Bess
A Pioneer Woman’s Journey of Courage, Grit and Love
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2017 Charles Cranston Jett
v3.0
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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To Nancy
Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
PART I
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
PART II
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
PART III
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Afterword
Acknowledgements
There are many people to whom I owe a great deal of gratitude for their help and counsel while writing this book. To my cousins for their recollections of stories passed down from their parents; to my dear friends in the Dakotas for the accurate recollections of times and events; to my friends who read and reacted to various drafts; to my editor, Joan Rogers, for her diligence, candor, and help in crafting the manuscript into a story; and especially to my wife, Nancy—herself a true pioneer who listened faithfully to early chapter drafts and always contributed meaningful suggestions!
Finally, to the memory of my grandmother, Bess, who demonstrated courage, grit, and love in a new and dangerous world—the early prairies of the western Dakotas.
Charles Cranston Jett
Chicago 2016
Chapter One
Monday, July 6, 1908: Near Haley, North Dakota
Bess Parker awoke to the sound of meadowlarks. The morning was crisp and clear just south of the North Dakota and South Dakota state line, with a few clouds in the crystal-blue sky like puffs of cotton on their journey to the east. The scent of wet green hay wafted through the window, tickling her senses. I made it, she thought, as she got out of bed and quickly dressed. She put on her slippers and walked swiftly across the rough-hewn pine floor toward the front door. She headed outside to finally stand in front of her newly built sod house. She raised her arms and puffed out her chest to greet the new day. She smiled.
A fresh, cool breeze blew through Bess’s hair as she surveyed the green waving prairie grass in all directions and the Teepee Buttes about five miles directly west. A mile to the north, the winding Grand River flowed silently through the little town of Haley, North Dakota. It was as she had expected all along. It was what she had dreamed about—had longed for--and seemed to be a just reward for doing so much studying and planning. This is my land, she thought, my new home. My homestead.
As a 21-year-old single female, Bess had joined ranks with the few women who had taken advantage of the Homestead Act of 1862. This act, signed into law by President Abraham Lincoln, provided that anyone who had never taken up arms against the United States government (including freed slaves and women), and who was twenty-one years or older, a US resident, or the head of a family, could file an application to claim a federal land grant. This grant provided 160 acres of free land that the successful homesteader had to “prove up” over a five-year period to obtain title. Bess had successfully obtained her grant from the agent in Lemmon, South Dakota and was at the beginning of the five-year “prove-up” period. After five years, she would have to offer proof that she had lived on the land and provide evidence that she had made the kind of improvements that would make the land productive and sustainable for a person trying to earn a living. If that were done, the land would be hers free and clear.
Bess reflected on her accomplishments over the past couple of months but knew full well that her adventures were only beginning. It didn’t sound very exciting on the face of it—sleeping in a house made of grass and dirt, and dug into the side of a small hill on the vast prairie, but it was all hers. More than that, the future would belong entirely to her. It would be a new life—a challenge for anyone, and especially for a woman alone. The thought of it made her breathless.
Now, as she stood outside her home, a feeling of pride and accomplishment swept through her, and she couldn’t help but smile. This was it—her home—and to top it all off, she was in love. She had faced a challenge at a young age and had met it successfully head on, but Bess was no fool. She knew that many more challenges loomed in her future--challenges that she welcomed. It was exhilarating. Thrilling.
She stood silently and enjoyed the cool breeze, the pleasant sound of the wind blowing across the waving grass—like a heavenly whisper--and the happy birds. She closed her eyes and listened to those sounds that, together, were symphonic and seemed to transport her back in time—four years ago—to the only home she’d ever known … Cando, North Dakota.
PART I
Chapter Two
Late August 1904 - The Parker Farm near Cando, North Dakota
The sky darkened in the distant west, and Bess knew a storm would be upon them, most likely during the night. The Parker farm rested on the southwest side of a small hill where the new grain elevator in Cando, North Dakota—just to the west—could barely be seen on a clear day. On the edge of the farm, a small stream trickled toward Lake Alice, about six miles to the south. Bess enjoyed the smell of the freshly cut straw after the harvest; she liked dropping small straws of wheat into the little stream and imagining them sailing over the slow rippling water all the way to the lake, and maybe even to Devils Lake farther to the south. It was like creating an adventure—an adventure into an unknown world where the outcome was uncertain. Bess enjoyed the mystery and challenge of such an adventure. She wanted her life to be an adventure.
Lightning flashed in the distant sky and a cool breeze
was starting to pick up. The wheat from the nearby farms had just been cut and threshed and the many straw piles were a testament to the hard work that the farmers had done. Papa worked long hours in town; he was the general manager of the new grain elevator in Cando where farmers brought their wheat to sell after harvest. The summer was always the busiest time of year for him, and Papa seldom arrived home before eight. After a long day’s work, Papa, tired and smelling of grain and sweat, would change his clothing and Mama would feed him supper.
The leaves on the few trees were still green, but Bess could see the beginnings of the color changes, indicating that fall was coming soon. Bess relished the fact that cooler temperatures were on the horizon. Maybe she would sleep a bit more soundly.
Seventeen-year-old Bess Parker knew that the little town of Cando, North Dakota had been founded in 1884 and had been named for the “can do” spirit of early pioneers. I have that spirit, thought Bess. She had felt that way since she was a child when the Parkers came to Cando in 1894 from Northfield, Minnesota. Papa got the job as the manager of the new grain elevator in town that had been built to store the farmers’ wheat.
Most of the farmers and the people in the area were from Norway or Sweden, but Bess’s family was Scottish. Her grandparents had immigrated from Scotland and Bess’s parents still had traces of their Scottish accents, though Bess had no accent.
Bess had finished her chores and had collected about two dozen eggs when she heard the distinctive clip-clop of a horse in the distance, which meant that Papa was arriving home from work. He always took the open wagon buckboard to town because he would sometimes bring home supplies. As Papa pulled up with a noisy clatter in front of the house, Bess could see two large sacks of flour, as well as a basket of apples in the back of the wagon. When she saw his broad smile as the wagon came to a stop, she could immediately sense his enjoyment in seeing his daughter. Papa always told her that she was pretty because of her light-brown hair, blue eyes, and slightly freckled nose, and cheerful smile that would warm anyone’s heart. She was his only child and was tall for her age—nearly as tall as he.
“Hi there, my Bessie,” Papa said cheerfully, as he stopped the wagon sharply and jumped off. He tied the horse, Maggie, up to the post in front of the house. “Give me a hand? Got some flour, and apples for Nellie. Put the apples in the root cellar and the flour in the kitchen.”
“Want me to unharness Maggie and put her in her stall?” Bess asked.
“Sure,” said Papa. “Let’s unload the buckboard first.”
Together they began to unload the wagon. Her father, Giles Parker, was a soft-spoken man and was always very kind to Bess. He wore rimless glasses, and his black hair, speckled with a few gray streaks, was carefully combed. He had a ruddy complexion and a neatly trimmed mustache. His teeth were slightly stained from the pipe that he seemed to smoke continuously, and from chewing tobacco. His hearty laugh could light up a room.
Papa was a strong, burly man, about five-foot-ten, whose work involved physical labor. His rough, calloused hands were the result of not wearing gloves—he hated gloves. His fingernails were usually dirty and Mama made him clean them before sitting down at the supper table. He was not overweight—a bit stocky, perhaps, but he said it was because he enjoyed the good food that Mama always cooked. He particularly liked her homemade bread and pies.
Bess lugged the two heavy sacks of flour, one sack at a time, into the house where Mama and Papa were visiting in the kitchen. “Just put those sacks in the corner,” her mother said, pointing to the far corner near the stove. Bess’s mother, Nellie, was a petite woman, just over five feet tall. She was a bit plump, probably because she also enjoyed her own excellent cooking. She wore a dress, had her dark-red hair neatly tied up in a bun at the base of her neck, and was perpetually busy.
Mama’s kitchen was special to her. She had a new coal-fired stove with a big oven. The kitchen had a large sink, and a long counter with two cabinets—each of which had two doors that opened into storage cabinets where she kept the cooking utensils. By the front window there was a small wooden table, which Mama would use when cooking.
Bess went outside and carefully led Maggie to the barn, where she took off the harness, patted Maggie softly on her rump, and led her into the stall where she could feast on the fresh hay. She fetched the water bucket and filled Maggie’s trough, taking about five bucket loads to fill the trough. “There, Maggie,” she said to the horse. “Some water for you.” She rubbed Maggie’s mane and neck, and typical of that gentle horse, Maggie whinnied softly.
Bess had always loved horses, ever since she was a small child. She thought back to a few years ago, to the day when Papa brought Patches home to a wide-eyed ten-year-old girl who couldn’t hide her enthusiasm and surprise. They already had Maggie, but Papa used her mostly to pull the buggy. Patches was different. Papa brought her home so Bess could learn how to ride.
“Now you’ve got a big job, my Bessie,” Papa said with a grin. Bess knew even at such a young age that buying a horse was a burden for him, because the family didn’t have much money to spare. “You won’t need Patches to herd the sheep,” he said. “She’s yours to learn how to ride and take care of, along with Maggie.”
Bess ran to him, gave him an enthusiastic hug, and couldn’t hold back the tears in her eyes. “Thank you, Papa!” she said. “Can I put her in the barn?”
“Sure, my Bessie,” he said as he handed Bess the reins. “Stick her in the stall by Maggie.”
Patches was a white horse with large black patches on her sides, rump, and neck. Bess ran to the root cellar to fetch an apple, which she fed to Patches, who gobbled it up immediately. The horse just gazed at her calmly. She seemed very gentle and Bess slowly started walking toward the barn with her. Patches followed obediently.
There were two stalls in the barn. Papa’s horse, Maggie, occupied the one closest to the barn door. The dirt floors of the stalls were covered with fresh straw and in front of each stall was a vertical wooden chute that connected to the haymow on the second floor of the barn, where Bess could easily pitch hay down to each stall below.
Bess was always happy, swelling with pride whenever her father would ask her to help him. Her full name was Elizabeth, but Papa usually called her “my Bessie” and most of her friends called her just “Bess.” She was her father’s helper, and sometimes Bess thought he would have preferred that she had been a boy, because he treated her more like a son and gave her many chores to do around the farm. She had to take care of fifty sheep—all ewes—that were kept in the small lower pasture down by the lake. It was an easy task, except when the ewes were having their lambs in the spring. Sometimes, Bess would get up as early as three in the morning to check for new lambs. It was a lot of work around shearing time too, when Old Man Lambert would help Papa shear the sheep so Papa could sell the wool.
Bess was also responsible for milking the Guernsey cow, Brocky, on a daily basis. Brocky was a fat old cow, white with burgundy-colored spots, and was a prolific milk producer. Bess would bring her into the barn each night and milk her early in the morning before school.
She loved doing tasks for him and always sought his approval, but she knew—and he knew—that she would draw the line if he ever hinted that someday she should become a grain elevator operator. For as long as she could remember, she wanted to be a rancher raising horses, cattle, and sheep. Why? she wondered. Because she loved living in the country and working with the livestock—sheep, cattle, and horses. Simple as that.
After putting Maggie in her stall, Bess went back to the buckboard and lugged the apple crate with ease to the root cellar. She stood a bit straighter as she carried the crate of apples—something Papa had taught her to do.
The root cellar was on the south side of the house and kept food supplies cool in the summer and at a steady humidity. In the winter, it provided protection from freezing, but last winter a few of Mama’s canned tomatoes froze and the glass containers broke. Bess carried the basket of a
pples down the stairs and stashed it in an open space on the second shelf to the right of the door. Then she grabbed an apple, took a bite, rushed up the stairs, and went inside.
Mama immediately said cheerfully, “Bess, please set the table. Supper is almost ready.”
Mama gave Bess chores to do, just like Papa did, but they were a bit more focused on maintaining the household. Her tasks included looking after the chickens and maintaining the chicken coop. They had thirty hens and one rooster, and Bess collected the eggs each day so Papa could take them into Cando to sell when the egg crate was full.
Mama also taught Bess how to cook, and Bess could cook most anything except for baking pies and bread. She knew how to pluck chickens and the occasional pheasants that Papa managed to shoot, and she knew how to cut them up for frying.
Mama had a special way to cook pheasant slowly so the meat wasn’t tough; she always mixed together spices that Papa would buy from the Watkins products man who stopped by the farm every month or so. Bess couldn’t remember his name and just referred to him as “the Watkins man.” But it was fun when he came to the house because Bess got to taste some of the spices when he spread the small containers on the dining table—something she always had looked forward to since she was a small child.
As Bess walked back and forth setting the table, Buck, the family dog, sat silently watching, his tongue hanging out, his tail wagging in excitement, and what looked like a smile on his face. Probably waiting for a treat, thought Bess. Buck was a border collie, and he was always helpful when Bess had to bring the sheep into the shed, especially in the winter. He was black and had a couple of white patches around his neck. His face was a golden-orange color, which made him a very pretty dog. He was obedient, always eager to respond when Bess told him what to do, and he was her best friend.
The house was neatly furnished, but it wasn’t fancy like Doc Johnson’s house in town or like pictures that Mama showed her in The Saturday Evening Post that Papa brought home from town, or sometimes in the Sears, Roebuck and Company catalog. The interior was painted a light shade of blue with white trim, and the windows had white lace curtains Mama had sewn from materials she’d bought from the dry goods store in Cando. There was a sofa in the living room, and a rather large fireplace that was appreciated during the harsh North Dakota winters. There were also two chairs, two kerosene lamps on two small tables, and an Adam Schaaf upright piano. Mama had brought the piano that her mother had given her before she and Giles moved to North Dakota from Northfield, Minnesota where Bess had been born. Mama had also made the large multi-colored rag rug that adorned the living room floor.
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