by Janette Oke
Her thoughts always led her to prayer. Whatever the situation, she knew there was a need. She pictured the tears in Molly Reilly’s eyes and heard again the words, “It would be an answer to his mother’s prayers,” and Emily added her voice to those prayers on Shad’s behalf.
Emily met Mr. Travis for the first time when she went to get her team from the farm one day.
Claude was usually there to bring her horses. Though he was scarcely taller than Emily herself, he insisted on harnessing them. Emily allowed him to do so, assuming that he was likely being schooled by his mother to act the part of a gentleman. She had all she could do to keep from trying to help him as the lad struggled to lift the heavy harness over the backs of Star and Shadow.
On that particular day, instead of Claude, a man walked out to meet her.
“Mawnin’,” he greeted, and touched his cap.
“Good morning,” Emily responded, quickly making some deductions and extending her hand. “You’re Mr. Travis?”
The man chuckled as he shook Emily’s hand. “Been a long time since I been called mister.”
Emily didn’t quite understand his little joke, but she told him her name.
He nodded and said, “Ya wantin’ yer team?” Emily assured him that she was.
“You go on in to see the missus an’ I’ll fetch ’em for ya,” he said good-naturedly and Emily agreed.
He certainly was gaunt, she noted as she moved toward the house. His whiskered face seemed to sag in where his cheeks should be, and his clothing hung on his slight frame. He walked with a slow, lumbering step, and Emily wondered if he would have the strength to make it to the barn, let alone the pasture where the horses fed.
Oh, dear, she scolded herself, should I be letting him exert himself this way? Uncertain about what to do, she went on to the house.
Mrs. Travis welcomed her and put the teakettle on to boil.
“Hope you’re not in too big a rush,” she said slowly. “Claude is off to the neighbors and Wilbur might take a while getting your team.”
“Should—should I have allowed him—?” began Emily and then changed it to, “Is he well enough to deal with the horses?”
Mrs. Travis cast a glance at Emily. “He’s fine,” she said crisply. “Best he’s been in some time.”
Oh, my, thought Emily. The poor man! If that is his best, he must have really been ill.
The team eventually arrived at the door, and Emily bid Mrs. Travis goodbye and left. She felt even more concerned for the family. Over the months she had noted bruises on Mrs. Travis on more than one occasion and wondered if the woman needed to see Dr. Andrew about her continual falls.
“I do wish there were a way I could help. The poor man. Poor Mrs. Travis!” Emily said under her breath as she drove from the yard.
After that Emily often spotted Mr. Travis on the town streets. She realized she had seen him before without knowing who he was. On some days he could scarcely walk, and Emily wondered why he came into town when he was obviously so weak. Surely the man’s precarious health should be guarded carefully. If his condition continued to deteriorate, the Travis family would soon be without a father.
Emily wondered if she should speak to anyone about the situation. Surely the townspeople were aware of what was going on. Didn’t anyone care? Had anyone attempted to get help for the family? Had the man ever had medical attention?
Emily fretted but didn’t know what she could do.
Carefully Emily counted her money. She was getting awfully low on funds. The Sunday offerings she had depended on amounted to only a few coins. What can one expect when the congregation is mostly children? she thought. She was very glad for the eggs and milk regularly supplied by Mrs. Reilly, but items such as salt, soap and flour had to be purchased at the mercantile. It was the lack of soap that had Emily concerned now.
Well, I must have it, she concluded. I can’t run around in dirty clothes. Emily picked up her near-empty purse and headed for the store.
“Good morning,” she greeted Big John cautiously. She had been hoping his sister would be minding the store. From the back rooms came the sound of activity, and Emily knew that Miss McMann was busy with housekeeping duties.
“Humph!” Big John snorted.
“I—I need some soap,” stated Emily, giving up on conversation.
“What kind?” he snapped.
“For my laundry,” responded Emily.
“Duz? Maple Leaf? Oxydol? Sunlight? Iv—?”
“What—which one is the cheapest?” Emily asked, embarrassed.
Big John swung around. “So ya bargain shop? Well, at least thet shows some sense.” If he had not emphasized “some,” Emily might have felt strangely complimented.
“How big a box?” he asked her as he reached for the soap. “Large or Family?”
“No—the—the small box—please,” said Emily, her cheeks growing hotter.
“Thought ya was bargain smart,” huffed Big John. “Now thet ain’t wise buyin’.”
“Mr.—Mr. John,” Emily said, her voice more stern than she intended, “I would love to be a wise shopper. I know that one does save more by buying the larger box, but—I—I only buy what I can afford to pay for.”
She dropped the money on his counter, spun on her heel and left the store with the soap, her head high.
How that man manages to rile me, she fumed and then felt guilty. She was there to show love—whether people were loving in return or not. She was the one who was to be gracious and forgiving. I’ve failed again, she mourned. She could never hope to win this neighbor if she responded that way. She turned around and went back into the store.
“Ferget somethin’?” Big John gruffly greeted her.
“Yes. Yes, I did,” faltered Emily, her cheeks crimson, her eyes bright with tears. “I—I forgot my manners. I forgot my Christian upbringing. My father would be embarrassed by my behavior, and I’m sure my—my heavenly Father is disappointed. I am sorry.”
By the time Emily had finished her little speech, her voice was little more than a whisper. “Please—please forgive me,” she asked, blinked back the tears, and left the man staring after her, his mouth open in astonishment.
Chapter Seventeen
Celebrations
I visited Bible school last week, Ruth wrote again, and thought you would be interested in all the news. I hardly know where to start. Each time I heard another report about one of our classmates, I jotted it down so I wouldn’t forget to tell you.
Morris expects to leave for the mission field next May. He is so excited. He is going to Nigeria.
Word has it that the Russells are doing well in their pastorate at Conner. They are expecting their first child next April. Guess Agatha has not been at all well, so I do hope things soon improve for her. Poor Fred has had to be preacher and nurse and house-keeper all at the same time.
Olive broke off her engagement to Ross. I heard he was devastated. Seems that she and Robert Lee, her dear little Rob, are planning a December wedding. Hope they make it. Maybe they deserve each other.
Another engagement has also been announced. Lacey Beckett and Mary Frieson. I think they make a nice couple. Perhaps Mary will help to polish him up a bit.
But the biggest surprise for me was how much he has already changed—Lacey Beckett, our big, boyish Lacey. He seems so much more mature. And has such concern for others. I couldn’t believe my eyes and ears. He is still planning on the ministry, and Pearl told me that Rev. Witt views him as the prize candidate for a new church work in the city. In the city, mind you! Was a day when I thought the poor boy wouldn’t even make it on the farm. God sure is full of surprises!
Emily had to agree. “Isn’t it amazing what God can do with a life given completely over to Him?” she murmured. Then she smiled, “Especially Lacey’s—and mine!”
Ruth had other bits of information about faculty members and people they both had known. It was a long, newsy letter and it left Emily feeling very homesick for the schoo
l and those like Miss Herrington who had nurtured and loved her.
She wiped away unbidden tears as she folded up the letter and returned it to the envelope. Then she hastened to get out her pen and writing paper. She would write to Ruth while all the news was still fresh in her mind.
Mrs. Reilly was the first to mention the Harvest Picnic to Emily. “Of course you’ll go,” she declared. “Everyone does. It will be a wonderful opportunity for you to meet the neighborhood in a less formal way.”
“I haven’t even heard about it,” said Emily. “Tell me more.”
“We have it every year as soon as the harvesting is over. Everybody comes. It’s at the fairgrounds. The meat is supplied by various farmers. We all take turns. Then everybody brings favorite dishes and potluck for the rest of the meal. It’s great fun.”
“It sounds fun,” agreed Emily. She hadn’t done anything just for fun in a long time.
“There are races and tugs-of-war and a ball game. Sometimes we even have booths for the kids. You know—balls to throw, a fish pond, apple dunking ... things like that. They love it. It’s the big event of the year.”
“I’d love to go!” exclaimed Emily enthusiastically.
From then on the fall picnic came often to Emily’s attention. Everywhere she went people were talking about it. Posters, made by the school children, began to turn up all over town. Word had it that Big John was going to provide some firecrackers for the event, and the farm kids were already coaxing their folks to stay late enough to be able to watch them.
Emily wondered what she should bring as her share of the meal. Her grocery supplies were depleting rapidly, and she still faced the long winter months.
Maybe I should take a trip home and get some more, she wondered, but it was such a long way to go and it was late enough in the fall that a winter storm could sweep in at any time. No, if she had been going to travel home for supplies, she should have done it weeks earlier.
She refused to write home to her father for money. She was sure he would send what he could if he knew of her plight, but she was on her own now—and serving the Lord. Didn’t she believe that the Lord would provide? Where was her faith if she had to rush to her earthly father when the cupboard got a bit bare?
“Hold steady!” Emily often said to herself. “Be still, and know that He is God,” she quoted from her beloved Bible.
But Emily had to admit that the coming event was a worry on her mind.
I have milk and eggs, she thought suddenly. “I’ll make a custard,” she announced, brightening.
That made Emily feel better, but she was sure she was expected to bring more than one dish. I do have potatoes—and onions, she mused. I guess I’ll just have to experiment.
But Emily didn’t feel too confident about experimentation when the community at large would be sampling her work.
On the day of the picnic Emily made her custard as planned and was pleased that it turned out just right. She sprinkled nutmeg over the top and turned to her experimental dish. She cooked a pot of potatoes and mashed them until they were light and fluffy, generously adding some of Mrs. Reilly’s farm cream. Then she stirred in a few chopped onions. Last of all she whipped up some eggs, which she seasoned, then poured the mixture into the little pockets she had scooped in the potatoes in her pan.
“If I just had some cheese to sprinkle over the top,” she murmured thoughtfully as she slid the pan into the oven.
A knock at her door turned out to be Mrs. Reilly.
“How are you coming?” she asked. “Ummm, that custard looks good.”
“I’ve just popped my second dish into the oven,” Emily responded cheerfully. Then she stopped short. “Oh no!” she wailed.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mrs. Reilly anxiously.
“The supper—it won’t be eaten till evening! Who will want to eat cold potatoes and eggs? I didn’t think—”
Mrs. Reilly looked relieved. “Is that all,” she said, waving aside Emily’s consternation. “Don’t worry about it. Keep it for your Sunday dinner. You can rewarm it later. Anyway, the custard is more than your fair share. There’s always much more food than can ever be eaten. I’ve got to run. I’m helping with the ice cream. Here’s your milk and eggs. And there’s a bit of cheese there, too. George’s sister brought me a great wedge of it. We’ll never manage to eat it all on our own.”
Cheese! Emily’s eyes opened wide.
“Now don’t be late,” the older woman admonished as she hurried off.
Emily prepared herself carefully for the outing. She chose her prettiest housedress, pinned up her hair extra carefully, and for a long moment debated about her deaconess bonnet. Should or shouldn’t she wear it? Would the parishioners expect to see her appear properly attired as the town mission worker, or would she look foolish attending a picnic in her ministry garb?
At last Emily laid her bonnet back on the shelf. She would go without the hat.
She could smell her cookery as she entered her kitchen to lift the hot pan from the oven. Emily was tempted to try a small forkful of the food.
It was tasty. She scraped a few shreds of cheese onto another mouthful and took another bite. That made it even better. Just one more bite, she decided. It was good. Really good.
“Oh, dear,” she giggled. “I won’t be able to enjoy any of that beef if I don’t quit!” Emily paused long enough to pick up her custard and grab her coat in case the evening was chilly, then left excitedly for the town fairgrounds.
Emily couldn’t remember when she had last had so much fun. She shared in the laughter as the sack racers toppled and scrambled for the finish line. She licked ice cream that ran down her cone before it could spill on her hands, she shouted encouragement to her Sunday school students as they took part in the wheelbarrow race, and cheered on the softball players. She even tried her hand at dunking for apples, soaking her face and the curls that framed it. The children laughed and squealed their delight when she tossed the ball that sent the mayor of the town into the dunk tank and urged her to try her hand at it again with the schoolteacher.
Before she knew it, it was time for the picnic supper.
Emily stood in line with Sophie’s Olivia on one side and little Rena Travis on the other. The food smelled delicious in spite of her sampling from the potato dish.
The line was long, and the two children got fidgety.
“Go ahead,” urged Emily when they saw an opportunity to dart ahead and join their own family members. “Your mothers are waiting for you.”
Emily stood near the end of the line, humming softly to herself. This was the first time she had really felt a part of the small community.
“How’s the preacher?” a voice asked at her elbow.
Which one of those young fellows is teasing me now? Emily’s thought as her head came around. They still laugh and jostle and throw out silly dares to one another whenever I come in sight.
But it was Shad Austin who stood next to her, a teasing smile on his lips.
“If you are referring to me—I’m just fine,” she answered evenly.
His eyes conveyed an apology, though he did not express it aloud. “Actually, Aunt Moll sent me to get you. There’s an extra spot at the table over there. She said to tell you to join us.”
“Thank you,” Emily replied and moved up a step in the line.
He followed her. Emily noticed that he carried an empty plate.
“I didn’t realize you were here,” Emily commented for something to say.
“I never miss the Harvest Picnic,” he said. “I’ve been here most of the afternoon.”
Emily wondered fleetingly where he had been and why she hadn’t seen him.
“I was manning the dunk tank,” he continued, laughing. “I helped you dunk the mayor,” he remarked.
“But I—I thought the ball did that when—” began Emily.
“It should—if it’s working. Ours doesn’t work quite right. So someone has to be underneath to pull the rope and tip the
seat.”
“Oh-h,” laughed Emily. “I didn’t think I was that good a shot. Well, thanks for the help.”
He smiled. “I just hope the mayor doesn’t find out who was responsible,” he quipped.
The line moved by tables weighted with the community’s bounty. Emily was faced with some difficult choices.
“That’s Mrs. Long’s potato salad,” Shad offered. “She makes the best salad I’ve ever tasted.” Or, “Mrs. Tennet’s pumpkin pie. I’m surprised there’s any left,” and again, “I knew it. Not a scrap of Mr. Willmore’s fudge cookies.”
“Mr. Willmore’s?”
“He brings them every year.”
Emily chuckled. She couldn’t imagine the no-nonsense schoolteacher standing over a hot oven baking fudge cookies.
“Which dish did you bring?” Shad wanted to know. Emily pointed out the custard, and he helped himself to the last serving.
When they had their plates filled to capacity, Shad directed her to the table where George and Molly Reilly ate with several neighbors.
Emily was content to sit and listen to the chatter and laughter. Occasionally a question was directed her way and she answered pleasantly.
“So what do you think of our Harvest Picnic?” a big farmer in bib overalls and a white shirt asked her.
“I love it,” she answered honestly. “I haven’t had so much fun since I was a school kid.”
“I agree,” enthused Molly Reilly. “I think we should have community picnics more often.”
“Guess the next big social event is the school Christmas program,” said a woman at the end of the table.
And so the talk and laughter continued. Emily snuggled into the warmth of belonging and wished that the evening could go on and on.
But eventually the women began to gather pots and dishes and the menfolk moved to take down the tables and load them on Eric Thorn’s farm truck. One by one families with young children began to leave, the little ones whining at missing the fireworks.