poor and Father would not leave her. But her letters spoke of a woman who was rapidly regaining her strength and her zest. If Mother were well, would not Father be willing to come?
Why could Mother and Father not come to visit?
It was a long journey. Bosh! They had crossed the Atlantic annually to sail to England. Long journeys did not dissuade them from traveling. And the railroads were quite luxurious; they would not need to travel in discomfort
.
Why could Mother and Father not come to visit?
Colorado was primitive and rough compared to Boston. In Boston, there was all the refinement and elegance of a stately American city secure in its standing as one of the nation’s landmarks, a city which had established itself as a bastion of freedom and prosperity.
But Colorado was thriving and vigorous and energetic and her father was not a man to disdain what was raw. He was an inventor and an entrepreneur and he might find in Colorado a resurgence of the vitality that had inspired him as a young man.
Why could Mother and Father not come to visit?
They would not want to travel across the country at a time when weather was unpredictable. But they were not weaklings, Betsy and Jonathan Ellis. Despite Mother’s health, there was a heritage of stamina in her nature. Coming West to visit their daughters would be enough to surmount any fears of inclement weather.
By the time she had reached the Wyatt ranch, she had convinced herself. She went inside and changed out of her riding habit. Then she went into the kitchen.
“Did you have a nice visit with your sister, Mrs. Wyatt?” Constanza asked. Her hands were white with flour from her baking. Despite that, she always managed to look quite neat; her white apron more an accessory than a way of keeping her clothing clean.
“Very nice, yes. Constanza. Tell me, please. When you came to Colorado, did you miss your family?”
“Every day I miss my family,” Constanza answered, not finding the query a strange one. “But my family, no longer are we in Italy. We came to this country when I was a girl, and I married Harry and we came West. He was not Italian, my family was not happy.”
“Would they ever come West?”
“No, Mrs. Wyatt. They are . . . Italians, we are not wanderers. They are happy in New York, there are many Italians in New York. They stay. My brothers, my sisters, their children, they are all in New York. My parents stay there.”
“What about you?”
“Me? My children are here, I am here. This is home. Where would I want to be?”
“Yes. I think I understand.”
Constanza smiled wisely. “When you have them, the bambinos, you will understand without thinking,” she said.
Hazel reddened. She wanted children, and she was sure that Harley did too, although he never spoke of it. But Harley did not speak of much unless she provoked the conversation.
“Yes, Constanza,” she said as she left the children. “Parents want to be with their children. What is for dinner tonight?”
“Chicken Florentine, with the spinach. Very tasty. You like, yes?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Mr. Harley, he likes?”
Harley did not seem to notice what was in front of him, even though Hazel had noticed that he ate Constanza’s meals with much more alacrity than he had shown when Jane was doing the cooking.
“Yes, he likes all of your cooking. I wonder if you could give me some ideas for what to make on Christmas Day. We will be having guests and I want to serve something very special.”
“Your sisters are coming, yes? Their husbands? In Italy, we make—“ she paused, “but no matter, this is Colorado, not Italy. I come up with the menus for you so your guests will have full bellies.”
Hazel smiled. “And your children, they will have a good Christmas too?”
“Mr. Harley, he pays well. My children. . .” the cook smiled. “They have a good Christmas. We all together. Their father is in heaven, but they have him here,” she pointed to her heart.
Hazel nodded. Yes, loved ones were in the heart, but with a bit of managing, perhaps they could be in Colorado as well.
After they had eaten, Hazel went to her piano. The nights started earlier now, with the sun retreating sooner as winter approached. The curtains were drawn in the parlor so that the cold night could not cast its chilly spell over the people in the room. The fire blazed in the fireplace, spreading its warmth throughout the room. Oakley was sleepy and went off to bed earlier than usual. Harley sat in the rocking chair, listening as Hazel played.
“Why don’t you sing?” he asked after she had finished one song and was searching through the sheet music for another.
“I don’t—” Hazel sighed. “Clara has the voice in the family.”
“Not the only voice,” he said. “Sing something.”
It sounded as if it were a command, but she knew that Harley found it easier to order than to request. She smiled and began to sing a favorite family Christmas carol, Angels From the Realms of Glory. When she finished, Harley said, “My mother used to sing that song.”
“She did? Did your mother sing?”
“Don’t all women sing?” he asked.
“But your mother,” Hazel pressed. “Did she sing?”
“Yes,” he said. “She didn’t have a strong voice, not like yours, but it was pleasant. My father enjoyed listening to her. As I enjoy listening to you,” he added.
“You lost your mother when you were eighteen.”
“Yes. She died on Christmas Day.”
“Oh, Harley!” Hazel said, aghast. She was ashamed that she had ever thought less of him for not observing the holiday in due form, thus depriving Oakley of the joyous nature of Christmas. But if the day reminded him of loss, then perhaps it was not surprising that he had not enjoyed its observation.
“She had fallen ill in the winter and grew weaker as winter came on. We knew she wouldn’t last the year. But she was determined to see Christmas. She died that morning.”
“I’m so very sorry,” Hazel told him.
“People die on the days that they are taken,” he said as if it were of no consequence. “My father . . . “ Harley smiled at the memory, “my father said that she became an angel on the day of the Lord’s birth. He took comfort from that.”
Hazel rose from the piano bench and went over to him, leaning against the rocking chair. “Harley,” she began, “could we have my parents come to Colorado to visit? I know it’s an expensive journey, but Minnie has been downcast of late and I think it would lift her spirits if our parents could visit.”
“I’ll send the money for the tickets tomorrow.”
14
It became a campaign, one kept from Minnie but shared with Clara and all the husbands. Gavin was so grateful for Harley’s generosity that he said he was almost willing to give up raising sheep. When Clara learned that Harley was going to pay for the journey for the Ellises to come to Colorado by railroad, she was consumed with ambition.
This must be the best Christmas ever, she told her husband.
“And what did he say?” Hazel asked. She was painting the scenery for Clara’s mining camp Christmas performance; a broad piece of cloth was spread on the dining room table and Hazel was painting the outlines for a stable. Oakley, fascinated by the project, had been promised that she would be allowed to add to the scenery, but only after Clara left. Clara was not a mentor of young artists and would likely be critical. But she stayed in the room anyway, only half listening to the conversation, as she watched Hazel paint.
“Peter can be very droll,” Clara remarked. “He said that he supposed the best Christmas ever had already happened nearly two thousand years ago in Bethlehem, but he supposed that this one might run it a close second. I hope he strikes the silver vein by then. Wouldn’t it be ideal if that could happen in time for Mother and Father’s arrival? They would be so pleased.”
Hazel didn’t dispute her sister’s conviction, but she guessed that the joy of the visit would be in family itself. Their parents would stay at the ranch. There was room and there was a level of comfort there that Minnie and Gavin, and Clara and Peter could not manage. In addition, Mother and Father would be relieved to see that their daughters were married to good men. True, Minnie worked alongside her husband to make their sheep venture a profitable one, and the home of Clara and Pete neighbored a mining camp. But the men were upright, hard-working and noble of character. They were not Bostonians, but
there was no reason for them to want to be. Hazel was sure that her parents would come to recognize that.
Clara’s conception of the best possible Christmas did not match what Hazel had in mind, but the sisters had lived under the same roof for most of their lives and somehow, their visions of what Christmas ought to be had intersected. The service to celebrate the birth of the Lord would not be the same as it had been in the Boston cathedral, but the birth would be celebrated nonetheless by Reverend Mains in the humble church where the Ellis sisters now worshipped. Constanza’s recipes would be different from a Boston Christmas lunch, but as the cook had promised, no one would leave the table hungry.
There would be a tree, but not the traditional one that they had grown up with strands of cranberries like garland. Instead, it would be a majestic Colorado pine and its rich scent would fill the rooms with its fragrance. The presents under the tree would not be the gaily wrapped items from the exclusive jewelry stores of the city, but there would be presents. New hats for Minnie and Clara, already ordered and on their way to Newton. French hats, as exquisite in design as anything the sisters had ever owned. And it had been Harley’s suggestion to also order a hat for Mother, which Hazel had happily done. For Father? Harley suggested a saddle. Or perhaps a horse. But that would only serve if Mother and Father were willing to move to Colorado, rather than just visit.
Her letter to her parents had tackled that suggestion.
Dearest Mother and Father,
We are so looking forward to seeing you this Christmas. My husband has wired the money for the tickets. He wants you to have a pleasant and comfortable journey. I want the same, of course. But I want more.
Dear ones, would you, could you consider moving here? I know that it is a great deal to ask, and I know that Colorado does not compare to Massachusetts, nor is Newton anything like Boston. But Minnie, Clara and I have made our home here and you two are all that’s missing from making our happiness complete.