Family Linen

by Lee Smith

  We jumped up and down, clinging together, Nettie and Fay and I. “A kiss! A kiss!” we shrilled. “Give him a kiss, Mama!” Invariably I was sure that something terrible would happen if she did not, that he would spin her right off this earth into the blue Empyrean and we would never see either of them again. For me, this homecoming ritual was frightening, thrilling, and deeply satisfying all at once.

  For at length she gave him the kiss, and he put her down, and they stood stock still on the whirling ground for a second to get their bearings, both of them panting, out of breath, Mother shamefaced and beautifully blushing, hand to her heart, and Father grinning devilishly behind his flamboyant Moustaches. “Oh, Lem!” Mother cried. “Lem, for Heaven’s sake!”

  “And now I’m hungry!” he shouted then:—oh, we knew it was coming; already we’d begun to scatter. “I want a tasty bite of a little girl!” How we squealed, how we ran, even Fay who could barely toddle—all in vain, to be caught at last, tossed high in the summer air, and feel Father catch us and hold us close and “bite” the back of our necks, beneath the ribbons. “Yum, yum,” he’d roar, licking his Lips, setting us back on our feet at last.

  “These girls are not quite sufficient—too small and bony!” he announced. “Miss Mary, what’s for dinner?” To which question, my Mother made a murmuring reply, still disconcerted, attempting to pin up her unruly hair, and then Father gallantly offered her his Arm, and she took it; they entered the house.

  Although we were busy from dawn to dusk, Nettie and Fay and I, nothing else that happened could quite compare to Father’s returning home Thus, at the dinner hour.

  Thomas Lemuel Bird, our Father—to grant him his proper appellation—was an imposing red-faced Giant of a man with riotous hair that sprang into curly black ringlets when he entered the house and removed the ubiquitous black hat. And when he shed the black frock-coat, I was ever thrilled to see the pearl-handled Revolver in his shoulder holster, to watch him remove this too, and place it in the hidden drawer in the breakfront in the dining room, the breakfront which his brother, a master craftsman, had made for their marriage in 1906. He needed the gun, Father said, “at the mill,” where we were given to understand that rough men worked, and terrible things might happen at any time. Fistfights and dismemberments were rumored. I likened this distant World of men with the way my father smelled when he swept us up to “bite” us, or when he leaned down, as he did each night, to kiss us into sleep:—a mingled scent of tobacco and fresh-cut wood. In fact I never smell fresh pine that I do not still think of these days. (It saddens me to think thus: my candle flame wavers and dims. It will not Do. For I intend to go ahead here, through all the perilous chambers of my Heart.)

  My Father in his prime weighed well over 250 pounds. Large of Frame and Feature, he moved always with an air of authority, of command. He was a man of his word. He was feared, among men, for his temper. He was known to carry a grudge, and even then, upon occasion, to drink intemperately. As a child, I was not aware of these traits. It’s possible that my mother was not aware of them either, or that her awareness of them was slight. For oh, how Father loved his Ladies! Every roughness of manner, every masculine Vice, was left at the foot of the hill.

  He never tired of watching Mother, of asking her details about her Day, nor of praising her handiwork. I remember when she was making the needlepoint cushions which yet adorn the dining room chairs, how pleased he was, how astonished each day by the appearance of still another rose, another vine, created with her tiny, perfect stitches.

  But he adored us all. Nothing made him happier, it seemed, than the time he Spent with us, questioning Fay endlessly about her imaginary playmates, roaring with laughter at her droll answers; reading aloud with me the books which Mother had brought from the Eastern Shore or which we borrowed from Grace Harrison; or Exploring with Nettie in the woods on the mountain behind the garden. If men came to our house to see him on Business, he met with them outside where they stood solemnly on the side lawn by the hitching rail, smoking, and squinting off at the Horizon.

  Obviously, he adored Mother. The fact that he had won her hand only after great difficulty seemed to make him prize her all the more. The story went that he had been hired to drive old Mr. Harrison, a retired minister, to a retreat at Lake Junaluska, North Carolina, a Methodist Summer Encampment. He was to spend the night, rest the Horses, and then return. But there he had encountered Mary Davenport and all her family from the Eastern Shore of Virginia, who had come to escape the unhealthy Vapors which summer brought to the low-lying swampy area where they resided. This whole family was in mourning for a beloved Brother, who had recently succumbed to Influenza. Mother, with her flaming hair, her simple black linen shift, and her air of pious grief, made quite an impression upon the uncouth young giant from the mountains. One of four rough-and-tumble Boys orphaned early on, Father was a “wild young buck” at that time, uncertain of which Path in Life to take. Although he had learned to read and write, his early schooling had been sketchy. Mother and her sisters had had a Governness, they knew French. Deeply smitten, Father did not return with the Horses as planned. He courted Mary for two weeks by the deep, still waters of Lake Junaluska, among the solemn Mountains, between the inevitable lectures, prayers, and meetings. Dr. Harrison, abetting the Young Lovers, bought him a Suit of new clothes so that he could properly attend these functions. How difficult it is for me to imagine Father, rosy-cheeked above his stiff white collar, sitting in a straightbacked chair absorbing Culture:—surely it must have seemed to him that he had entered a different world, as indeed he had. Mother, as she later reported, was Charmed. What a complexity of emotion must be encompassed in this simple description of their feelings! He was Smitten; she was Charmed. At length Father was “run off” upon the arrival of Mother’s father, a prosperous oysterman, and told to present himself when he had some Prospects.

  By the time he reappeared, at the end of the Summer, to fetch old Dr. Harrison, he had made a start. He and his brothers had leased some land; Sam, the next-oldest, had won a band-saw in a poker game; the lumber Business was in its infancy. Father had given up his gambling and drinking, or swore he had, and had indeed put his Shoulder to the wheel. He bade Mary another Farewell, and brought Dr. Harrison home. They were separated by all the distance of Virginia for eighteen months.

  The lumber Business was thriving when he appeared in Accomac to claim her; his Prospects seemed handsome indeed. He visited with her family for three weeks. At the time of his departure, they were officially affianced. But the Marriage was to take place, her father had stipulated, only after Father had arranged a proper Home for his bride. Perhaps her father hoped in this way to forestall the union, giving his daughter time to come to her Senses. Perhaps he simply felt that a further test of Father’s good intentions was necessary. At any rate, the land was purchased. Only the prettiest spot would do, this hill, at that time just outside the tiny town. Plans were drawn up, and the Work was begun. It was to be a House as large, as stately, as pretty as any in town, a home fit for a Lady. Dr. Harrison corresponded with Mother’s father, to assure him that all would be as promised, that Father’s accounts were not mere mountain Tomfoolery. At last, Father and Mother were married in the First Methodist Church at Accomac in June 1906. Following a Wedding Trip to Old Point Comfort, he brought her all across Virginia, “home.” This wedding trip must have occasioned, for her, a heady mixture of emotion, of joy in her handsome young Husband combined with the sadness of leaving her own Family and the Landscape of her youth. She must have felt as if she were moving to Madagascar.

  What she found was a teeming Lumber camp, a raw boom Town, and her fiery young Husband deeply engaged in a brilliant career, with his lively brothers:—our Uncles:—trooping in and out of the house. Draperies and furniture were ordered from Richmond. Her mother sent flower seeds. One by one, we were born:—myself, Catherine Elizabeth Bird, in 1908; Nettie Davenport Bird in 1913; and Constance Fay Bird in
1915. I was then seven. I recall Fay’s difficult Birth all too well. Mother labored for two days, and many months had passed after this Birth before she regained her sprightliness. Father for his part lavished her with attention and sweet solicitous Care. He bore well the disappointing fact that their union had failed to produce, once again, a Son. The busy Time passed. There were Dancing Parties. Oh, we lived well, in those days! Johnny worked about the place, Aunt Suse kept up the house. And yet, although she was as busy and happy as a young Wife could be, a certain sadness seemed at times to overtake our Mother. Letters flew back and forth between the mountains and the Eastern Shore, but visits were seldom. Although I am told that I visited the Davenports when I was small, at perhaps two or three years of age, I do not recall this trip. When Mother’s own father died, she was prevented from making the arduous Journey due to the confinement necessitated by Nettie’s imminent birth.

  How often, in later years, I came upon Mother unawares, gazing at her father’s photograph:—an immense man looking at a great gold watch, standing just to the left of a tremendous pile of Oyster shells, before a wide expanse of water. The Chesapeake Bay? I never fully comprehended the import of this Picture. Why did he thus regard his watch? Was it a Gift, perhaps, or the token of some Recognition? For me, in recent years, this photograph has come to possess the symbolic overtones of “Ozymandias,” with its solemn theme. For how soon indeed does glory fade and how little our material Possessions—that great pile of Oyster shells at his feet which tell of countless ships, and men, and voyages into the briny deep—how little such things can withstand the silent, stately feet of tramping Time! Mother’s Sisters and the one remaining Brother married, and produced families of their own, babies were born and died, life was too complicated to allow for much Visiting. But ah yes, she missed them. Sometimes there was a sadness in her.

  At other times, these memories brought her Joy, as when she’d tell us how to go clamming. One wore a bathing costume, she said, and old, worn-out shoes, and a Hat against the sun, and waded into waist-high water with a certain kind of Rake. A raft, attached to one’s waist by a rope, floated along beside. One waded carefully, feeling along the slimy bottom for the hard, round Shells. And then the raking, the scooping up, and flinging mud and shell and all upon the raft until, piled high with bounty, it was guided into shore. Mother described the ensuing Clambakes on the lawn, she told us how to make Clam Fritters.

  She was never more elated than that moment when, near Christmastime, the enormous hoary barrel of oysters in the shell, ice-packed, arrived by train. This was Father’s special Gift for his Eastern bride. And then we had oyster Stew, and oyster Fritters, and Fried oysters, inviting all the neighbors in to taste these delicacies.

  Mother was famous also for her baking. I recall how she tested the oven, Suse in attendance, with a piece of fine white stationery. The oven was ready for a cake when the stationery browned evenly in just one minute. Then, in the Cakes would go! Lady Baltimore, a white cake with raisins and nut custard between the layers and a boiled white icing on top, was my favorite. No wonder Father grew so huge!

  At Christmas, the whole house smelled of Pine, with garlands up and down the staircase, and on the mantels. Father’s men had brought the fragrant greenery from the mill. Nettie went out with Father, to Shoot down the mistletoe which then hung from the rose-glass lamp in the hall. On Christmas morning, we were always awakened by the Shots which rang out all across these snowy mountains, an old custom. At breakfast, we ate the fresh Oranges which arrived each year from Mother’s parents, and after the opening of the Presents came the huge Christmas dinner, with turkey and roast and ham, sometimes venison, where we often had sixteen or more at table, and three or four women in the kitchen, helping out. In the afternoon, we all took Naps. Later, my uncles would play their Banjos, and often there would be Dancing, far into the night. Often I fell asleep to the banjo’s breezy twang and the rhythmic patter of Dancing feet.

  These days did not last. In retrospect, I see Harbingers of our decline, although, in a sense, I doubt their validity:—One always knows that the lovely Rose of summer will brown about the edges, will lose its Petals and will fall, does one not? After the fall, moments of prescience may be easily imagined. But I do recall two such moments particularly.

  I was about eleven. We had a pony named Old Joe, as phlegmatic a pony as one would ever hope to see. My father judged him Safe for us to ride. One windy afternoon, I believe it was in late March, I had Johnny to saddle Old Joe for me and I rode down the long hill between the murmuring pines, through the town, and out the valley road to Father’s Mill. I intended to Surprise him. I also intended to gather up the little scraps of wood which I used to fashion furniture for my Dolls. My sidebags held a paper sack filled with ham Biscuits and apple fritters, which provender Mother had urged me to share with my Father when I arrived. This Lunch did not transpire.

  I tramped through the sawdust in the yard, speaking to Father’s men, I bolted through the outer office with its desk and leather chair, calling “Father! Father!” carrying my saddlebags. Receiving no reply, I barged right through the inner door, shouting, “Hello!” For the first time, he did not come to me. He did not rush over to sweep me up in a Hug. Instead, he and two of my Uncles were deep in conversation with two large—very large, as large as my father—Men in black suits, Men I had never seen before. They sat around the big Table which our Uncle Lewis had made for the Office when he left it to move to Roanoke and open his Carpentry shop. They were smoking cigars. My father looked up at me as if he were unsure of who I might be, his broad face creased into unfamiliar lines of concern. “Run along now, Elizabeth,” he said.

  That was all. He was not Rude. These men were Money men, I learned that later. The family lumber business had fallen, already, upon Hard Times. Father had extended Credit where none should have been extended; he and his brother James had disagreed. His brother Sam, on the other hand, presented another sort of problem; he had become uninterested in the business, inattentive. He was not Pulling his Weight. I recall that I ate no lunch on that particular day, the day of my unlucky Visit to the mill, angrily slapping the long reins against Old Joe’s neck, trying to urge him past the gentle Trot which was his fastest gait. I did not mention Father’s conduct to anyone.

  The second premonition was occasioned by my Mother, who always spent a great deal of time in her Garden. She had the prettiest Flowers in town, and if she was a vain woman in any sense, it was in her flowers that her vanity resided, and justly so. Of course we had a vegetable garden too, up on the hillside near the well, but it was worked by Suse and Johnny under Mother’s supervision. The Flower beds were a different story. Here, Mother wielded Trowel and Rake herself, planting, separating, weeding, edging:—there were tasks enough to keep her busy all Spring and Summer long. The Moment which I now recall occurred in that same Year as my noontime visit to the mill, but later, when the Spring was more advanced.

  I was in the house, Reading voraciously as was my wont. She was in the garden. “Elizabeth!” she called. I know she called; I know I heard her. I laid down my Book and went. She sat there by her pansy bed, on the brilliant emerald grass, the gardening gloves cast down beside her, staring down the hill at the double row of tiny new Boxwoods which Johnny had just planted along the walk. “Mother?” I said, coming to stand beside her. She did not reply, except to brush her hand across her breast, and place it at her thickening waist. She was With Child at this time. Had the Pain started then, already? Butterflies fluttered everywhere. “Mother?” I asked. But I could not understand her reply; she had responded in French! “What, Mother?” I inquired. She blushed, and smiled, and drew me to her, and gave me a squeeze. “I’m sorry,” she said simply. “I have forgot why I called.” I laughed merrily, thinking it funny to see an Adult so befuddled, but yet I felt an inward Shudder, what it is called when someone Walks across your Grave.

  She died in October of a ruptured Appendix. In t
he morning she was quite well, by afternoon she was Deathly Ill; that evening, being carried in a wagon toward the closest Hospital, in Roanoke, old Dr. Greer having diagnosed the complaint but refusing to perform Surgery due to her delicate Condition, she died. My father was with her, holding her hand. He said later that she seemed to be staring beyond him, and that a Shadow fell across her face, followed by a light as if of Love, or recognition. She did not Speak. How much better it might have been for him had she bade him a final Farewell, had she not thus left him so mysteriously!

  For oh, how he Mourned! We all thought that he would die, too. He was Heartbroken. He roared and moaned and beat his breast, he kicked in the barn door, he wandered the house all night sobbing. He shot her horse. He drank continuously, Suse fled. Our Uncles had to come, and Stay in the house with us. We were terrified. I was twelve then, Nettie seven, and Fay, five. We cried too, for our sweet Mother who had gone to be with God, and Women from the town came, and comforted us. Especially our Mother’s Friend, Miss Grace Harrison, was attentive to us in these Dark days. But he raged! And would not be comforted. Our Grief paled, appeared so puny as to be insignificant beside his magnificent mourning. Now I see, as I look back, that this time so Difficult for us all may perhaps have taken its Toll most drastically upon Fay. I remember searching for her all one Evening, and finding her at last in the bottom of Mama’s Wardrobe, all hunched into a ball, sucking her thumb. She alone did not cry, not then, nor Later, I believe, unless her little tears were shed in private. Mother was buried in the graveyard of the Methodist Church which she had Loved. We sang “Shall We Gather at the River,” I recall, yet almost no one sang, as all were weeping So.

  It was the last time Father ever set foot in a house of Worship, so far as I know, for the rest of his life. He lost his Faith that October, when he lost her. Or perhaps he never had it, the True Faith, perhaps he only believed in her, and accompanied her to Church because she wished it. Certainly, our Uncles were not noted church-goers! And yet my own Faith is ever strong, growing through all Adversity, and ever Strengthening me. God has given me the Courage to bear the considerable disappointments which have come my way, and to lead a good life, and to appreciate Beauty in all her guises.