A Bridge Named Susan

by Sharon Chase Hoseley

  Mama came down the stairs. “Is it set for Saturday?” Her dull voice echoed in the emptiness. Papa nodded. “Susie …” I hugged my mama. She needed me to hug her, but I needed even more for her to hug me. I must know that the love I worked so hard to earn was still in her. “Susie, we’re leaving. Too old to work land. No help. No seed money …” She sat in her little chair, her own emotions rocking to the rhythm of her falling tears.

  “Papa, can I talk to you for a minute?” I motioned toward the porch. “I’d like to see the barn again.” I wanted to get far enough away so Mama couldn’t hear. Standing on the straw-covered floor, I cleared my voice, “Papa, I need to tell you that Johnny and Alice are gone. They won’t be coming back. They left for California. Thought Johnny could get a job there.” There was no change of expression on his face. “Alice came by the cabin and told me.”

  “I know where they’ve gone and I know how they’re gettin’ there.” Papa’s voice cracked. “It’s a chicken’s way out. Took the savings, bought a car, left a horrible note …”

  “What note? Edna told me the note said they had gone to town with friends.”

  “Oh, that note. It was an old one. I traded it for the one I destroyed. The one full of hateful, mean things would’ve killed your mother. Can’t lose my son and my wife too.”

  Chapter 41

  The Auction and Beyond

  I sent a hastily written note to Tom by the mailman on Saturday, hoping he’d read it before Monday. I urged Mr. Denton to put it directly in his hands. “It’s extremely important.” I was telling my husband the quick version of the auction, moving, and how I needed to stay until the sale was over. I knew he’d understand.

  A farm auction’s like a giant rummage sale. Edna and I helped Papa move equipment in a row so it could be examined easier. We put planks on sawhorses and laid tools from the barn in a neat row. Papa put a few in the back of the truck he thought he might need on a new place. From the house, we brought two beds, dressers, washstands, buckets, anything that probably wouldn’t be useful in the city.

  I helped box up books, pictures, clothes, bedding, dishes, and pots and pans. My phonograph would go home with me when Tom came. The rest was put in the yard for auction. The cast iron cookstove and the telephone on the wall would be sold with the house. What scary memories those held for me when the lightning had flashed across the room.

  Come Friday, we loaded the folks’ bed in the pickup. Uncle Jim came with a wagon and loaded the other furniture.

  We spent the night sleeping on the floor. This floor, I thought, how many times did I scrub this floor on my hands and knees from the time I was six? Scrubbing had been my job. I made a game of it, naming each board by its color, pattern, and size. That one in the middle was Mighty Little Mountain. A short little board with a mountain-shaped woodgrain, it was walked on continuously, making it mighty strong. My game extended into talking to each piece. “Good to see you today, Miss Tall Brown. Where have you been to get so dirty?” This floor taught me to make light when life hands you a tough row to hoe. I reached out my hand and ran it over the worn, smooth wood. I had one more thing to say, Thank you.

  Up at sunrise, I laid out bread, apricots from the tree, some raspberries, and butter. A strange meal, but it satisfied our hunger. The auction was set for nine o’clock to give farmers time to get chores finished. Life moved a little faster now with vehicles. The first potential buyers started arriving a half hour early. Mostly men. Some brought their wives, and a couple of young farmers even their children. Sometimes at auctions there would be refreshments, but this hardship sale wouldn’t have any. The auctioneer began right at nine. No dillydallying. Farmers were busy people in summer. It was hard to hear items selling for mere pennies of what they cost. I glanced at Papa. He was nodding, even smiled once in a while. Mama’s blank expression gave no clues about her feelings.

  The farm itself was the last to sell. Mama had homesteaded it over forty years ago. This would be the hardest to release. Three men earnestly bid. That was good. It meant the price would go higher. The bidding slowed as each man mentally calculated the cost versus the value of the future crops. One dropped out, leaving two dueling to the end. One hundred fifty acres plus a two-story, five-bedroom house, large barn, chicken coop, pig pen, orchard, and large garden plot sold for one thousand five hundred and fifty-five dollars. The auctioneer banged his gavel, and the sale was finished. It seemed a good price considering the times.

  There was a collective sigh from all four of us. It was enough. Enough to buy a new place in Lewiston and start over. Farmers and families came to say goodbye, giving their well wishes. These forever friends shared good times and hard times through many years.

  The dust along the road announced a car arriving, which held the man I loved. He loaded the phonograph in the trunk. “Looks like we’ll be hearing music,” he remarked. “Edna, you ride with us. We’re going to Lewiston and help unload.”

  Mama looked sharply at Tom. “We don’t have no place to unload,” she scowled.

  Papa put a hand on Mama’s shoulder. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Tom and I bought ten acres and the old water office building in the Lewiston Orchards last Thursday. It’s just sitting there waiting for us to move in.” Both men were grinning ear to ear.

  Chapter 42

  Baby Silence

  With Mama, Papa, and Edna semi-settled in their new home, Tom and I put all the energy we could muster into the remaining trees. Four years of survival have passed. There never could be one as bad as the first year. Each year progressed in comfort, but it never felt like home. Four years of sawing, cutting, and debarking. We’d become proficient by this time. The question is, with only one year left to fill our contract, could we make the deadline? The remnant of two acres was downhill, making it more difficult to move the logs to the pickup site. What would happen if we didn’t finish? I giggled at the thought. Would they just kick us out? No matter. Our five years would be up. The worst would be a demand for rent. How much would that be?

  The subject of babies kept popping up as friends stopped to visit. Everyone seemed to be expecting. Katherine was the first. They’d been married for five years. Delmar could talk of nothing except, “When the baby comes, we’ll …” Katherine was glowing. She chattered about the things she was crocheting for the baby, the bed that Delmar had made for the baby, the quilt our grandmama had made for the baby. The baby, the baby, the baby! Every expectant couple was totally wrapped up in “the baby.” Each time they went on their way, I endured many days of Tom silence.

  Isn’t it interesting how blind we can be to others’ feelings when good things are happening to us? It’s a devastation of the heart. Those families had no idea the deep hurts their “baby excitement” caused us. Was this hurt of our own making? Maybe we suffered because we never shared our own longing for a baby. We were afraid to say it out loud and have everyone feel sorry for us. Pity is a dreadful thing to endure. It’s on the edge of toppling over into shame. Tom and I were quite the pair. Neither of us expressed our own thoughts or needs. Our childless situation after six years of marriage had driven a strong, unspoken wedge between us.

  What could I do but pray like Hannah. I tried to convince myself I wasn’t the only childless woman who ever lived. Digging out my Bible, I reread the story of Hannah. She was desperate for a child, like me. She was mocked because she had no children, like me. Mine was a mocking of my own making. She begged God to open her womb, like me. She prayed and wept in anguish, like me. She promised to give her child back to the Lord—unlike me. “No, Lord, I couldn’t possibly give up my child. Hannah was a far stronger woman than me.” I would have to chew on this thought.

  Silence. That’s the problem at hand. I must find a way to pull Tom back, divert him away from thinking he’s a failure. I changed my strategy and tried the chatter technique again. Every morning, I greeted my husband with a kiss, a smile, and small talk. “I found a
patch of wild strawberries yesterday. I’ll go pick some for supper after we get the trees cut. The green beans are doing well. Much better than last year. I’m going to collect some of the pitch and save it. I heard it can be used for medicine …” I go on and on, only to be met by silence.

  Tom made the trip to the spring every other day for fresh water. Once a month, he went to town to stock up on supplies. The car certainly made that easier. He never invited me to go along. Looking at my worn-out, faded dresses, I certainly understood. They were at least two sizes too big. If it hadn’t been for my apron tied firmly around my waist, I believe they would have just slipped off. What a sight I must be. I hadn’t seen myself in a full-length mirror since we lived in Clarkston. Thank goodness for the small pair of sewing scissors that I painstakingly used to keep my hair short. There was no time to fuss with beauty of the body out in the woods.

  On October 1, Tom came home with the winter supplies for us and the animals. He also brought bullets for the rifle. “What’s this?” I asked.

  “What’s it look like?” He threw back. “Going huntin’ so we’ll have meat.”

  “You bought a hunting license? Deer or elk?”

  “Are you daft, woman? I could never bring down an elk with this little pea shooter.” He picked up the gun and walked out the door. Later, I heard the bam, bam of target practice.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon squirreling away the supplies. “Lord, help him have a successful hunt. He needs to succeed at something right now.”

  Chapter 43

  Christmas of ’34

  It was a mild winter. If we could make it to the main highway, roads might be clear for us to go to the folks for Christmas. Snow in Lewiston was always lighter because of the low elevation of seven hundred feet.

  “Could we go a day early so I could do some gift-shopping?” I dared ask one morning.

  “I s’pose.” He smiled at me. “Write Neen. See if we could stay at her place.”

  His sister, Neva, had married a man twenty-two years her senior. Otis was a tiny, quiet man. He owned ten acres in the Orchards where he raised produce. They never had children. It would be a safe place away from baby conversation. “Maybe they wouldn’t even mind if we stayed until New Year’s and we could go back to our holiday tradition,” I ventured.

  “Could be. I’ll see if one of the Zhalber boys would milk Bessy and feed the horses. I’m sure they could use the milk with all those young-uns.” They had added two in the last four and a half years.

  With winter approaching, our expectant family members and friends visited less and the mood in our home became lighter. Our spirits were high as the holidays approached. I made a shopping list for my family. It was easy to think of things since they’d given up so much last spring. Edna loved to draw. I saw colored pencils in a catalogue. I hoped they had them in the stores. Mama lost one of her favorite blue earrings. I’d look for another pair that matched the color of her eyes. Papa dropped his pocket watch, and he’d been living on “sun time.” Tom. What to get Tom? A gift needed to be something from me. If I bought him something, it would be from our money, not from me. I’d have to think about this.

  Originally, the water office, which now served as home to the folks, had one long room for people to come in and pay bills, with three smaller rooms for the office workers. Someone had remodeled it into a house. They created a living room from the reception area, cut an arch into the end office for a dining room, another arch into the next office for a kitchen, and then kept the doors on the adjoining room for a bedroom. The front door held a cut-glass panel of a magnificent elk. The only other building was an outhouse about one hundred feet from the backdoor.

  Papa spent the summer digging a root cellar next to the house and building a screened porch over it. On one side of the porch, he made a door on the floor with stairs leading down to shelves lined with jars of vegetables and fruit from the summer garden. The Transparent Apple tree next to the house had provided gallons of applesauce. The old cherry tree in the middle of the grassy field yielded many jars of deep, red Bings. They would have food for winter.

  With only one bedroom, Edna slept on the davenport in the living room. That meant she had to get up early every morning before going to school, fold up her blankets, and turn it into a sitting room. Being a teenager, she hated everything. Letter after letter she raged on and on. “The school is too big, I’ll never make friends here. The school work’s too hard. The teachers expect me to know too much. The first day of school, I got off the bus at the wrong corner and was walking in the horrid heat when Aunt Grace and Belledene came along and gave me a ride home. It was so embarrassing. I have to ride a smelly, old bus to school then walk a mile when I get home. Everybody teases me. Can I please come live with you?” As much as my heart wanted to rescue her, I knew it couldn’t be. She would find a way. We all find our own way to survive.

  Neen welcomed us with open arms. Since they had only one bedroom, we slept on her Daveno. How convenient this invention was! You grab under the front seat and lift it. It would tip into a V shape. By pushing it further, a lock released then you pull it toward you and it flattens into a double bed. This was definitely something on my list of furniture, if we ever get a home of our own.

  We were on Lewiston’s main street as soon as the stores opened. With a twinkle in his eye, Tom gave me money with orders, “Don’t spend it all in one place.” While he visited some friends he bumped into, I slipped off to explore on my own with a promise to meet at Montgomery Ward in an hour and a half. I filled the list for my family within an hour. I was pleased. Now, Tom. Many new items lined the counters of the stores. My isolation for four and a half years on the Stick Ranch left me behind. I was fascinated by the men’s new-styled hats. Wouldn’t Tom look handsome in a gray front-peaked felt-brimmed hat? Never mind that he couldn’t wear it on the ranch. We wouldn’t be there forever. It wasn’t something he would buy for himself. I had enough to buy it and still have two dollars left. Hmm, what size? The clerk looked about Tom’s size. I inquired. He demonstrated. I bought. He even wrapped it discreetly so it didn’t look like a hat. What a surprise! My heart was full and happy. We stopped at the grocery store and bought a ham for Christmas dinner with the last two dollars.

  It was a peaceful Christmas Day. We ate till we were stuffed, washed up the dishes, then gathered in the living room to open gifts. Mama embroidered a new set of flour sack dish towels for us. Edna painted a picture that Papa framed. Everyone was delighted with my choice of gifts for them. The only one missing was Johnny. No one spoke of him, but his absence was very present.

  I saved my gift for Tom until last. It became his most prized possession, always crowning his head when he headed to town.

  Chapter 44

  River, Stay Away from My Door

  The snow left early and we tackled the last of the trees with gusto. We had paid back the thirty-five dollars we borrowed that first year of survival. We bought an old car, a used cookstove, a real bed, table and chairs, and had plenty to eat. Yes, we had made it through the Great Depression and even saved a little money.

  The anticipated letter from the government came the last week of May. “Thank you for clearing this plot of land. We appreciate your service. You will need to vacate this property by June 15, 1935.” Blood, sweat, and tears had been endured here. We’d have to sell the animals. It was a bittersweet leaving.

  Tom put out feelers for work, knowing we’d soon have to move. The Kerbys were the most promising employers. They owned a dairy called Cherry Lane Ranch. He went to see them the day after our notice came and was hired.

  Now the question was, where to live? Tom’s parents had sold their farm at Clearwater the year before. They rented the largest of three houses along the Clearwater River between the Lewiston Lumber Mill and Spaulding. The two houses next to them were empty. Tom moved us next to my much-feared father-in-law! The distance was shorter to the d
airy, but I was isolated from main traffic, telephones, and safety. High anxiety hounded me. How could Tom think of doing this to me? He knew how much I lived in fear of his father.

  Paris, Tom’s youngest brother, was sixteen and still lived at home. He worked in Lewiston. Frankie and her husband, Walt, temporarily moved in with their baby until a construction job opened up in Portland. With five adults and a baby girl living in the big house, Mother Chase was delighted to have so many of her family living around her. However, no one had the nerve to rebuke Tom’s father when he said suggestive things to me. Thank goodness Paris came to my rescue and quickly removed me from the situation. My grandma’s voice echoed, Be nice to others and they’ll be nice to you. My mind fought back, but this man wants me to be nice to him so he can destroy me. I can’t do it.

  Coming from cool mountain summers to unbearable valley heat was a shock to our systems. The sun’s glare bounced off the racing water, bringing extra misery. Mother Chase had started a garden on the easy sloping bank of the Clearwater River. Mornings were consumed with carrying buckets of water from the river to the top of vegetable rows and pouring it into ditches. It seemed futile to me. The sandy ground with small rocks protruding everywhere gobbled the water before it flowed halfway. She insisted it worked last year.

  The first months went well. Tending the garden and cleaning the house that sat empty for months kept me occupied. I managed to avoid confrontation with Tom’s father. “Tom’s father.” That’s all I could call him. Everything else seemed undeserving: Father, Papa, Dad? No, he had to earn those titles. He would be “Tom’s father.”

  I was expected to visit the big house each day. If I didn’t, they thought I was upset about something and would send Paris over. “Uh, everyone wants to know what you’re mad about,” he would say. “You didn’t get over to the big house today.” They didn’t seem to understand that I needed to be alone and wanted to be busy in my own house. After all, I lived the past five years in near solitude.