His letters were also filled with beautiful poetry. Lucinda wondered how he could clear his mind of the horror and devastation of war and bring forth such creative and marvelous poetry. Even his prose was often laced with metaphor and evocation of emotion in very much the same way their in-person discourses would be. They had always had deeply meaningful conversations. That was what she loved about him. Although she very much enjoyed every letter, it somehow wasn’t quite the same as seeing the excitement in his eyes and the animation on his face as he passionately discussed an idea or concept. She also loved his intelligence and astuteness and even his quiet moments of introspection. At those times, she would quietly but excitedly await his next words because in those words she knew she would learn something new about the world.
On most school days Lucinda would have sixteen students in attendance. Her teaching techniques consisted of group teaching, involving more advanced children in the tutoring of the less advanced ones. Those who could read well would patiently read with the ones who had not yet developed good language skills. Together, she and the students had cut large cards from paper upon which would then be printed in large letters, common everyday words. The cards would be used in a game setting, and points would be given for correct responses. It would be used for both reading and spelling enhancement. A similar technique was used for mathematics. The children enjoyed the games and Lucinda had various prizes for the day’s accomplishments, such as pieces of hard candy or fruit.
She believed children could learn much more than what was found in the traditional school books and she found inventive ways to stimulate their learning and encourage what she considered to be a natural hunger for knowledge.
She and James developed a curriculum that not only was challenging to the children but challenging to the both of them as teachers. She would post a quote for the day from some famous person of the past or present and it would be used for a topic of discussion at the next class.
As the school week was ending she gave them each their homework assignment for the weekend, which of course varied according to the grade level of each child.
She told the class, “Today’s quote is from Sir Richard Steele. He lived from 1672 to 1729.” She walked to the chalk board where the quote was printed out and pointed to each word as she read, “’Reading is to the mind what exercise is to the body.’ I want you to all write it down and take it home with you and think about it this weekend and we will discuss it on Monday.”
There was a murmur as the children copied the quote onto paper. For a few, their penmanship was slow and painstaking. Others wrote it out, closed their books and waited anxiously to be dismissed for the day. A few moments later, she told her students, “Class dismissed. Thomas, could I see you for a moment?”
She gathered up a report lying on her desk. Thomas Karns, a young man of seventeen, was one of her more advanced students but he was also a problem student and Lucinda had misgivings about his behavior. He was tall, and his adolescence had given way to a maturing body, muscular, and filling out with firmness. But despite his maturing appearance, he often acted immature and displayed a lack of respect for the other students and would direct inappropriate anger at them, even the young ones. He appeared to enjoy intimidating and threatening others and on several occasions Lucinda had to resort to discipline such as removing him from class. He approached her desk and she handed him his graded papers and said, “This is very good, Thomas.”
He smiled as he looked at the A mark on the top edge of the paper, “Thank you, Mrs. Garrison.”
She said, “You must have enjoyed the book.”
“Oh, I did.”
“Good. Let me know if you have any choices of books for your report next month.”
“All right, I will. I have been thinking of Plato. I recall Mr. Garrison spoke highly of his writings.”
“Yes, I’m sure he did. I believe you’d find Plato’s writings quite stimulating.”
He asked, “How is Mr. Garrison?”
“He’s doing well, thank you.”
“You must miss him.”
“Yes, I do,” she said. “I pray this war will be over soon.” She turned from him and began to gather up books. Thomas remained near her desk, watching her. She wondered if he was waiting for her to dismiss him. She said, “Thomas, you run along now. I’ll see you in class on Monday.”
He moved toward the door and then paused. “Is there anything I can help you with, Mrs. Garrison?”
She looked up from her task and said, “No, Thomas, but thanks for asking.” She noticed a blush on his face as he again started for the door.
As he reached for the door he asked, “Are you sure?”
She laughed lightly. “Yes, I’m sure. Please close the door on your way out.”
He hesitated and then said, “Yes, ma’am, but I could help you clean up.”
“Run along.”
As she turned again to her task, she heard the door shut behind her. She was aware he had an infatuation with her, one of the hazards of the job, she supposed. Male students often “fell in love” with their teachers and she knew being only a few years older than some of her students made the situation even more delicate. Of all her students, he was probably her greatest challenge. A bright young man, but she couldn’t help but believe he was a troubled young man. He was usually polite to her and when she had the need to correct him he usually did not challenge her authority but on one occasion he did, and on that day she sent him home and followed up with a meeting with his parents. She had warned them if there was another incident Thomas would be removed permanently from the school. Mr. Karns had not responded well to that news. For several days following, Thomas was quieter than usual in class.
She was looking forward to the weekend. Tomorrow she would spend the day with James’s brother Robert and his wife, Mary and their children. Tonight she would bake a fruit pie to take over for supper tomorrow and she would make some toys of yarn and wooden beads for the children.
When she left the schoolhouse she did not see Thomas standing at the edge of the woods watching her.
It was near sunset and Benjamin Storm watched the fading sun sink low on the horizon and disappear from sight. He turned from the third story hotel window in Iowa City and crossed the room to the bed. He tossed his brother’s letter onto the bed and sat on the edge of the bed. He picked up a bottle of whiskey and poured the liquid into a glass. In two gulps, he downed the liquor, set the glass on the side table and reclined on the bed.
As the sky outside darkened he listened to the chirping of the crickets, the only sound except for the occasional shuffling of someone in the next room.
He was nearly twenty-seven now, and he had to admit, lonely. It was a loneliness he had created for himself. If the Storm family had a “Black Sheep” most would consider he to be it. His younger brother, Silas, had the respect of all who knew him, a fact that Benjamin was envious of.
He reached for Silas’s letter and read through it again. Even in war time it was obvious to Benjamin his brother excelled. He always did. He even sounded as if he liked being a soldier as crazy as that sounded. Ah, maybe he’s just underplaying how horrific the war is, hoping to alleviate any worry at home, Benjamin decided. But he’d heard enough war stories to know it was an atrocious war, so who was Silas trying to kid? He was just playing his usual game, trying to sound better than everyone else. Or at least better than me, he thought.
Benjamin could not deny, even to himself, that it was his own actions that had lessened any respect he might have from others. He also knew he was a disappointment to his father, Michael. He would often see the distressed look on his father’s face when his father would try to divert Benjamin’s anger into more acceptable behavior. The two of them worked side by side at his father’s shingle mill and Michael’s greatest concern was Benjamin’s curtness or rudeness displayed toward customers. Over the years, Michael had more than once hauled Benjamin into the office and lectured him. Benjamin w
ould grit his teeth and take his father’s fury, only because he knew it was warranted. He supposed his father kept him at the shingle mill because he was an excellent wood craftsman. If he had not been, he knew his father would not have welcomed him back into the family fold and business after his five-year disappearance.
He had been back in Story County for nearly two years. When he had returned, his father asked little, but Benjamin knew his reason for leaving hurt his father deeply.
His father, Michael told him, “You’ve denied me my granddaughter and I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for that.”
The words stung. They had an argument. Michael made further accusations. Benjamin grew furious and ended the argument by walking out of the mill office.
But despite his anger at his father, Benjamin was not sure if he could ever forgive himself for that, either. Since his return from Illinois, he had seen his little girl holding her mother Bessie’s hand as they walked in town. At those times, Bessie would give him a cold, hard stare and he would turn away. He had been young and obstinate seven years ago, but he knew then, as he knew now, the little girl was his, even though he had gone to great lengths to deny it. But he also knew then he could not have married Bessie. The only thing good between them was sex. The thought of marrying her and being stuck in that situation gave him a sick feeling in his stomach—and it still did even now when he thought about it. He had learned to numb his feelings of guilt with alcohol and most of the time it worked for him.
As Benjamin lay staring at the ceiling in the dim light of the hotel room his thoughts went back to his teenage years—and Bessie Winter. She was two years older than he. A rather homely girl, she had a well-established reputation of being wild and carefree when out of view of her strict father, the Reverend Jacob Winter, pastor of the Collins Baptist Church. Reverend Winter often preached passionately of sin and wickedness and Benjamin knew the Reverend had no idea his own daughter was a glowing example of those iniquities. Benjamin chuckled as he thought if Reverend Winter had known how sinful his teenage daughter had been, the reverend might have committed a cardinal sin such as murder.
Bessie had bedded just about every young man in town. But Benjamin had not been one of them. That was, not until one summer night when he was nineteen.
Bessie had her eye on Benjamin for several years and he would often find her trailing after him. Benjamin would politely but firmly reject her but she was persistent and would continue to approach him after numerous rejections.
Persistence often pays off.
One hot, humid July evening Benjamin had been drinking with friends in town. He left uptown and was walking toward home when Bessie caught up with him. She began teasing him about his limp, the result of an injury to his left leg in an accident at the shingle mill. It had not healed properly and left him with a slight limp to his gait. He became angry with her and she then apologized for the teasing. But her teasing continued in another vain, one of sexual innuendo. He soon allowed it to become a game between them as he teased her in return. His response intensified her sexual flirting. She giggled and danced around him as he walked, his limp more pronounced by the alcohol. As they left town behind, she became bolder in her sensuous actions. His intoxication, along with his own sexual verve, dissolved all resistance as she stood close to him with firm breasts exposed. It had taken his breath away. On that hot summer night Benjamin lost his virginity in a freshly plowed Iowa field under the July full moon. Any homeliness he had previously seen in Bessie was blurred and replaced by her naked beauty as he experienced sex in all its glory. That night was only the first of a long series of forbidden sexual encounters with Bessie that was to last into the fall months.
But that summer had also been the beginning of his heavy alcohol consumption. He not only drank whiskey in the evenings after he completed work at the shingle mill, but before long had carried a flask with him during the day and it would often be empty by the time the sun was setting.
Their sexual encounters became almost an obsession for him as did the drinking. On an autumn afternoon Bessie told him she was pregnant. The news shocked and frightened him.
“You can’t be,” he told her. Somehow he had never thought that might happen.
“I am, Benjie.” Her face was tense and her dark eyes did not leave his as she awaited his reply.
Benjamin, leaning against the trunk of a big hardwood tree, moved away from the tree and from Bessie and began to pace in his nervousness. He kicked at a clump of dirt with the toe of his boot. He did not look at her as he said, “Well, it ain’t mine!”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not! And don’t you say it is!”
She pleaded, “Benjamin, you have to marry me.”
“I ain’t marrying you. No way.”
Tears ran down her cheeks as she begged, “Please, Benjamin, you must. When my daddy finds out, he’ll kill me.” She grabbed his arm. “Please!”
He jerked away from her grasp. “You’ve been fuck’n every guy in town and I’m not about to marry some whore!”
“No, you’re wrong. It’s your baby!”
“No! You just leave me alone.” He walked briskly away from her. She was sobbing as she chased after him. “Benjamin, please,” she begged. She grabbed onto him and fell to her knees.
He continued to move away, dragging her along. She was near hysterical. “Benjamin!” He pulled away from her and she lay in the dirt, choking back sobs.
He stood over her, sweat dripping from his brow, and said with disgust, “You get out of my life, Bessie. You find some other guy to take you to the altar. Not me!”
He would never forget the stricken look in her dark eyes at that moment, and the smeared dirt mixed with tears on her face. He turned and walked away. He did not look back.
He could not look back.
That evening he went on a drinking binge like never before. He was drunk for three days. When he came out of the drunken stupor, still somewhat in a haze, he was also frightened, a feeling he really did not want to face. He did not hear from Bessie for about a month and as the days went by his fear was slowly fading. But one day it returned in full force when he was confronted at the shingle mill by Reverend Winter.
The good reverend had his Bible in one hand and a rifle in the other and his teary-eyed daughter close behind him. A scuffle broke out between the two men while the terrified Bessie looked on. Michael heard the commotion out front and came running out of the mill at the moment his son struck the Reverend, knocking him to the ground where a pile of logs were stacked. Reverend Winter struck his head on a log and the impact cut his scalp. Benjamin went into a panic when he saw the blood. Fearing the Constable would arrest him, Benjamin took advantage of the confusion of the moment to run. And he had kept running. He did not return to Story County for five years and during that time did not let even his family know his whereabouts.
By the time he had returned Bessie was married and had a second child. The rumor that went around town was that Reverend Winter had paid off Howard Little to marry his daughter, saving his family from much embarrassment. Benjamin was sure the rumor had solid basis as Howard came from a poor family and when he married Bessie he bought a hotel/restaurant in town, something he could never have done on his own.
Benjamin knew if his father realized just how serious his drinking problem was he might not have so readily welcomed him back into the family fold. He had become skilled at hiding his heavy drinking from others. He spent most of his time alone, which made it much easier to drink all he wanted. Still single, he had little interest in marrying. If asked why he had not married he would say the right woman hadn’t come along. He also spent his time on his art. He did wood carvings of birds and animals, a craft he developed as a teenager as a result of his grandfather Alexander’’s influence. His art renderings had brought him some recognition and good prices for his art in the city, especially when he had been in Chicago.
A lot had happened while he had been in C
hicago those five years. He had fallen in love.
Now, it seemed so long ago. She was beautiful with long golden hair the color of warm sunlight on corn silk in the fields. He sighed deeply as he thought about her. She was the reason that he was not interested in pursuing any relationship with any of the available women in town. He had not met anyone who came even remotely close to what he had found in her. There had been a couple of women who had looked his way in recent time but he kept his distance, not wanting anyone to get close.
He had met her at a dance. He could still smell the perfume she wore that night—a light scent of fresh flowers that had assaulted his senses. When he had asked her if she would like to dance she replied with a smile, “Of course.”
They danced together until the music ended that evening. When they parted they had made a promise to see each other again.
Although they did not see each other for two weeks, she had not left his mind in those fourteen days. The next five months had been a blur of fun and joy, of lovemaking and sharing. They were in love and their talk turned to a future together and if she had said yes he would have married her that first month.
During their time together he struggled to control his drinking, aware she was disturbed by it, but he often failed.
The rain had been falling heavily one Sunday afternoon when he had taken her to the train station. The wind was blowing the rain into their faces and her hair was drenched as he kissed her goodbye. She had promised to write him from Philadelphia. At first her letters came weekly but before long they became scarce. Every bone in his body had told him to go to Philadelphia as he felt their connection dissolving but he did not go. Something he regretted to this day.
Corn Silk Days: Iowa, 1862 Page 7