by Judith Pella
Georgie was restless and kept trying to say a tongue twister he’d just learned. “Theophilus Thistledown, the successful thistle sifter, in sifting a sieve full of unsifted thistles, thrust three thousand thistles through the thick of his thumb.”
He drove them crazy with it until Maggie tried to stuff a handful of hay into his mouth. Mama, who had amazingly dozed off, woke to the yells and scuffles and made the two sit as far apart as one could get in a small wagon.
About the time it began to rain, Georgie started with riddles. “Two brothers we are, great burdens we bear, by which we are bitterly pressed. I n truth we may say we are full all day but empty when we go to rest.”
“Shoes,” said Maggie, barely giving him a chance to finish. Her tone was smug.
He tried another and another, and she quickly guessed them all, taking the fun out of it for him, and he finally fell silent. It wasn’t long afterward that they pulled into Grandma and Grandpa’s place.
They lived out of town a couple of miles on Cater Road. Grandpa had been a logger, only farming enough to feed his family, unlike Dad, who farmed a sizable potato crop for income and also had started working part-time at the sawmill last year when the crops were bad. Hearing the wagon rattle over the driveway of their house that was nestled in a nice grove of fir and cedars, Grandma and Grandpa came out on the porch and waved.
As the family bounded out of the wagon, the chatter began.
“Thought you might be coming today,” Grandpa said. He was in his seventies, an older version of Dad. His hair was thin and white, whereas Dad’s was still brown and thinning only in a few places. They were the same size, or would have been if Grandpa didn’t have a stoop in his back that caused his head to jut forward, making him a few inches shorter than Dad. But their eyes were the same, as was the timbre of their voices. They had the same quiet, easygoing personalities and the same smile.
It was very easy to love Grandpa.
Then there was Grandma Newcomb. I n a way she was a lot like Mama, though Ellie knew Mama would never believe that.
Perhaps Mama more resembled Grandma’s shadow, a softer, gentler version of the older lady. Both women spoke their minds and appeared to wield the power in the family, but Grandma’s words seemed much sharper than Mama’s. I t was like the saying about a person’s bark being worse than their bite. That was often true in Mama’s case, but Ellie knew from experience that it was not so for Grandma. No one, not even Maggie, could manipulate Grandma. Her bark had bite, and one better not forget that.
Grandma and Mama didn’t look at all alike, either. Mama was shorter than Ellie but a bit on the plump side. “You try having four babies and still keep your girlish figure!” she’d say if anyone even hinted that she should drop a few pounds. Her hair was brown and her eyes green like Maggie’s. She was pretty even for a thirty-nine-year-old matron.
Grandma Newcomb was tall, at least as tall as Dad, and what Ellie would call big-boned, though not fat. Her hair and eyes were gray, iron gray. She always wore her hair in a chignon, not the fashionable kind that Ellie liked to wear sometimes in the middle of her head. Grandma’s was low on her neck and looked as though she was wearing a big spoon. Her everyday dresses matched exactly except in color. One was dark brown, one dark blue, and one dark gray. When she wore the gray one, she looked a little like one of the bullets in Dad’s carbine. All her dresses had shirtwaists and long sleeves, with the only adornment being an ecru lace collar at the high neck. For special occasions she had another dress that was dark green. Now, as she waved from the porch, she was wearing the brown dress.
“Girls, let’s get these quilts and bring them in so they can dry,” Mama said.
“Oh, those old things,” Grandma said as the first quilt was pulled from the wagon bed. “Do they have to come into the house?”
The quilts were by no means Mama’s best, but Grandma made it sound as if they’d been used in the barn for birthing a calf.
“I’ll lay ’em out in the barn,” Dad said in a conciliatory tone.
Amazingly, Mama didn’t argue.
“I’ll take care of them,” offered Boyd, a little too eagerly, Ellie thought. He hopped up into the wagon and grabbed the reins.
“You hang them over a clean post,” Mama instructed through gritted teeth. “Carefully.”
“I’ll help!” Georgie said, spinning around toward the barn.
Mama laid a hand on his shoulder. “No, you won’t.” Poor Mama had the look of a sea captain on a sinking ship that everyone was quickly abandoning.
One thing good that could be said about Grandma was that she was an excellent cook. Even Mama had to admit that. And since they had been making a habit lately of coming on the last two weekends of the month, she surely had been expecting them. The meal she spread out before them that evening was fit for Christmas. Roast venison, potatoes, and her canned green beans, which she had a way of seasoning so that even Georgie ate them. She brought out her pickled beets and Ellie’s favorite, pickled carrots. For dessert she served apple and currant pie.
Too bad the conversation at the table wasn’t as nice as the meal. Mama was quiet, but not quiet in a polite, demure way. I t was more like if she said one word, she’d erupt like Mount St. Helens—which was across the river in Washington State—had done twenty-five years ago. Grandma went on about how appalling it was that the Brethren of Christ had left them high and dry without a minister for so long.
“The Methodists would never have left us without a pastor for eight months,” she said.I n fact, her church had it pretty good, because their pastor managed to have a service in Scap-poose twice a month.
“It’s a small denomination, Ma,” Dad said.
“You should join our church,” Grandma insisted. “You attend here once a month anyways, and now twice.I see no reason why you couldn’t drive down here every weekend and spend it with us. We see so little of you.”
Ellie heard a sound from Mama’s end of the table, more a grunt than words.
The women all helped clean up after dinner, receiving constant instructions from Grandma. “No, don’t put it there. Over here, Margaret. Ada, this pot isn’t quite clean. Give it another scrub. Give the cloth a good shake outside, Eleanor.”
It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been helping in her kitchen for years, but somehow they never seemed to get it right enough to please Grandma. Ellie had the feeling that she, Maggie, and Mama were all children being scolded. Mama was tight-lipped through it all. Ellie could remember a time when Mama would talk back to Grandma, but that had always brought so much contention that in the last couple of years Mama seemed bent on following the path of silence when humanly possible.
The men were sitting by the hearth talking about lumber, the crops, the weather. The women, after the dishes had been done, sat around the table. Ellie and Mama took out their sewing. Maggie glanced longingly at the men, and for once even Ellie wished she could talk lumber with them. Grandma was doing her mending.
“What’s that you’re working on, Eleanor?” Grandma asked. She always used their formal names.
“We’re making a welcome quilt for our new pastor.” Ellie held up her block, on which she was just finishing the house. She still had the birds and tree to do.
“That is quite fancy, dear. The man’s wife will be thrilled to receive it.”
“He’s not married,” Ellie said, groaning inwardly as she felt the heat of pink rise in her cheeks. She prayed Maggie did not pipe up with her take on the matter.
Luckily, Grandma could not see Ellie’s face in the poorly lit room. “An unmarried minister! I suppose you could not expect more from the Brethren of Christ.”
“I think we are fortunate to get a man who will be able to start new here and make this truly his home,” Mama said.
“All the young girls in the county will try to set their hooks into him,” Grandma said. “It could become quite scandalous.”
Maggie giggled.
“Goodness!” Grandma exclaimed.
“Don’t tell me you girls are already setting your sights on him! You mustn’t behave shamelessly.” She looked at Mama. “Ada,I hope you take a firm hand with these girls in this matter.”
“Really, Mother Newcomb, I would never dream of encouraging such behavior in my daughters,” Mama said, then snapped her mouth shut as if fearing to say more.
Sunday morning dawned with the first real promise of spring in weeks. I t wasn’t raining, and there were patches of blue amongst the gray clouds. Mama said it would rain later, so they shouldn’t linger after church but head right home. Grandma insisted they stay long enough for a midday meal. Dad said they’d probably have time to eat. As always, he walked the precarious line between trying to please both of the most demanding women in his life.
The Methodists of Scappoose also met in their schoolhouse. The nearest actual church was in St. Helens. Built in 1853 on a bluff overlooking the river, it had been the third church structure built in Oregon Territory. Today, the rest of Columbia County still lagged in this regard. Maybe under Maintown’s new pastor they would build their own church and no longer have to share with the school.
Ellie couldn’t see how Grandma Newcomb could be so puffed up about her church. Mama wasn’t the only one who said the folks of Scappoose preferred to work or frequent its saloon rather than support its church. Why, last summer the tent meeting held in Dutch Canyon just outside of town had been very poorly attended.
As Ellie took a seat on one of the benches, she saw that the Stoddards had also chosen this Sunday to visit the Scappoose Methodist Church. After the service while the congregation stood about in the school yard visiting, Ellie sought out Sarah Stoddard. She noted that Sarah’s brother, Colby, was visiting with a group of men. He winked at her as she passed, and she tried to ignore him.
Sarah was standing by herself looking around as if she didn’t know where to go. She was so shy that she had trouble, even at the Maintown church among friends, going up to people and visiting. Ellie had no such problem.
“Hi, Sarah,” she said. “It’s nice to see a familiar face.”
“But you come here all the time, don’t you?”
“Yes, but it never feels like home.”
“Mother’s sister lives here and attends this church,” Sarah said, “but we don’t visit her much.”
“What did you think of the service?”
“They don’t sing as many hymns as we do. That’s my favorite part.”
Ellie knew that Sarah was quite an accomplished pianist. Ellie had taken some piano lessons at Mrs. Dubois’ school but hadn’t progressed very far. She realized that was a drawback for her because pastors’ wives often assisted their husbands by leading the music in the church. However, there was no piano in the Maintown church, so that wouldn’t be a problem.
“I agree,” Ellie replied.
Silence followed. Sarah seldom initiated conversation, so the responsibility was left to the other person, and Ellie found it wearisome, much as she liked Sarah and wanted to be her friend.
There was one subject Ellie wanted to raise, but she didn’t want to appear anxious or make it seem overly important. Nevertheless, she was dying to know what pattern Sarah was doing for the welcome quilt. Along with her many other accomplishments, Sarah was an excellent stitcher and probably one of the three best of the young girls in the community, Ellie and Mabel Parker being the other two.
Finally Ellie said as casually as she could, “So, Sarah, are you making a block for that welcome quilt? The one for the new pastor?”
“Mother didn’t give me a choice.” Sarah’s voice held a distinct edge.
Had she actually tried to object, to stand up to her formidable mother? Ellie couldn’t imagine such a thing. “You didn’t want to make one?”
“Well,I . . .” She looked down at her clasped hands, her fingers twisting. “Of course, I welcome the new minister. I just . . . well . . . I hope that our mothers don’t . . . you know . . . become pushy.”
“I know what everyone’s saying,” Ellie said, “that we’re trying to snare the minister.”
“Aren’t we? That is, they, the Sewing Circle?”
“Maybe he’ll be looking for a wife.” Ellie remembered what Grandma Newcomb had said. “Most ministers are married, and it probably is the best situation for a church.”
Sarah had a bit of a desperate look on her face. She was a pretty girl with dark brown hair that fell in perfect waves to the middle of her back. She had large brown eyes and creamy skin without a single freckle, a fact much envied by Maggie who, especially in summer, was plagued by more than her share. But Sarah was Ellie’s age and, as far as Ellie knew, had never had a beau, nor did the local boys go after her.I t seemed they didn’t even know she existed, and she did nothing to change that. She was probably the only true shrinking violet that Ellie knew of except maybe for Nessa Wallard.If life were perfect, Mrs. Wal-lard would have been Sarah’s mother, for she’d have been able to understand a shy daughter.I nstead, Sarah’s mother was the bossiest lady in town, always pushing poor Sarah, not subtly either, but it was so obvious to all. Mrs. Stoddard pushed and Sarah usually responded by becoming even more shy.
“Mother wants me to do a Rose of Sharon design because of the spiritual meaning,” Sarah said, no doubt initiating conversation just because of the sudden awkwardness.
“You haven’t started your block yet?”
“Well,I started one like Mother wanted . . . but, maybe I won’t use something so showy. I’m’m also working on a Sawtooth Star.I ’ll decide later.” They both knew who would make the final decision.
Ellie was almost embarrassed to tell Sarah her design. “I’m doing a scene of our house and front yard.”
“I bet it’s beautiful.”
“Maybe too showy, though.”
“Oh, Ellie,I didn’t mean . . . that is, you shouldn’t . . .” She fumbled around a moment, then finished as if she were making a huge confession. “I don’t want to win the pastor!”
“It’s not as if our blocks will win him, Sarah.” But Ellie was no more convinced than Sarah, else she wouldn’t have decided to make the intricate scene.
“It’s not our blocks.It’s our mothers.”
“Your mother can’t make you marry someone you don’t want to marry.”
Sarah just replied with a look that said, “You do know Emma Jean Stoddard, don’t you?”
Before Ellie could say more, a male voice interrupted. “Well, if it isn’t the prettiest girl in the county!”
Ellie responded coyly, “Why, Sarah, doesn’t your brother think highly of you?”
“I’m not talking about my ugly sister, Ellie, and you know it,” Colby said.
“You take that back about your sister, or I won’t speak to you at all,” Ellie retorted.
“Oh, beautiful sister,” Colby intoned with little sincerity, “why don’t you take your beautiful and lovely self thither so I can be alone with this second most beautiful girl in the county?”
Sarah rolled her eyes at her brother but dutifully scooted away. Ellie noted she just went to another corner of the school yard to again stand alone.
Colby continued, “Ellie,I’m’m feeling kind of hurt. You’ve been ignoring me since my last proposal of marriage.”
Ellie gasped and quickly looked around. She had told no one, not even Maggie, about the fact that Colby had proposed to her twice since her return from Portland.
Assured no one was near enough to overhear, she said, “Colby, it wouldn’t be proper for me to keep encouraging you, now, would it?”
“But to cut me off completely?”
“There are plenty of other girls around for you to pay attention to.”
“I have eyes only for you.” Pausing, he focused such an adoring gaze at her that she tingled in spite of herself. Then he went on, “Why would you reject the most handsome, lovable, kindest, most perfect man in the county, maybe in the whole state?”
“I’m looking for a modest man,” she dea
dpanned, then giggled.
Why, indeed, was she rejecting him? Tall, dark-haired, features chiseled like a Grecian statue, he very well might have been the most handsome man in the state. And though his words were rather immodest, she knew he was just joking—well, mostly. He was always making fun and kidding around. He made her laugh, but he made her tingle, too. Was that love? She just didn’t know. What else could she be looking for?
As if he could read her mind, he said, “Don’t tell me you are holding out for that new minister like all the other girls?”
“Oh, Colby, how could you say such a thing?” She felt her cheeks flush.
“I fear my greatest rival is coming to town, and I can’t do a thing about it. I ’ll wager that even if he’s as ugly as a horned toad, the girls will flock to him. But, Ellie,I thought you were deeper than that.”
“Well,I . . . I . . .”
Just then Maggie walked by. Ellie grasped her arm and reeled her in like a fish on a hook.
“Maggie, is Mama anxious to leave?” Ellie asked.
Ignoring the question, or perhaps she just didn’t hear, suddenly caught as she was in Colby’s brilliant orbit, Maggie said, “Hi, Colby.” Her tone was meek, even shy.
“Hi ya, Mags. What you been up to?”
“Oh . . . uh . . . nothing much,” stammered Maggie. Then she seemed to pull herself together and added with a little more aplomb, “Been busy working on the new pastor’s welcome quilt.”
“Not you, too, Mags!” Colby exclaimed with mock dismay. “I thought you, at least, would have the sense God gave you.”
“We all want to welcome him,” she answered innocently.
“I hate the fellow even beforeI’ve met him.”
“Colby! You shouldn’t speak so about a man of God,” Ellie said, truly appalled.
Recovering from her brief bout of shyness, Maggie jabbed, “Ellie doesn’t want anyone insulting her future husband.”
“Maggie!” Ellie squealed.
Colby frowned a little.
Maybe he saw beneath the jibes and jokes and realized it might be more serious than he thought.