by Kirby Larson
JUNE 1918
* * *
THE ARLINGTON NEWS
Honyocker’s Homily ~ A Stitch in Time
My high school teacher, Miss Simpson, would approve of the lessons this new life is teaching me, even if very few of them are from a book. My domestic skills are much improved—out of necessity. While I will never give my neighbor Perilee any competition in the baking department, my cooking is downright edible. And, if I may say so without boasting, I can handle a quilting needle with the best of them. The quiet nights here give a person space to think. And I love to think about new quilt patterns. When I first arrived, I thought this country flat and dull. Now, I see each roll and dip, each cutbank and coulee, through fond eyes. This landscape cries out to be captured in a quilt.
Before I tackle a new project, however, I must finish the quilt started for a soon-to-arrive new resident. Back home, in Arlington, women relied on Dr. Tupper; here they rely on Leafie Purvis.
* * *
“Did you read the paper?” I’d reached the end of my thread so took a few locking stitches. Aunt Ivy would finally be proud of me. No sloppy work here. No relying on knots to fasten my tiny quilt stitches into place. “What do you make of Wheatless June?” I trimmed off the excess thread.
Perilee took another stitch. “As if it hasn’t been hard enough already, with all the other food rules.” She sighed. “Never thought I’d miss plain old bread.”
“You have such a knack with substitutions.” I paused to take a bite of the corn muffin on my plate. “I could eat these forever.”
Perilee looked up from the quilt and scrunched her face. “Ugh. I can’t hardly stand the smell of cornbread anymore.”
I snipped a length of quilting thread from the spool. Perilee did look a little green. Talking about food probably wasn’t the wisest. Leafie had taken me aside and told me about what it’d be like for Perilee right before the baby was born: “She’ll be like a hen, wanting to nest but not much interested in food or drink.” I was to encourage Perilee to eat to keep up her strength. Leafie had also given me a few tips on what to do when the baby came, but I didn’t listen very carefully. Didn’t need to. Karl was going to go for Leafie at the first sign of a baby. I knew to put newspapers under the sheet and to tie off the cord with string. “No more lessons,” I’d finally begged Leafie. “Or I’ll never want to go through this myself.” Leafie had clucked at me, sounding like Rose.
I decided to change the subject. “So, here I am working my fingers to the bone for this baby.” At that, Perilee patted her rounded belly. “Are you ever going to tell me what you’re thinking about naming him?”
“Or her,” said Perilee with a smile.
“Or her,” I said.
Perilee shook her head. “We keep going back and forth. If it’s a boy, I want to name it after Karl, and if it’s a girl, after his mother, Charlotta.”
I nodded and rethreaded my needle.
“But she’d be Lottie for short,” added Perilee.
“That’s real sweet.” I went back to quilting. Prick the fabric, tug the needle and thread through, and pull. Prick, tug, pull.
“Karl won’t have it.” Perilee bit the thread between her teeth. “Says such names are asking for trouble these days.”
I thought about it. Folks were wound tighter than a roll of chicken wire lately. Besides the fuss with Elmer and others, Traft and his pals were going around pressing folks to join the Montana Loyalty League. “Good way to hunt the Huns right here at home,” I’d overheard Traft badgering Pa Schillinger. He didn’t say anything to me, though. He knew I’d already received an invitation to join, delivered to me personally.
“Karl might have a point.” I tried to keep my voice even. “But maybe for middle names?”
“I suggested that, too. Karl still says no.” Perilee leaned back in the chair, hands rubbing the small of her back. “Oof. Too much sitting.” She reached for an old hat on the shelf over the stove. “So here’s my solution. Everyone gets to put a name in the hat. The one we pull out is what we’ll name the baby!”
“That’s mighty brave of you,” I said.
She grinned. “Don’t tell, but I’ve burned the ones I don’t like.” She rolled her eyes. “Mattie suggested Mulie and Princess. Chase voted for Long John Silver.” She held the hat out to me. “You can put a name in, too,” she said.
“For you to toss in the stove?” I teased. “No, thanks.” I stretched too. “I better call it a day. I’ve still got some chores to do at home.”
Perilee held up the quilt. We’d bordered the squares with yellow calico. “It sure is pretty. Let’s call it our Twinkle Star Quilt,” she said, running her hand over the pieced front. “I can’t wait till this baby gets here.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “It can’t come till this quilt’s done. And I figure we’ve got a few more weeks.”
“Oh, all right.” Perilee pretended to pout. “If you say so, I’ll wait a few more weeks.”
A Perilee promise is usually as solid as an oak, but this turned out to be one she couldn’t keep.
I was sound asleep a few nights later when I heard someone banging around in my yard.
“Hattie!” Karl was calling. “Baby coming.”
I threw on some clothes. “Don’t waste time here. Go get Leafie.” Karl nodded and urged Star on. Plug was cranky about taking a late night ride, but once we’d established that there was no going back to the barn, he trotted smartly toward Perilee’s place.
Chase met me. “Mama’s calling for you,” he said. I gave him the reins. Chase’s elfin face was pinched with worry. A job might distract him. “How about if you fill up the chip bucket? That would be a help for Leafie, I’m sure.” He nodded at my suggestion and went solemnly about his work.
I hurried inside. Fern and Mattie—and Mulie, of course—were snuggled sound asleep in the little bed by the stove. No need to tiptoe around them. Those girls were blessed with the ability to sleep through the stormiest of sidewinders.
Perilee was abed in the back room.
“So, this baby couldn’t wait for his quilt to be finished?” I’d brought in a damp cloth and wiped Perilee’s brow with it. She took my hand in hers.
“It’s coming so fast.” Pain crumpled her face, and she moaned softly. She waved for me to close the bedroom door.
“You’ll be fine,” I assured her. “Leafie will be here pronto.”
She shook her head. “It’s not like the other times.”
“I’m right here.” I stroked her hair.
“Karl wants this baby so bad.” A tear coursed down her cheek.
“And he’ll spoil him rotten, we both know that.” At my words, she managed a weak smile. Then her smile twisted into a grimace.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked. Perilee struggled to a sitting position and pointed to the small of her back.
“It feels like someone’s hammering away back there,” she said. “Could you rub it for a while?”
With one knee on the bed, I knelt close and began to knead her back through her flannel nightgown. “Does this help?” She answered with a nod. I rubbed till my arms burned with pain. Finally she said, “Gotta lay down again.” I helped her get situated.
“Leafie will want lots of hot water.” I paused, my hand on the doorknob. “I’ll be right back as soon as I get the kettle filled.”
Chase had filled not one but two buckets with chips and had the stove fire roaring. “That’s better than I could do,” I told him. “Now, can you do one more thing?” I handed him an empty lard bucket. “I need to fill the kettle. I figure it’ll take three or four buckets.” Before I’d even finished, he was out the door. Soon, the kettle was filled and warming quickly on the stove. When he emptied out the last bucket of water, Chase looked around.
“Now what should I do?” he asked.
I pointed toward the basket I’d brought. “You look in there. I bet you’ll find something to keep you busy.”
I didn’t stay to se
e his reaction to the copy of David Copperfield. Perilee was waiting. One look at her told me things were starting to happen. Hurry up, Leafie, I thought.
“Leafie—not coming,” Perilee panted out.
“Oh, yes. She’s on her way right now.” I prayed my words were true.
“Won’t…make…it.” Perilee looked up at me. “Get…newspapers.”
Right then my knees turned to jelly. I eased Perilee off the mattress and slipped several layers of newspapers under the sheets.
What next? Get ready for the baby. There was no fancy bassinet here on the homestead, like the girls fussed over back home in Iowa. I grabbed the willow laundry basket and lined it with some clean blankets. This baby’s mattress would be an old feather pillow.
“Hattie!” Perilee cried out. “The baby!”
I ran to Perilee’s side. She was panting and pushing, her face chalk white and drenched in sweat.
“Baby!” she repeated.
I had no choice. I stepped to the end of the bed and did the best I could. With a slickery swoosh, a tiny human being slid right into my arms.
“It’s a girl!” I cried. Perilee closed her eyes and fell back against the pillows.
With the quilting thread, I tied off the cord and snipped. I knew babies sometimes needed a little whack to get them breathing, but I didn’t think I could bring myself to thump this precious little life. Were newborns always this small? She must have been aware that I was all too new at this game, thank goodness.
“Waaah!”
“What a noise for such a tiny thing,” I exclaimed. Perilee’s eyes were still closed, but she smiled. I wiped the baby down and handed her to her mother. While she and the baby studied each other for the first time, I cleaned up the bed and tended to Perilee as best I could, trying not to be alarmed at the amount of blood. I hoped Leafie would come soon and assure me it was normal.
Despite her size, the baby knew what to do when placed at her mother’s breast. She looked even smaller there, next to Perilee.
The bedroom door shot open, and Leafie breezed in. She whacked me on the back. “Looks like you managed fine.” She shooed me out of the room and ministered to Perilee. A few minutes later, she called me and Karl back in.
She handed Karl the baby, all expertly swaddled in flannel blankets.
He held her tenderly, bringing her face close to his. “Mein süsses Kind,” he murmured. He kissed her gently on the forehead.
“Isn’t she a sweet little thing?” Leafie’s voice was light, but I saw worry behind her eyes.
“What should I do?” I asked.
“Well, first thing,” said Leafie, “you could give new baby Charlotta a big kiss.”
I turned to Perilee. “I thought you were going to draw a name out of the hat.”
She smiled.
Karl handed the baby to me and went to Perilee.
“Hello, Lottie.” I kissed her waxy cheek.
Leafie leaned over the baby and gave me some quiet instructions. “We need to keep this angel warm. Put her in one of the bread pans. Pad it with a blanket first. Then set it on the oven door.”
I looked at Leafie. “Do you really mean it?”
She nodded. “I’ve kept more than one child alive that way.”
I followed instructions and kept vigil the whole night. As soon as baby Lottie awoke with her kitten cries, I hurried her in to Perilee. After nursing and a good burping, I’d hurry her right back to the oven. We followed this routine for one solid week. I’d run over after morning chores, then back before dusk. God bless Rooster Jim; he kept my garden weeded and chickens happy that whole week. Finally, Leafie’s worried look faded completely.
“I think we’re past the worst of it,” she said. “Little Miss Lottie seems to be doing just fine.”
Perilee perked up, too. “I’m sorry I was such a worrywart,” she said one day as I was doing her baking. “I was so frightened something would go wrong.” She patted the baby’s back as she slept against her shoulder. “I know it’s silly, but I thought, well, with the war and everything…” She held my gaze. “That Karl wouldn’t be allowed his baby.”
My arms wearied as I worked the flour into the stiff dough. My heart wearied, too, that Perilee couldn’t enjoy the good in her life after so much sorrow. “If God really was in the punishing game, why doesn’t he send lightning down on the whole danged County Council of Defense?” My words brought a small smile to Perilee’s worried face.
“Or the Kaiser?” she joined in.
“Or Mrs. Martin for wearing that awful yellow silk every other Sunday?” We both began to laugh.
Perilee shifted Lottie to her other shoulder. “Hattie, you are a caution. You’d better watch out for lightning bolts yourself!”
“I know, I know.” Pleased to have lifted Perilee’s spirits, I shaped the dough into two loaves and a dozen rolls. “Now, what else shall I do?”
“Oh, Hattie, not one thing more.” Perilee finished braiding Mattie’s hair. “You’ve done more than a sister would.”
I slipped off my apron and hung it by the stove. “If you think you can manage, I might head home for a few days. I’ve got an installment to write and some weeding to attend to.” Truth was, even with Rooster Jim’s help, I was swamped under with chores, but I didn’t want Perilee to feel bad.
It was too quiet at home, even with Mr. Whiskers’ cranky meowing to let me know he didn’t appreciate my being gone so long. I felt achy as I weeded my fields and carried water to the garden and fed the chickens, and mucked out Plug’s stall. At first, I thought I might be coming down with a summer cold. As I sat to a silent supper all by myself the second night home, I figured out what was wrong. It was not illness but loneliness gnawing at my bones. I missed Mattie’s songs, Fern’s giggles, the baby’s sweet smell, reading to Chase at bedtime, and sitting squashed round the supper table.
I missed my family.
June 18, 1918
Three miles north and west of Vida, Montana
Dear Charlie,
I do understand what you mean when you say you have changed since going to France. You only mention physical changes—and no, I don’t believe you’ve gained twenty pounds! But I can read between the lines and know you’ve gone through others as well.
I told you that Perilee was going to have a baby. Well, she did, on June 11—a little girl, Charlotta, and I helped deliver her! That may give you some small clue as to the changes I’ve undergone. When I came out here, I thought only of having a piece of property to call my own. But this hardscrabble place has brought me so much more than that.
I hear from your mother that she is sending you copies of my silly installments for the Arlington News. Though light in tone, they will help you see that my heart is now planted here, like Rooster Jim’s cherry tree.
Your friend always,
Hattie
CHAPTER 17
June 22, 1918
Three miles north and west of Vida, Montana
Dear Uncle Holt,
You know how Aunt Ivy always says a watched pot never boils? Well, here in Montana, a watched sky never rains. Wayne Robbins and Mr. Gorley talk about the rains of ’16 that produced beets the size of basketballs and corn tall enough to tickle a giraffe’s chin. No one will break any crop records this year. A favorite farmer expression in these parts is “Next year it will be better.” This “next year country” makes for many sleepless nights for this particular farmer.
Rooster Jim brought my mail and paper out to me on Thursday. It’d been awhile since we’d had a game of chess.
“Hey there, Rose,” he called out to the hen. “Lucky for you it’s been drier than a Baptist saloon.” He chuckled at his joke.
“She’s taken to wearing water wings when it rains,” I said. That made him laugh all the more.
“Hattie, that wit of yours and a nickel would get us a fine cup of coffee.”
“Speaking of which, I’ve got some. Or maybe you’d rather have something cool.” I stopped
on the steps to my house.
“There are oatmeal biscuits to round it out.”
“Coffee, then,” said Jim. He followed me in and helped me carry the coffee things. It was too hot to sit inside. “This is the life,” he said after a vigorous slurp. He nibbled at the biscuit. “Why, Hattie, I believe you’ve learned to take the lead out of your baking.”
I made a face at him. He did love to tease. Even more than Charlie.
“So, you fixing to go to the big meeting over to the school?” He reached for another biscuit.
“What meeting?”
“Oh, tells all about it in your paper there.” He nodded toward the house. I’d set my mail inside.
I got up, brought the paper back, and found the article. “June 28, National War Savings Day,” I read. “Every man and woman in the United States will be asked to purchase war savings stamps,” I set the paper down. “But I already bought a Liberty Bond.”
Jim shrugged. “War’s an expensive proposition. Don’t think the Huns much care about the finances of us folks here on the prairie.”
I looked at the paper again. “‘No farmer in ordinary circumstances should be allowed to sign for less than one hundred dollars,’” I read aloud. “Surely we won’t be expected to pledge that much. Why, we haven’t even got enough money for gasoline for the tractors as it is!”
Rooster Jim shook his head. “With Traft running things, won’t none of us have anything in our pockets but moths.”
On War Savings Day, the inside of the schoolhouse was hot enough to bake bread. Folks’ nerves and wallets were spread thin. But Traft had a group of toughs lining the back of the room. “I’m only following the instructions of the proclamation,” he said to the grumbles about waiting afternoon chores. “These pledges don’t total up to our allotment yet.”
I signed my card, underlining the words “conditioned on crop” in the lower left-hand corner. I handed it to one of Traft’s crew seated behind the teacher’s desk. He handed it right back to me.