William didn’t like it either, and when he saw the rag pail, he’d turn away in disgust. Sometimes he’d yell over his shoulder, “Woman, we’re gonna need children to help us with this farm,” as though I were deliberately not getting pregnant. Ma told me not to worry, but I knew she was wondering why I wasn’t having my babies, especially because she was still having hers. My baby sister Jane came in October of 1880; beautiful Thomas in ’82, and just holding them punched a hole in my heart.
And then there was the drinking. I didn’t notice right away because, looking back, I don’t think it was too bad at first. I never smelled a single spirit on William’s breath the whole time we were courting. I knew the men were outside after the wedding having a nip or two—even Ma, who was as Dry as any woman in the country, turned her head at that, saying it was just for a celebration. I thought that would be the end of it.
Oh, I was so happy the next year when Governor St. John forced through a vote to prohibit alcohol. Kansas voters went along with him and we became the first state to go completely Dry. That wouldn’t have happened if my William had his say. He talked against the vote day and night, said it wasn’t right for a bunch of do-gooders to take away one of the few pleasures a working man had. But when I asked him if he was going to vote in the election, he said he was too busy for stuff like that.
Of course, this discussion only took place in our own home, because in my Ma’s, the story was completely different. When she’d start in on how wonderful it would be for Kansas to go Dry and show the nation, William stayed silent. So did Pa, who couldn’t vote anyway because he wasn’t a citizen yet. I had to laugh the day Annie forced the issue and asked him, “Pa, if you could vote, how would you vote?”
Ma stopped drying the kettle, as Pa carefully said, not looking her way, “Why, Annie, of course I’d vote to go Dry. I bet the whole country will go Dry someday and, Mother, won’t that be a happy moment?”
I saw her smile as she turned away because she knew he was only saying that to keep peace and she was smart enough to know that’s not how Pa really felt. I bet she guessed that William lied about his support, too.
Of course, I overlooked his drunk when President Garfield got shot. I almost wanted a drink myself because he was shot on my twenty-first birthday. Ma always made a big deal of our birthdays—no matter what was going on, she made sure the day was celebrated somehow. We were lucky that July 2 in 1881 was on a Saturday, so after chores, we gathered at my folks’ place for a nice supper. Little did we know that a horrible man who had been denied a job shot our president.
We got the word the next day—why does bad news always spread so fast while good news is still trying to get some attention? I cried to hear such an awful thing. William went off by himself and when he came home Sunday night, he reeked of liquor. But I took it for grieving. Everyone was grieving and maybe this was just the way my husband handled such bad news. Then he tied one on when President Garfield finally died on September 19. That was a Monday and we had just been in church the day before praying for him. Then that fast bad news came again and while I dropped all my Tuesday chores and went back to church with Ma, William went drinking somewhere and he was so drunk he stumbled into the house and into bed.
It’s easy to explain away moments like that—far better than the dark thoughts that creep into your mind, so I overlooked it. I see now, looking back, that I was a scared girl whistling in the dark to pretend she was all right.
And then things got worse and worse and I couldn’t believe this was the same William Pickell who had come around to help us build the soddie.
***
My brothers had started teasing me that very first day. “Ellen likes a pickle, yes she does, oh, she’s so sweet for her pickle,” Andrew sang while his older brothers snickered.
“You shouldn’t make fun of a man’s name,” I shot back, but that didn’t stop them.
“Ellen’s in a pickle,” John would whisper when he went by me.
“What’s Ellen’s favorite drink?” James would yell out, like it was a real question and then he’d sing, “pickle juice.” Ma and Pa tried to hush them, too, but they were unmerciful.
William Pickell was a charming, good-looking man, I have to say that about him. He always wore his best manners when he was around my folks. He couldn’t “yes ma’am” or “yes sir” enough and he wasn’t pushy either (not like Mickey Larkin back in Ontario who must have thought I was desperate, because he came courting once and asked me to marry him, like I would marry a man so old and desperate himself).
William courted me for two years with buggy rides and polite conversation around our supper table. He told me about his dreams of a big family and those were the very words I was happy to hear. He had a nice spread not far away, with a three-room wooden house and a big barn. Nancy and Jessica figured he was the most eligible bachelor around. And I heard Mrs. Kline blessed our courting, like that was her right.
The first time William held me was when we lost Elizabeth. I cried into his shirt for a half hour, and he held me the whole time. Dear Elizabeth. The last of the triplets. We lost all three. All. Three. Ma and Pa were beyond consolation. Even the boys had the helpless look of grief, and I was certain my sisters would never get over this loss.
“Promise me, William, that when we have a girl, we’ll name her Elizabeth for the angel that just went to heaven.” He promised.
I put her in the Bible with the other two, with a birthday of June 12, 1875. I wrote “died, 1878.”
William helped build the casket and dig the grave and he listened to all our stories about the dear child. He even rocked my little sisters, who were already seeing him as my man. That really tied him to my family, and that wasn’t the only way.
To impress Ma, he went to Sunday services one time, but that backfired with Pa, because it gave Ma new ammunition to prod him in the same direction. He brought presents for my sisters—a piece of cloth for Franny, a hair ribbon for Annie, a rag doll for Mary. He let my brothers ride his fine horse and gave Pa a hand with breaking up the sod for our first crop. He gave me an embroidered handkerchief that had been his Ma’s, and he never arrived without something for my Ma’s kitchen.
“I have some fine corn this year,” he’d say, as he laid down a sack filled with sweet, juicy ears. “I have some extra sugar I don’t need and thought you could use it.” Or, “I found an extra can of coffee and I’ll never get to it.”
But the day he snagged my Ma’s heart for good was the day he brought her something still rare in the West—a cat! It was just a kitten and Mary claimed it for her own immediately, but Ma saw it was the mouser she needed in the house and the barn and she even gave him a big hug for the extravagant gift.
He cemented my Pa’s love when he offered leftover wood from his own cabin for our first real house in Kansas. Then he helped build the cabin that started out with five big rooms! Mrs. MacDonald said it was the finest first cabin she’d ever seen in these parts. And little Mary, who never did warm up to living “in the dirt” thought the man walked on water for helping us get a real home. She liked that even more than her rag doll.
Was it any wonder that every single member of my family agreed I had a great catch? I was so pleased my people liked him, because I liked him so. It was time for me to get hitched and start my own family and I’d finally found the right man.
I spent the last six months of courting making a fine wedding outfit.
I saw a dress I loved in the Monkey Ward catalog and of course, I couldn’t afford a store-bought dress and there was no need for that since I know my way around a sewing machine like nobody’s business. I’d been making my own clothes for a couple years now, and even made Pa a shirt one time (although my Ma is better at men’s shirts than I could ever be). I made dresses for my sisters and aprons for presents and so it was nothing for me to look at a pretty dress in a catalog and make it up for myself.
My Ma’s wedding present was a piece of blue satin for my dress. I draped it across the front of the skirt and gathered in the back to resemble a bustle—the first almost-bustle I ever wore. I embroidered the dark blue waistcoat, put lace at the sleeves and covered nineteen buttons for down the front. On my wedding day, I wore ear bobs, a locket, and a bracelet from Ma, with my two favorite rings on my right hand. William said someday he’d get me a wedding band for the left, but right then he thought that money would best be spent to get us started.
We were married on a cool November day, not cold, no snow yet. Ma cleared out the big room of our cabin and filled it with tables to sit his kin and mine and neighbors.
Ma and Mrs. MacDonald cooked for days and there were big platters of fried chicken and potato salad and corn mush and pickles, of course, since this had been a really good year for cucumbers and we had canned up jar after jar. Mrs. MacDonald made the most wonderful white cake—that was her wedding present to us—and everyone was thankful for that because there was nobody in Lebanon, Kansas, who could make a more tasty cake than Estelle MacDonald.
My sisters wore ribbons in their hair and I know I wasn’t the only one who imagined how pretty little Elizabeth would have looked. Nancy and Jessica came in dresses they made special for the occasion, and Mrs. Kline came decked in a new hat with a giant feather—the men all snickered, but us women coveted that fancy hat. People came with best wishes and presents to help us get started. I got some beautiful linens and dish towels and seeds and a pretty pot to plant with flowers. Ma made me a lovely nightgown with lace at the collar.
Before I went outside where William and the judge were waiting, I told my Ma, “I hope William is as good to me as Pa is to you.” She hugged me real tight and whispered, “I hope so too.” This is the honest truth: I thought I was marrying a man like my Pa.
We rode to his cabin in his buggy at the end of a joyous day. Ma packed us a basket of leftovers so we could start out with food in the house. I carefully took off my precious wedding dress and put on the new nightgown from Ma. Out of nowhere, came this horrible noise of pots and pans being banged with spoons and sticks.
William squealed. “We’re being chivareed!”
He grabbed my hand to take me to the front porch, but I protested. “William, I’m in my nightgown.”
“Throw a shawl over it.” I followed his instructions and we met our neighbors outside. They were hooting and hollering and striking on those pots and pans like they were beating the tar our of the bobcat. Nancy and Jessica where there, of course, and my brothers, and Mr. MacDonald, and a few others.
“We don’t have anything for you,” William pretended, and they beat those pots even more. “How about our leftovers?” he offered, and I tried to hush him because that was all we had to eat.
“Don’t worry. Just put a couple things in a basket and they’ll go away. This is all for show.” William knew more about this chivaree business than I did. I followed his lead and gave them a couple sandwiches and one of the jars of pickles. And indeed, they ended their “serenade” and rode off.
Thanksgiving came three days later and our whole family—including Pa—celebrated at our country church, just like the president asked us to do.
I always smile to myself when I remember how Annie made Pa going to church a national issue! Annie was becoming our official messenger—she gathered information as easily as picking flowers and was always anxious to share her knowledge. So when she got an old newspaper from a family down the way—it was already a month old, but was still news to us—Annie read every word and then came to Pa (without any prompting from Ma, I’d learn later) and declared, “President Hayes wants you to go to church on Thanksgiving.”
Pa looked at her suspiciously and so Annie read directly from the Omaha paper about the president’s proclamation.
“I earnestly recommend that, withdrawing themselves from secular cares and labors, the people of the United States do meet together on that day in their respective places of worship, there to give thanks and praise to Almighty God for His mercies and to devoutly beseech their continuance.”
We all waited for Pa’s response—Ma was chuckling into her apron—and he smiled to announce that he thought that was a very good idea.
Later I’d learn Pa had already planned to attend, because we all gathered for a potluck Thanksgiving dinner after services. But we didn’t know that then and everyone thought it was our Annie who finally brought Pa to God.
William and I arrived in our fine buggy to a flurry of congratulations, and Thanksgiving dinner that year turned into a second celebration for us. When someone pushed William to speak after dinner, everyone could see the charming man I’d chosen when he told them: “Ellen and I thank you for this fine feast and you’re welcome to throw us a dinner like this every year!” Oh, the laughter! And how proud I was.
Mrs. Eden brought a fruit cake in my honor and whispered, “An Irish girl should have a fruit cake for her wedding.” There was a special smile on Ma’s face.
That was the best dinner I’d ever had, and it wasn’t just because I was a new bride.
“Look at the size of that wild turkey. I’ve never seen one so big. Be sure you roast it until it’s golden brown.”
“There’s so much food here I think this holding table is going to break!”
“Those platters look like a garden. We’ve got corn and peas, potatoes and rutabagas and squash. Who brought kohlrabies? I love them!”
“Do you need any more pickles? I brought two jars.”
“I brought a cabbage dish.”
“So did I.”
“So did I.”
“I’m saving myself for rhubarb pie,” Mary whispered to me, and I had to agree. I wanted space left because I hadn’t had any rhubarb pie since the spring.
The church lawn was filled with long tables, and we knew they’d fill up like usual—the men would all cluster at one table, the women at another, the children at a third. But Nancy and Jessica and Annie said that just wouldn’t do on a Thanksgiving celebration decreed by our president.
“In honor of William and Ellen’s wedding, we want all married couples to sit together,” Nancy announced. Everyone looked at each other like this was a truly novel idea.
Jessica chimed in, “Yes, our president would want families together today.” And then Annie jumped in, “Ma and Pa, why don’t you sit right here? And William and Ellen, we’ll put you here.”
Like sheep following the bell, we all sat down together, and what a fun dinner that was. As pie was being served, Annie stood in front of our table and announced, “I believe our president would like our celebration.” That ended the day with happy chuckles.
I didn’t get a wedding ring, but I did get a wedding picture. We went to Red Cloud, a couple weeks after the wedding. William needed supplies and he said we could kill two birds with one stone. So I went along and took my wedding dress.
William sat on a velvet chair and I stood behind him with one hand on his arm. We both had a hint of a smile, because that’s the fashion now. I’m glad, because I don’t like that stern look so many had for so many years. It never looked like those people liked one another, and a portrait should show more than just faces. We had a little smile because we’d had such a nice wedding. And then the Thanksgiving celebration.
The next Thanksgiving all of my prayers were for children. The year after, they were pleas for children. By the fourth Thanksgiving of my married life, all my prayers begged for help to get me away from William.
I never did learn where he went to drink, all those Saturday nights he left our home to go off, never offering a word to explain himself, but coming home reeking so much he didn’t have to. My Pa had never gone off to drink somewhere, leaving Ma and us at home. I’d never heard any other wife complain of such things, and I stayed quiet because I didn’t want the embarrassment of our friends k
nowing I was failing somehow.
I can’t even remember how many times I sat in my rocker, waiting for him to come home, worried he’d fall off his horse or get lost in the dark and die out there and leave me a widow. When I’d hear him finally come home, I’d rush into our bedroom and pretend to be asleep so he wouldn’t know I’d waited up. Until that night in October when I decided it was time to stop this nonsense. It was when I confronted him that he knocked me to the floor.
How I prayed it would be the only time. I woke up the next morning to a sweet husband. He promised it would never happen again, and I wanted to believe him so much, I just put that fist out of my mind and promised to be an even better wife so he’d have no reason to go off to drink.
I wish I could say it was the only time, but it wasn’t. I wish I could say I hit him back the second and third time, but I didn’t. I was too ashamed to say or do anything but cower like a coward when he came home drunk. Now I rushed to bed, pretending sleep to kept me out of harm’s way. And it usually worked. But not all the time.
I couldn’t tell anyone. I was afraid if I told Ma, she’d tell Pa and he’d tell the boys and who knows what they’d do to William. Besides, I didn’t want anyone to know, and I worried that even if I said something, people wouldn’t believe me. They knew William as this sweet, charming man. Who would imagine he was so evil at home?
But mostly, I couldn’t figure out why. I’m not a beauty, but I’m a good lookin’ woman and I keep myself clean and pleasant. You won’t find an untidy house when you come to mine, and God knows I’m a hard worker. William was always ready to sing my praises for how much I helped him on the farm. I knew for sure I pleased William with my cookin’ because he gained about ten pounds the first years we were married and he always smiled at whatever I put on the table. It wasn’t humbug. I’m a good cook, even a better baker, and so I knew it wasn’t his home or his dinner table that wasn’t up to his standards and that left only me not measuring up.
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