Bittersweet Bliss

by Ruth Glover

  Dropping the books on the bed, exposing the envelope, Birdie laid aside the shoes she had been carrying. With deliberation she unhooked the numerous buttons on the black shirtwaist and skirt she was wearing, slipped out of them, dropped the waist in a box at the foot of the bed to be laundered the following day, and hung up the skirt.

  Finally, hesitant, she stood in the center of the room, clad in a white muslin chemise (the plainest the catalog had offered, $0.45 or two for $0.86), thin, alone, uncertain. If she had realized how vulnerable she appeared, she would have snatched up a stiffly starched dress and put it on, hiding behind it, a uniform as surely as though it bore medals for bravery in combat.

  As it was, half-clad and not caring, barefoot and not noticing, Birdie unlocked the dresser drawer and withdrew the letter hidden there. Shoving the clutter of dropped books aside, she reclaimed the second letter. Sitting on the bed, her legs curled under her, she opened both letters and spread them out before her.

  Teacher first and foremost, Birdie couldn’t help but study the paper—torn from a scribbler and not real stationery—and the writing itself, which puzzled her, raising questions, revealing nothing.

  Picking up the first letter, she read again:

  Dear Miss Wharton,

  Please excuse my boldness, but I must let you know how I feel. I have been admiring you from afar ever since you came to Bliss. I find myself thinking of you night and day. Because I believe my chances are poor, it would be wiser on my part...

  to remain

  your secret admirer

  Even as she berated herself for being a stupid fool for not tearing it up immediately, Birdie was gently folding the letter, inserting it in its envelope. Nor could she stop the increased tempo of her heart’s beat as she reached for the new letter and, picking up the single page, began to read:

  Dear Miss Wharton,

  Again I take pencil in hand to let you know I think about you constantly; you fill my thoughts day and night. I cannot hide myself from you forever. It is time that we meet face-to-face. I hope, Miss Wharton, that you will meet me Monday after school in the Fairy Ring on the school grounds. Please don’t disappoint me. I hope I don’t disappoint you.

  Until then I remain

  your secret admirer

  We’ll open the service this morning with a hymn of your choice,” Parker Jones said, stepping behind the simple pulpit that had been put into place at the front of the schoolroom. His congregation began leafing through the hymnals that had been brought out of storage for Sunday’s service, looking for their favorite selections.

  A vigorous bunch they were. Having spent a week at hard labor, they were—men and women alike—high colored from the Canadian sun, scrubbed until their work-worn faces shone. Hair, if they were male, was freshly cut so that the napes of necks gleamed white above the tan below; beards and mustaches were freshly trimmed. Women, particularly the older ones—having no time and small inclination to fool with curling irons—gathered their hair back into the ubiquitous bun. If they should be so fortunate as to own a hat in reasonable enough condition to be worn, it perched atop their head humbly.

  Clothes, old though they might be and well-worn, were in good repair: shirt collars and cuffs being turned until the last ounce of wear should be had from them; dresses taken in and let out as age and weight demanded; the seats of serge pants shining beneath many a mismatched jacket. The knees of the preacher’s trousers had a glisten to them, which the pious among them equated with time spent in prayer. Women’s dresses, if their owners had been in the bush for any length of time, were by and large of the homemade variety; their offspring wore the remnants of clothing brought from “back home,” cut down and remodeled time and again to fit each child in order. Here and there a newcomer sported something a little more fashionable; here and there someone self-consciously modeled a stiff new garment, probably ordered from the catalog. But for the most part, new garments would await harvest and the sale of the year’s crop.

  Whatever the costume, plainness was evident, whether from lack of funds, ignorance of the day’s fashion, or a solemn adherence to the Bible’s admonition in 1 Peter 3:3–4 regarding the wearing of finery: “Let it not be that outward adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel; but let it be the hidden man of the heart....” There was little money for frills in the bush and no patience with folderols. Life consisted of the bare bones where existence was concerned: food, shelter, clothes to keep one decent and warm.

  But then, every once in a while there was an exception to the rule. That exception had often been Yvonne Carew, Vonnie of the gang of four. Growing up an only child and spoiled, Vonnie had treats when other children had none, new clothes when castoffs were the existing mode, gewgaws and fripperies when other girls felt fortunate to have a hair ribbon. Her mother, as simple and plain as a cabbage from her own garden, had fondly given up all self-gratification in favor of her adored child.

  Once again Vonnie was the exception and, as such, the object of much attention. After an absence of several years, Vonnie, now Vonnie Whinnery and a widow, was back in Bliss. The outbreak of greetings, the hugs, the chatter, had delayed the beginning of the service. Finally Brother Parker Jones, with a tolerant smile, had called his congregation to order. Everyone had settled down, but latecomers, catching sight of the vision in lavender—their own Vonnie all grown up and returned to them as pretty as ever—were distracted from worship as they flashed greetings her way, smiling and nodding, locating a seat and turning to the business of worship.

  “Who has a selection?” Pastor Parker Jones asked as this hodgepodge of people settled into desks too small or backless benches brought in for the service. At the organ, prepared to pump with a vigor to match her enthusiasm, Sister Dinwoody waited, stops pulled, hymnbook in hand, ready to find the hymn of choice.

  It was an opportunity little Ernie Battlesea couldn’t ignore.

  “Her Golden Hair Was Hanging Down Her Back!” he piped in a clear and carrying treble. His mother gasped, went as red as a turkey gobbler, and jerked wee Ernie by the arm until the lock of unruly hair standing up on the back of his head bobbed wildly.

  Poor Ernie, more than one child thought sympathetically. This would be the end of his studying the Home Entertainment page of the catalog, with its enticing Graphaphone display and long list of songs available on its tubular records.

  Mothers, on the other hand, were sympathetic with Luella, Ernie’s mother, imagining their own reaction and embarrassment should their child burst forth in public with such a shocking, worldly title.

  For a moment silence gripped the congregation as they absorbed Ernie’s surprising request, uncertain of the proper reaction. Then, beginning with the young people, there was a titter of laughter. Quickly hushed on this the Lord’s day and in His house, it appeared for the moment that Ernie’s monkeyshines would pass without further reaction and they would all settle down to a worshipful hour.

  But the good people of Bliss, pious though they might be when occasion demanded it, were also earthy. Moreover, some of them hadn’t had a good laugh all week, caught up in the serious business of making a living, preparing for the winter ahead.

  Parker Jones, though unmarried and childless, saw the humor in the situation and appreciated the problem that faced his people: to laugh or not to laugh. Smiling, he quoted from the Book of Proverbs into the silence now fractured with a few restrained snickers, “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”

  It was enough to burst the bonds of decorum, and hearty laughter erupted, to Ernie’s dismay but eventual pride and his mother’s further embarrassment. But even she, after a moment, managed a smile, though rather thin-lipped, and one wondered just what Ernie’s fate would be, eventually.

  Finally “Stand Up for Jesus” was suggested, and order was restored. It was a good choice, for singers could not remain seated and “lift high the royal banner,” marching, in heart and spirit, from “victory unto victory.” Am
id the general hubbub of getting to their feet and turning to the correct page, the service resumed its usual ritual: songs and prayers and sermon, all sprinkled with numerous amens. For after all, did not the psalmist himself say, “Enter into his gates with thanksgiving, and into his courts with praise”? There were no high altars in the bush.

  Parker Jones, neat and trim even with his best suit turning shiny and his white shirt showing wear, was a figure of quiet authority. Well-mannered, educated, handsome in a dark, lean way, he might well have filled the pulpit of a grander, larger church. But he was in Bliss at the call of the Lord and was content. Most folks knew long before his proposal that Bliss’s own Molly Morrison was the object of his attention. And certainly she was worth catching. All Bliss watched and waited, but Pastor Jones delayed, hesitating to subject Molly to the sacrifices demanded of a pioneer pastor.

  From the beginning—as soon as axe bit into the virgin growth of the bush—the church had played an important role in the early settlement of the Territories. Many churchmen, like Parker Jones, were men of higher education, well-read and musical, men of training, exceptional leaders. Their zeal for the work of the Lord brought them on the heels of the first homesteaders, themselves pioneers in every sense of the word. Their presence brought a degree of dignity and wisdom to the newly opening West and to people who were starving for a touch of culture, desperate to believe that life would not always be so hard for them, relying on the good Lord as never before. There was no doubt about it, and history would record it: Churches contributed to the spiritual and educational life of the community, bringing hope, comfort, even much-needed social contacts.

  Parker Jones was highly thought of in the hamlet and surrounding community of Bliss. Brother Jones, as he was customarily called, cared faithfully for the “flock” entrusted to him and saw with humility the assembled congregation on this day, a fine representation. The Lord’s day was honored in the bush, and even though work beckoned and winter crouched on the horizon, threatening and blustering, the good people of Bliss gathered together faithfully to honor their God.

  Some, of course, had less than exalted reasons: young men more interested in girls than religion; bachelors desperate to find a wife and having no better opportunity to look over the possibilities; children who would rather romp and play but who meekly followed parents setting a good example.

  Looking out over the expectant congregation—crowded into desks often too small and too cramped, feet shuffling on the oiled floor, callused hands opening Bibles carted thousands of miles when most costly items had been left behind—Brother Jones announced his text. If he, poor human clay that he was, should say not one word worth hearing, the Word would minister richly, for he had chosen today’s text wisely: “He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength.... But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint” (Isa. 40:29, 31).

  Refreshing the spirit, resting the body, encouraging the heart, Sunday did for the people of Bliss what it was intended to do. And when, after the benediction, horny hand gripped horny hand—stiffened as though to grasp a plow handle or a cow’s teat or a pitchfork—they were bonded in very real ways. Not only as neighbor to neighbor, pledged to help one another make it through an adventure that challenged the best of them, eliminated the weakest, and tested them all, but spiritually, as brother to brother and sister to sister.

  Free of the worries and concerns that plagued their parents and eager to see each other after a separation of less than two days, children pushed impatiently past the lingering adults, escaping to the outside and a few moments of play before heading home.

  First, of course, following the benediction, even if one was a child, one must pause politely at the doorway to shake hands with Brother Parker Jones. Then, free, leap from the step and join the other children gathered around the swings and seesaws. Here there was some happy squabbling and shoving, with impatient cries of “It’s my turn!”

  Harold Buckley, “Buck,” teetering between the last days of childhood and the beckoning of young manhood, pulled a handmade ball from his pocket, and soon several boys were divided on each side of the schoolhouse in a game of Annie-Annie-over. After a few raucous shouts and a few tosses over the school’s roof, a scandalized mother or two bustled over to scold and shut down the unrestrained hilarity and exertion on the Lord’s day. After all, Sunday was intended as a day of rest, not of fun and games!

  It was like old times. With the benediction, Ellie and Marfa and Vonnie made a beeline for one another. Laughing and crying, arms around each other, they all spoke at once, to the amusement and sympathy of bystanders.

  “It’s so good to see you—”

  “I didn’t know you were back—”

  “How long will you—”

  “I’m so sorry about Vernon—”

  “When can we get together?”

  It was finally agreed that they meet sometime that week. With none of them having children to care for, plans were simple—Tuesday, ironing day, was decided upon, but not without a laugh, each of them recognizing the others’ dislike of that particular chore and willingness to put it off.

  “We haven’t changed much, have we?” Marfa smiled.

  “More than we care to admit, probably,” Vonnie answered, wiping a tear from her eye.

  “Not enough, probably,” was Ellie’s response, and they all laughed again.

  It was decided to meet at Marfa’s, the birth of her baby being close and her friends deeming it risky for her to be driving a buggy.

  And then it was time for Vonnie to greet Tom, his arms going around all three girls with more laughter, more tears, more chatter.

  “You’d think I’ve been gone forever,” Vonnie said finally,“rather than four years. Letters are good, but oh, my—”

  “We’ve so much to talk about,” Ellie reminded, turning and following Tom to his rig, “but it’ll wait.”

  Vonnie’s eyes, as blue as ever under her saucy lavender hat, watched as Tom handed Ellie up into the buggy.

  “I thought,” Marfa said casually, “that you had already seen Tom since you got back.”

  Birdie Wharton had blushed that Sunday morning to find herself dressing with extra care.

  But what, after all, was there to change, to improve? Her Sunday shoes were newer replicas of her everyday shoes; her skirt, kept for Sunday and special occasions, was not much different than the two she wore, turn and turn about, to school. Cut from the same pattern, made to the same dimensions and fitting the same, it varied only in its color, being gray where the others were black and navy. Her shirtwaist, instead of being black percale, durable and neat, was white pique, its severity relieved by the addition of an Alastor choker collar and with a small but definite puff to its sleeves. In it Birdie felt quite another person, more poised, more important, more dignified.

  Birdie’s small salary, by the time she paid a modest amount for her board, left little money for necessities, let alone luxuries. Occasionally she invested in a book or magazine, which she doted on and counted her only extravagance. Necessary equipment and supplies were selected thriftily from the Bliss store’s limited selection or ordered from the catalog as need demanded: tooth powder, hairpins, yarn and thread, pen nibs and ink, shoe polish, hosiery—for summer “Black Cotton with patent finished seams, 24 gauge. Fast color and stainless, price per pair $0.05.”

  Winter hosiery was more costly, but it must be paid—warmth was essential: “All Wool Full Seamless Hose, extra length, double heels and toes, elastic ribbed top, black only, $0.19 per pair.” Birdie did a lot of darning and mending on her wardrobe, hosiery in particular. Sometimes the darned stockings rubbed her heels raw, calling for further expense: Petroleum Jelly.

  Petroleum Jelly was her only concession to health and beauty. “This is another name for Pure Vaseline or Cosmoline and other titles given to it,” the ca
talog explained. “It is one of the most valuable and also the most harmless and simple articles to have at hand in cases of bruises, chaps, roughness of the skin, etc., price, each, $0.06.”

  Five cents here, five cents there, and one needed to save something for a rainy day. Remembering a time when she had been thrust out on her own with little or no money, desperate and alone, Birdie determined it would never happen to her again. And so she pinched and saved, accumulating a nest egg in case—God forbid—another such grim situation arose in her life.

  And so what was there to improve about herself or her wardrobe on this particular Sunday? Why did she suddenly regret the absence of certain fripperies—a modest Chatelaine watch, perhaps, to pin on the bosom of her shirtwaist. Or a simple pair of cuff buttons, chosen from among the more than 80 pairs pictured in the catalog, beginning with “Ladies’ or boys’ onyx settings, ornamented edges, per pair, $0.25,” to “Solid gold, very fancy, raised ornamentation, set with two diamonds. Per pair, $5.50,” and a great variety in between. Or how about a fan—the weather was warming, and a fan, to snap open and cool one’s self casually, certainly would be acceptable; she’d forgo the “New Empire Fan, that all of the most stylish ladies are using at present,” and settle for a “Japanese Folding Fan, made of good quality paper, beautifully decorated, handsomely corded. $0.03.” Three cents! Why, oh why hadn’t she had the foresight to invest that much in her own comfort, not to mention self-perception?

  Watchless, cuff buttonless, fanless. Giving herself a shake, Birdie studied herself in the beveled mirror, frowning at her foolishness in giving a minute’s consideration to blatant tommyrot. Frowning because, in spite of doing her best, it was the same Birdie looking back at her, the Birdie who had not been enough... before.

  The memories threatened...

  Hastily Birdie picked up her hair, twisting and pulling, forming it into a bun at the back of her neck. Then, on an impulse, she pulled a few strands loose, as Lydia had done, allowing them to curl wispily around her face, remembering other days and other mirrors when her eyes had held a gleam and her hair had frisked free, tempting a man to run a hand through it—