Dying to Decorate

by Cyndy Salzmann

  “Count your blessings, Jess,” Kelly adds. “I had to work with the queen of the chalk line.”

  “Don’t even think about going there, Kel,” I warn.

  “I’m just kidding, Liz. I know I gave you a hard time. Forgive me?” asks Kelly with pleading, puppy-dog eyes.

  I sigh dramatically. “I already have. I’m that kind of person.”

  A corporate groan.

  “Actually, Liz, you really came through in the kitchen,” says Jess. “I have to get the recipe for that casserole you made for breakfast this morning.”

  “On one condition,” I reply. “If Janelle gives me the recipe for her Banana Split Cake. I am still dreaming about the luscious pairing of strawberries, pineapple, and hot fudge.”

  Janelle lets out a hearty laugh. “Lizzie, you are my kind of gal!”

  “I’m not usually the one getting us back on track,” Mary Alice interrupts politely, “but I am dying to know what happened to the Simmons family.”

  “Well, Janelle,” says Aunt Bette, “would you like to start or shall I?”

  “You go on ahead, Miss Henrietta. I’ll fill in as need be.”

  “Very well, dear,” replies Aunt Bette. “Just like all of you, I had a head full of questions after I finished reading my grandmother’s journal. And, unfortunately, those most likely to have known the answers had already passed on.”

  Marina raises her hand. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need to keep things straight in my mind. Anna Simmons was your grandmother, right?”

  “That’s right, dear. Her married name was Crawford.”

  “Like yours,” says Mary Alice. “So her son must have been your father?”

  Aunt Bette smiles at Mary Alice across the table. “Exactly. You have a talent for genealogy, my dear.”

  Mary Alice smiles shyly.

  “As I said, by the time I found my grandmother’s journal, all I had left in the way of family history were some scraps of conversation I remembered having with my grandmother when I was a little girl and, of course, what was recorded in the family Bible.”

  “You still have the old Simmons Bible?” I blurt out. This is getting interesting.

  “Yes, dear, I do. My grandmother, Anna, passed it to my mother . . . and she to me. I always intended for it to go to your mother, Lucy, when I passed on.”

  This time Lucy is the one to reach for Aunt Bette’s hand as tears threaten to spill from her lashes.

  “I do miss your mother, dear. She was very special to me.”

  “I miss her too.”

  “I didn’t mean to get all maudlin.” Aunt Bette takes out a lace-trimmed handkerchief and quietly blows her nose. “Let me tell you what I was able to piece together. Unfortunately, her father and my great-grandfather, Joseph Simmons, never returned from the war. It appears he died of smallpox while stationed in Missouri.”

  “Was that recorded in the family Bible?” asks Lucy.

  “Just basic information—the date, location, and cause of his death. He is buried at Jefferson Barracks Cemetery near St. Louis.”

  “That’s so sad,” says Mary Alice. “I guess Big Henry must have died too.”

  “That’s what I assumed until I did a little more digging. Lois, down at the hall of records, helped me sort through a bunch of old documents.”

  I am always amazed at how much history is tucked inside seemingly boring public documents. For a nosy reporter like me, pulling open a dusty, old file cabinet is like opening a sunken treasure chest. “So what’d you find?” I ask.

  Aunt Bette raises her eyebrows conspiratorially. “The most useful piece of information was Joseph’s will. By the date, it appears he wrote it just before he was transferred to the island to care for smallpox patients. This is what he alluded to in his letter. I’m assuming you read it?”

  “As you said earlier, Aunt Bette,” Kelly says, laughing, “we may be old, but we are not dead.”

  “Well put, my dear.” Aunt Bette chuckles. “Well, Joseph’s will was a little unusual because he included his reasons behind the disposition of his property and assets.”

  “So he emphasized the testament part of his last will and testament,” says Mary Alice.

  “That’s exactly right, my dear,” replies Aunt Bette. “I suspect he didn’t want to worry his family, but as a doctor, he knew very well the risk he was taking by moving to the island. Joseph must have believed it was important for his wife and daughter to know why he felt compelled to request the transfer.”

  “Aunt Bette, you’re killing me here,” complains Marina. “I can’t stand the suspense. What’d the will say?”

  “She is very direct, isn’t she, dear?” asks Aunt Bette, tilting her head toward Marina but looking at me.

  I laugh. “Direct is putting it mildly.”

  “I guess I do have trouble getting to—how do you young people put it?—getting to the chase.”

  Marina sighs.

  I flash her a stern look.

  She shrugs and looks away.

  “Very well, I won’t torture you any longer, dear,” says Aunt Bette with a wink. “In his will, Joseph relayed an incident in which his base had been attacked by Confederate sympathizers in the middle of the night. Big Henry, who was housed in a nearby barracks, had put his own life in peril to alert Joseph and lead him to safety. Joseph credited Henry with saving his life.”

  “That’s so cool,” I say. “Joseph helped Henry when he needed a safe place, and Henry was able to return the favor.”

  “Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends,” whispers Lucy.

  “John 15:13,” adds Jess.

  For a quiet moment, no one speaks.

  “Joseph also noted that he hoped God would give him the chance to share these experiences with his family in person,” Aunt Bette continues. “But if that were not to be the case, he felt there should be a record to help them understand his last wishes. The will specified that if Henry survived him, Joseph’s gold watch and medical instruments should be sold . . . with the money given to Henry to finance his move west.

  “So he could follow his dream,” I surmise.

  “That’s not all,” adds Aunt Bette. “The will also contained Joseph’s wishes that a quarter section of his land, as well as the old cabin, be made available to Henry to farm as long as he desired.”

  “That’s very generous,” says Kelly, “but I thought Big Henry wanted to run cattle out West.”

  “I’ve always suspected Joseph included this stipulation in the will to help Henry raise the necessary funds to purchase and stock a cattle ranch.”

  “That would allow him to be his own boss,” I reason.

  “For the first time in his life,” Lucy says in a low tone, “Henry would be his own master.”

  Silence reigns for a moment before Marina pipes up. “So did Big Henry survive the war? Did he ever come back to Tredway?”

  “Janelle, why don’t you take the story from here?” Aunt Bette pats her longtime friend on the hand.

  We all look at Janelle quizzically.

  What does she have to do with this story? I think.

  Before she utters a word, her wide smile answers my question.

  “You are a descendant of Big Henry,” I say.

  Janelle smiles even wider. “Henry Miller was my great-great-granddaddy.”

  “No!” Jess exclaims.

  Then, as if on cue, our questions spill out at once.

  “So he survived the smallpox epidemic?” asks Mary Alice.

  “Are you saying Big Henry settled in Tredway?” asks Marina.

  “Why didn’t Henry move west as he’d always dreamed?” asks Kelly.

  Janelle answers with her warm laugh. “Slow down, ladies! One at a time! I’m an old woman!”

  “Not that old!” exclaims Aunt Bette.

  More laughter. When we finally settle down, Janelle continues. “Here is where things get a little foggy. After Miss Henrietta found her grandmama’s journal,
we began to piece together what we knew from both families.”

  “I must admit,” giggles Aunt Bette, “I felt a bit like Inspector Holmes.”

  Janelle grins. “So I guess that makes me—”

  “My dear Watson!” exclaims Aunt Bette.

  Both women break out in laughter at their own joke.

  While the rest of us chuckle politely, Marina points to her watch.

  Still giggling, Aunt Bette says, “We better get back to the story, dear. I think our hostesses are losing patience.”

  Janelle sputters and takes a drink of water. “All right then, I’ll go on with my story. I remember my granny tellin’ me she was born in the old cabin behind Locust Hill. She lived there as a little girl with her parents and grandparents. Her name was Mary Miller. Her granddaddy was Henry.”

  Aunt Bette leans forward. “And I remembered that my grandmother always spoke fondly of a man named Henry who used to live in the old cabin.”

  “I think I saw it when we were working in the garden,” says Jess. “Just west of the orchard, right?”

  Aunt Bette nods. “That’s it.”

  “Is this the cabin the Simmons lived in while Joseph finished the house?” I ask.

  “I would think so,” replies Aunt Bette. “Until I found my grandmother’s diary, I assumed Henry must have been a hired hand.”

  “I wonder if he came back after the war to look after Emily and Anna,” I muse.

  “That’s my guess, dear,” Aunt Bette adds. “I remember my grandmother saying, ‘Henry took good care of us.’”

  “But Henry had been through so much already,” says Lucy. “Surely he deserved to . . .”

  “Yes, he did,” says Aunt Bette, answering Lucy’s unspoken question. “But some people make a different choice for the sake of someone they love.”

  Again, silence reigns. I look around the table at the faces of my friends and realize we’re all probably thinking the same thing. We had expected our FAC at Locust Hill to be a girlfriends’ getaway, with a little work on the side. What we hadn’t planned on was the work taking place in our hearts. All because of events that took place a long time ago.

  Marina, the detective, doesn’t miss a beat. “OK. So, we have a pretty good idea of what happened to Joseph and Big Henry. But you still haven’t spilled the beans on Anna and Emily. Why didn’t Anna finish her story?”

  “Marina, this is not a novel!” I exclaim. “It’s real life. Real people. Stuff happens.”

  “Ouch!” says Marina. “I just asked a simple question.”

  Jess covers my hand with hers, signaling me not to take Marina’s bait. “Maybe Anna quit writing in her journal when she found out about her father’s death,” she suggests. “It might have been too painful.”

  “Also, she and her mother were left alone in Nebraska, which was definitely in the middle of nowhere back then,” Lucy adds. “They had enough to do just to survive. It had to be frightening for them.”

  Marina shakes her head. “From the way Anna described her mom, I wouldn’t call Emily Simmons a shrinking violet.”

  “Definitely not,” says Aunt Bette. “Despite her youthful naiveté and early fears about working with the Underground Railroad, neither was my grandmother. After the war both Emily and Anna became very active in the women’s groups that formed to support missionary work here and abroad. In fact, before she married, Anna served as a missionary for ten years among displaced African Americans in Mississippi.”

  “What about Emily?” asks Lucy. “I find it hard to believe Anna would leave her mother all alone.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Emily’s idea,” replies Aunt Bette. “You’d do the same thing, dear. I can’t imagine you’d want to keep your daughter from answering God’s call on her life.”

  “Of course not, but things are different now.”

  “The years may pass, but people are still the same. There are many ways a mother can keep her children tied to her—both spoken and unspoken. And sometimes with the best of intentions.”

  Once again, I try to put myself in Emily’s place. What if Katie wanted to go to the mission field? And what if she felt called to the Middle East, where in some countries people—including women—are beheaded simply for speaking out about their faith? Would I try to talk her out of it?

  Maybe.

  Probably.

  Definitely.

  And what would be my reasoning? Am I more concerned about my child’s safety? Or am I more afraid about how I would survive if something should happen to my child?

  I hate self-examination.

  I shiver in spite of the warmth of Sally’s Diner. Luckily I don’t have to venture too far into the depths of my psyche. I can always count on Marina to change the subject.

  “So any more information you two are still keeping close to the vest?”

  Even Aunt Bette’s wrinkles smile at this question. “No, that’s about all I know. What do you think, Janelle? Have we forgotten anything?”

  “No, other than what’s up on the hill. They might wanna see the inscriptions.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” declares Aunt Bette. “There’s a tombstone in the cemetery near the church that marks Big Henry’s grave. I think you might find the inscription interesting.”

  “Perhaps we can stop by on our way out of town,” Lucy suggests.

  “If you do, you might also want to read the stones marking Emily’s and Anna’s graves. It’s amazing what you can find out in a graveyard.”

  “Graveyard!” Marina shivers. “That reminds me. How did the rumor about Locust Hill’s being some sort of haunted house get started?”

  There’s a twinkle in Aunt Bette’s blue eyes. “Think about it, my dear. If you were women living alone, conducting secret activities, would you consider dispelling such a convenient rumor?”

  Marina whistles. “Very crafty.”

  “Well now, ladies,” Aunt Bette announces, pushing back her chair, “I will ask if one of you is willing to bring me home to Orrick. I am overdue for my afternoon nap.”

  “Oh yes,” agrees Janelle. “How I look forward to the sweet Sabbath!”

  Since by now it’s already late Sunday afternoon and our families will be wondering where we are, Kelly and Mary Alice agree to drop Janelle at the church to collect her car and then close up Locust Hill. The rest of us drive Aunt Bette home. On the way back, Lucy asks if Marina minds stopping by the Tredway cemetery.

  It doesn’t take long to find Emily’s simple grave marker. It lists her name, dates of birth and death, and a Scripture reference.

  I stop to do a little math. “Wait a minute. This says Emily died in 1873. If Anna was in the mission field for ten years . . .”

  “Her mother had to have died before she returned from Mississippi,” says Lucy, a tremor in her voice. “I wonder if she ever saw her again?”

  As Lucy jots down the Scripture reference from the gravestone—Micah 6:8—Marina calls to us from an adjacent section of the cemetery: “I think I found Big Henry’s grave.”

  After reading the inscription on Henry’s marker, we drive back to Omaha. I’m not surprised that our conversation is subdued. While I think about Joseph, Emily, Anna—even Aunt Bette—my thoughts keep going back to Big Henry. In spite of all the hardship and indignity he weathered throughout his life, the inscription on his gravestone remains an enduring, powerful testament to his deep faith and strong character.

  IF EVER THE SUN SHONE IN THE HEART OF A MAN,

  IT SHONE IN THE HEART OF HENRY MILLER.

  COWPOKE CHICKEN

  6 boneless, skinless chicken breasts

  2/3 cup cream cheese with chives

  6 slices bacon

  1/2 cup ranch dressing

  1/2 cup salsa

  Instructions

  1. Put a dollop of cream cheese in the center of each chicken breast.

  2. Roll the breast up and wrap with a slice of bacon.

  3. Bake at 350 degrees for 25 minutes, or until
chicken is no longer pink in the center.

  4. Meanwhile, mix dressing and salsa. Serve with chicken.

  TROPICAL PIE

  1 (16 oz.) can crushed pineapple, undrained

  1 (3 oz.) box vanilla instant pudding

  1 cup sour cream

  1 vanilla cookie crust (or graham cracker crust)

  3 cups nondairy topping (Cool Whip) or whipped cream

  1/4 cup toasted coconut, if desired

  Instructions

  1. Mix pineapple, pudding, and sour cream. Put into crust.

  2. Chill for 2 hours.

  3. Top with whipped topping and coconut (if desired) before serving.

  AUDREY’S STRAWBERRY SPINACH SALAD

  1 bag fresh spinach

  16 oz. fresh strawberries, sliced

  1 cup mozzarella cheese, shredded

  1/2 red onion, thinly sliced

  1/2 cup pecans

  2 tablespoons lime juice

  2 tablespoons sugar

  1/4 cup vegetable oil

  2 tablespoons vinegar

  Instructions

  1. Toss spinach, strawberries, cheese, onions, and pecans in a large salad bowl.

  2. For dressing, whisk together lime juice, sugar, oil, and vinegar.

  3. Just before serving, pour over spinach mixture.

  After the FAC weekend in Tredway, I float into my home in Omaha, buoyed by the human spirit. A spirit that would risk all to fight injustice, to minister to a friend, to train up a child. My own spirit soars as I contemplate the various causes I might champion to better the world for future generations.

  It’s probably good that I’m soaring, because as soon as I step into the kitchen, reality hits. I feel the familiar riiippppp of my foot sticking to the kitchen floor.

  This cannot be the same floor I mopped on Thursday, can it? Could I be at the wrong address? What happened to the house I worked so hard to put in order before I left?

  Before I can fully ponder these questions, Daisy comes charging around the corner, with my son in hot pursuit.

  “Hi, Mom,” Josh calls. “What’s for dinner?”

  I carefully rein in the hateful hag’s leash before she can answer in my stead. “I missed you, too, sweetheart,” I reply carefully.