Lady Professor

by Switzer, Robert L. ;

  The Hansen farm had no electricity, no telephone, no central heat, no indoor plumbing, no toilet, or bathtub—all comforts she had come to enjoy in Stanton Mills. Life was so much harder and more uncomfortable for her mother than it was for Mrs. Oosterfeld. Did Mama realize this and resent it, or did her evident unhappiness have deeper, less material roots?

  “I’ll be graduating in June,” Emma said. “I hope you and Papa and Bjorn and Henrik can come to the ceremony. It’s not official yet, but I expect to be named valedictorian and will have to make a speech.”

  “Valedictorian, what’s that?”

  “It’s the person who makes a farewell speech at graduation—vale dictum, to say goodbye—and it’s usually the pupil with the highest marks in the class,” Emma replied, then felt a twinge of shame at the pridefulness of her statement and parading of her knowledge of Latin.

  “Then you’ll be coming home this summer, home to stay?” Mama washed the dinner plates with such speed that Emma could barely keep up with rinsing and drying them.

  “Yes, but I will probably have to go to the normal college in DeKalb for six weeks this summer. If I pass the state examination, I will still have to take the teaching course to get my teacher’s certificate.”

  “Six weeks? How are we going to pay for that?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe I can borrow it from the bank and pay them back from my salary this fall.”

  “So you’re going to be a schoolteacher? Live at home then and go to the school? I hope so. I could use the help, what with Kirstin gone and Susan refusing to help in the barn with the milking and all.”

  “I don’t know, Mama. It depends on where I can get a job. If the school is too far from here, I’ll have to board somewhere close. You know how it gets in winter.” Then Emma took a deep breath. Might as well get it over with, tell her the rest of it. “I’m only going to teach for a year or two, Mama. Save enough money to go to college. I want to study biology.”

  “College? Where to?”

  “I don’t know yet, Mama. But it won’t be close to here. I may not be living at home much longer.”

  “Oh, so you’re going to run off too, are you?” Mama said bitterly. She threw her dishrag into the sink, wiped her hands on her apron, and sat down at the kitchen table, her body crumpled in misery. “I just don’t know. What does it all come to, Emma? You work all day, every day, summer and winter. Five children and they all go off. Little Aaron dead. Kirsten and Kurt clear over in Greene County. Henrik says he wants to join the Army. Bjorn, well, he might as well not be here. I know he and Susan ain’t happy. Now, you wantin’ go off to college.”

  “But, Mama, you still have Papa.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, he doesn’t care about me. All he cares about is the farm. This house is so cold in the winter, but do you think he will put on some storm windows? Maybe put in a furnace like they do in town? He can put an addition the barn, buy a dozen cows, but something for the house . . . ?”

  “Oh, Mama.”

  “It’s true, girl. You work and work all your life and what do you get? You get old and alone. That’s what it all comes down to.”

  She folded back in on herself, tucked her arms in to her sides, as though to make herself so small that she might disappear. Her eyes were vacant with despair, but dry.

  Emma felt a wave of pity, started to reach her hand out to caress her mother’s shoulder, but stopped. She sensed that the gesture would make them both uncomfortable. Words wouldn’t form, turned to glue in her throat. Her sympathy and sadness were interwoven with a fierce, but guilty determination: not this path. No, whatever hardships and uncertainties she might face, she would not follow her mother’s path, no, not ever.

  “MISS HANSEN, WOULD you step into my office, please?” Mr. Ramsey, the principal of Stanton Mills High School, stood unsmiling as usual, in the doorway of his office.

  A tall, stiff man with thinning gray hair, a narrow face and wire-rimmed glasses, Ramsey, who was known behind his back as “Ramrod Ramsey,” had been the principal of a parochial all-boys high school before coming to Stanton Mills, and he brought with him the humorless strictness for which he was notorious.

  A summons to his office was dreaded by the pupils, but nothing could dampen Emma’s high spirits today. She was not in trouble; he presumably simply intended to return to her the draft of her valedictory address, which he had demanded to approve in advance of its delivery on the coming Friday evening.

  Two weeks earlier Emma had been notified of her selection as valedictorian of the Class of 1916. It was hardly a surprise, but Emma took pleasure in receiving a secretly long-desired recognition. Nor was this the only good news. Emma had received a letter from the state education department informing her that she had passed the primary teacher’s qualifying examination with high scores and that “upon completion of the required teacher’s training at a state normal school, a certificate qualifying you to teach Grades 1 through 8 in this state will be issued.” Her plans for the coming year were falling into place.

  An even more exciting prospect had arrived unexpectedly. Hancock College, a small Lutheran college in western Illinois, had offered her admission and waiver of the first year’s tuition and fees on the strength of her “outstanding promise as evidenced by your graduation as valedictorian of your high school class.” Emma had written the college asking to defer acceptance for one year. She was determined to save enough from her teacher’s salary to pay for the cost of lodging, books, and transportation for her first year of college. How she would manage the remaining three years of college, she did not know. Perhaps she would have to alternate years of teaching with college years, but she was going to college. And biology would be her chosen major.

  Ramsey led Emma into his office, waved her toward a seat, and settled behind his desk. He frowned and pushed a sheaf of handwritten pages toward her. It was Emma’s speech, and the final page had been crossed out in red ink.

  “Miss Hansen, I cannot permit you to include this paragraph. It is highly inappropriate for a girl of sixteen to lecture her elders on world affairs.”

  So that was it. Most of Emma’s address covered well-trodden paths for valedictory addresses. She congratulated her classmates on reaching this important milestone, she fulsomely thanked their teachers and parents for supporting their education, and she listed several “challenges we face,” which was the title of her address. These, too, were predictable: to find productive work that contributed to society at large, to continue to learn and expand understanding of a rapidly changing world, to honor and protect their families, to care for the less fortunate, to maintain the highest standards of personal integrity. But, it was her last “challenge” that had offended the principal. It read:

  We must maintain cool heads and rational minds in the face of growing pressures for our nation to enter the terrible war that has engulfed Europe. So often we hear cries that enflame our hearts and urge us onto the fields of battle. But have we not seen the awful and futile slaughter in the trenches of France? Must we spill the blood of the flower of our youth in this senseless conflict? Must America involve her lives and fortune in the conflicting imperial ambitions and hereditary quarrels of the crowned heads of Europe? Are we not wiser to heed the advice of President Washington—and of President Wilson—and remain neutral? War is a terrible, terrible thing; only the gravest of dangers can justify taking a nation to war. Let us resist the calls of adventurers and those seeking to profit from war. Let us remain a proud independent nation, slow to anger, loving peace and security.

  “This paragraph must be excised, Miss Hansen. It is pacifist propaganda.”

  “But it is my strongly held view, Mr. Ramsey. The boys in our class will be called upon to die if we enter the war. Surely it is a challenge to them and worthy of discussion.”

  “Not by an arrogant snip of a girl, it isn’t. Politics is not appropriate for this address. Girls do not presume to instruct their betters on such matters. Next I s
uppose you will be telling me that you are one those suffragettes and will lecture me on that.”

  “I do believe that women should have the right to vote, yes.”

  “Nonsense. Women are not equipped to deal with such weighty matters. They will simply vote as their fathers or husbands instruct them. A waste of time.”

  “With respect, sir, there is a contradiction in your argument. You say that women are incapable of thinking about world affairs, but you also seek to prevent me from doing just that.”

  “That’s enough insolence. I am directing to you remove this paragraph.”

  “And if I do not?”

  “Then I shall withdraw your designation as valedictorian and appoint the salutatorian, Mr. Midlothian, in your place. Either way, this”—he smirked and tapped the offending page—“will not be read.”

  “But that’s unfair. Victor’s marks were not as high as mine.”

  “Miss Hansen, I will brook no further discussion of this matter. Either comply or be replaced.” Ramsey set his mouth and stared coldly at Emma, who stared back. Her cheeks grew hot; her fists were knots. A long silence followed.

  “Your decision, Miss Hansen?”

  “Very well. I will remove the paragraph.” Emma was angry, humiliated, but the loss of her well-earned recognition was too high a price.

  I’ll fix you, Mr. Ramrod Ramsey, she thought. After graduation I will send that paragraph as a letter to the editor of the Stanton Mills Gazette. And so she did. She considered including a note saying that she had been forced to excise it from her valedictory address, but decided not to do that.

  Even though her sentiments were widely shared in the area, Emma’s letter was never published.

  CHAPTER 4

  1919 - 1920

  “WHAT SHALL WE call it, Emma, your novum species?” Professor Lucinda Weatherbee peered over her wire-rimmed glasses with characteristic directness, her motherliness masked with severity, her voice deep and throaty with authority. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a bun, and she wore her usual shapeless lavender dress.

  “I have thought about that a little, Dr. Weatherbee,” Emma replied. “How about Copris ereptor. dung beetle thief? Copris latrocinius would fit too, but I prefer the shorter one.”

  “So it shall be. Copris ereptor. I must say, I am pleased, Emma. You are developing the intellectual habits of a fine naturalist. Your field observations were most interesting, of course, but I was skeptical that you had identified a new species. Your arguments on the basis of anatomical differences between the new beetle and the known scarab beetle species now have me convinced. I want you to submit your findings to an entomological journal for publication. Let’s see if an expert agrees with you.”

  Emma flushed with pleasure. Her admiration for Dr. Weatherbee, one of only two professors of biology at Hancock College and the only female professor on the faculty, was intense, bordering on hero worship. Dr. Weatherbee was one of the first women in America to earn a Ph.D., a Ph.D. in biology from Cornell University in 1901. She was a popular, if somewhat eccentric and formidable, figure on campus. Emma glowed under the respect and encouragement that her teacher now paid to her fledgling biological studies.

  “Oh, Dr. Weatherbee, I have no idea how to write a scientific paper.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll help you. It is most unusual for a sophomore in college—and a woman at that—to publish a scientific paper. I suggest that we simply list the author as ‘E. Hansen, from the Biology Department of Hancock College.’ That way they won’t trip over their prejudices.” Dr. Weatherbee rarely smiled, but a look of mischief flashed across her face. Then she stood up from her desk. “Oh, I have a lecture in five minutes. Come back tomorrow at four and I’ll help you get started.”

  As she passed Emma on her way out of the office, her hand lingered on Emma’s shoulder, an unusual gesture of warmth.

  EMMA’S OBSERVATIONS OF the new thieving dung beetles had been made during the previous summer, 1919, after her freshman year at Hancock, while she was living at home on the Hansen farm. Even as a child she had been fascinated with these diligent little insects. She occasionally spotted them on the dusty paths worn in a narrow lane by the farm’s cows as they traipsed along, single file, year after year, to and from a pasture at the rear of the farm.

  While driving the cows to the barn for milking, Emma occasionally saw a shiny black beetle, about the size of a thimble, laboriously rolling a perfectly spherical ball of dung, freshly harvested from a wet cow flop, a ball nearly as big as the beetle itself, through the powdery dirt. Now, as a student of biology in college, Emma set about seeking answers to her questions. What was the value of the dung balls to the beetles? Did they serve as a food reserve? Did the beetles lay eggs in them? If so, when? Where did they go with their little round prizes? Was it males or females that did the work—she might be able to decide which was which if she could capture a mating pair.

  During her observations Emma had noticed a surprising event: a slightly larger black beetle flew up to a dung beetle busy rolling a brownish ball, landed, and attacked the smaller beetle. After a brief struggle the small beetle retreated and surrendered its prize to the aggressor, which clasped it in its legs and flew a short distance to a spot where it shoved the dung ball into a hole in a little dirt bank and crawled in after it.

  After Emma observed similar acts two more times, she shifted her attention to the phenomenon of dung ball robbery. She captured and preserved specimens of both beetles; she collected dung balls, intending to examine their contents for eggs with a dissecting microscope when she returned to college. She even carefully excavated two of the burrows of the larger beetle and saved the dung balls she found stored within.

  Emma’s family greeted her fascination with dung beetles with teasing and annoyance.

  “I see you spent another whole afternoon out studyin’ them shit-ball roller bugs again, Emma,” Bjorn groused at supper. “Dunno what’s so darn interesting about ’em.”

  By then Emma’s irritation with her family’s jibes had mellowed to quiet tolerance. “Bjorn, I’ve told you before, they’re called scarab beetles. They use the dung balls for food storage, and I think they lay their eggs in them.”

  “Ugh. Disgusting. I’d think you could find something better to study. Is that the kind of thing they teach at that college?” Mama grumbled.

  “No, but they teach us to observe nature closely. Ask questions. How to find the answers. I’ve noticed something really interesting. Some other beetle flies in and steals the dung balls. It’s an example of natural opportunism, a kind of parasitism. Like when a cowbird lays its eggs in another bird’s nest. We used to find that sometimes, didn’t we, Henrik?”

  Henrik mumbled, “uh-huh,” without interest. He avoided Emma’s eyes and his hands trembled.

  Henrik, oh, her dear brother Henrik! Emma’s heart ached for him. He’d gone to war in June of 1917 and was wounded in France at Chateau-Thierry in 1918, but he had not returned home until after the Armistice, more or less physically healed, but broken in spirit by what was called “shell shock.” His boyish playfulness was gone, displaced by moody silences. He suffered from terrible nightmares from which he could only be comforted by Mama or Emma. Worse, he had taken to driving the Ford truck into Stanton Mills and returning stumbling drunk. He worked steadily, joylessly, with his father and brother on the farm and rarely spoke of his experiences of war.

  Occasionally he sat without speaking beside Emma on the porch steps in the evening. She was careful not to embrace him on such occasions, because this display of tenderness had caused him to weep without consolation. Emma wondered what had caused such devastation. He had been wounded in his right leg and shoulder by shrapnel; there had been no head injuries. Yet his mind was damaged as surely as if shards of metal had sliced into his brain. How could one understand what had happened to Henrik and how could he be healed?

  “Well, I just don’t see the use of it,” Papa grumbled. “Them roller bugs don�
��t amount to anything. Why waste time with ’em? If you have to look at bugs, how about something practical like the borers that get in my corn? Or them flies that bite the cows and make grubs under their hides? Something like that?”

  “I’m just trying to learn how to be a good biologist, Papa. Maybe someday I can use my skills for practical problems. Besides, don’t you think there is value in studying nature just out of curiosity?”

  The question hung in the air. Mama had complained frequently that Emma’s time would be better spent helping in the house and garden. Emma had learned to avoid arguing, to work diligently with her mother and sister-in-law Susan, but insisted on a few hours a week with her beetles on the cow path. They had arrived at an unspoken truce—not peace, but a cease-fire.

  THE SUMMER OF 1919 was Emma’s fourth summer living and working at home since graduating from high school. The first summer has been interrupted by her six weeks of teacher training at the normal school in DeKalb. For the next two years she had taught grades one through eight at a one-room country school sixteen miles west of Stanton Mills. Because that school was located too far from the Hansen farm, she was forced to board with a nearby farm family, which reduced her earnings. It had taken two years for her to accumulate sufficient money to begin her college studies at Hancock.

  The tuition waiver had been granted by the college for her first year only. She supplemented her meager funds for her sophomore year by taking a job in the dormitory kitchen to earn her meals and with a small loan from the Stanton Mills State Bank, but Emma feared that she would have to interrupt her studies again and return to teaching to earn her junior and senior years. There was no question of asking her family for financial help. The Hansens were struggling to pay off a loan—taken out over Mama’s bitter objections—that had permitted them to purchase cows and enlarge their barn four years earlier.