The Brewer's Women

By Mary Frances Baugh

The Eagle Brewery, founded in 1847, becomes the metaphor, a beer barrel, out of which the Koehler familys story is poured. Family histories, like unfinished crazy quilts with strings hanging have no well-ordered patterns. My ancestors began to emerge as real people - both gifted and flawed - when I allowed myself the gift of wonder. Twin muses of memory and imagination worked together to make it several love stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 7, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462820252

Mary Frances Baugh

MARY FRANCES BAUGH Mary Frances Baugh, of Erie, Pennsylvania is a published poet. She turned to the novel form to try to understand the lives of her Erie ancestors. A graduate of the University of Michigan with a Master’s degree from the University of Evansville in Indiana, she has taught at every level, including college, and finds teaching 3 granddaughters an exciting challenge. A mother of three grown children, Mary Frances is a caregiver for her husband, Jerry, who suffers from Multiple Sclerosis. Her interests include reading, writing, biking, swimming, gardening, and the environment. She is a member of the Philadelphia Granny Peace Brigade and the International Women's Writing Guild.

Book preview

The Brewer’s Women

Mary Frances Baugh

Copyright © 2008 by Mary Frances Baugh.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

40520

CONTENTS

Belle

Jackson

To Get A Son

Grandmother Suzie

Meadowfields

A Little Girl Again

Making Pickles Is More Fun

To Sleep, Perchance To Dream

Moving

Marthie

Sally

The Polish Widow’s House

Wind And Fire

Guilt

Homes

Caul

Answered Prayer?

The Eagle

Homemaking

Ice

Ice

Art And Music

A Son

Aunt Marthie And Uncle George

Winter

Their Only Son

Sisters

The Music Box

Instrument Of Grace

On Her Knees

Healing

Shadows At Dawn

Koehler’s Women

A Son

Chaos

The Voyage

A Weak Chin

The Wedding

Art

Art School Students

Temporary Insanity

The Train To Ripley

Night Music

Happily Ever After

A Lot Of Money

Alice

The Journals

Death Of A Patriarch

Susan’s Journals

Life After Deaths

The Sisters Agree

Keeping It Equal

Hannahbelle

The Newlyweds

Seth’s Story

Epilogue

To embrace my ancestors with all their foibles is to embrace my own shadow side . . . .

Author Unknown

APRON STRINGS

by Barbara Koons

I say to my daughter,

Take my hand.

When my son inherits his father’s watch,

my daughter will carry, deep in her hands

the bones of my fingers,

lumpy as clothespins, but nimble,

still able to fasten

new lives onto the line.

—from Night Highway

Belle

Belle Koehler detested sex.

Despite her efforts at avoiding the act that so frequently meant getting in the family way, Belle had birthed three daughters in five years of marriage to the Dutch brewer, Andrew Jackson Koehler.

Marie, a breech birth, had died before drawing her first breath after what proved to be an agonizing labor for Belle. But so far, Lillibelle and Flossie were alive and healthy, full of life, energy, and laughter. They were the joy of Belle’s life, for all she had hated the entire process of getting them here. And now another one is on the way. Too bad, children couldn’t just appear fully-grown.

Belle muttered as she tossed the parlor rugs over the clothes line, whacking them with the rug beater. This latest pregnancy was interfering mightily with her fall housecleaning. It was taking her twice as long this October. Her thoughts gathered themselves into a silent harangue at God Almighty.

God was, at least in theory, in charge of the multiplication of the species. Maybe some suggestions wouldn’t hurt. Such nonsense to get children into the world. Really, Lord God! Men have a good time, though how it could be anyone’s idea of a good time, I’ll never know! Shows they’re not really bright, if you ask me. Women get to swell up, do all their work with a load out-front that knocks them off their centers, gives ’em backaches and at the same time, someone’s jumping up and down on their bladders. And if that doesn’t add enough insult to injury, women get to have all the pain of birthing!

She patted her swollen belly and pushed a lock of black hair out of her eye. And what a mess every month when one isn’t in the family way. If I get to see you face-to-face, Lord, I’m going to tell you as good as you are with making mountains, oceans, lakes, rivers, and creatures, You could have thought of a better way for humans to reproduce the species. Hatching seems like a good plan. I wouldn’t mind sitting on an egg or two, but no more than two at a time.

Belle mumbled and thwacked at the carpets as best as she could thrown off-balance though she was by her huge midriff.

Belle had heard of little sea creatures called seahorses where the female laid eggs in the pouch of the male and the male carried them around until they hatched. Seahorses, now there’s a good idea, Lord God. How come you favor them? Just what is it you have against women? I don’t believe that Eve’s offering one small apple to Adam could’ve caused this much grief, no matter what those ring-necked preachers say.

And she whacked even harder at the rugs until no dust mote dared nestle among their fibers.

The next day, November 1, 1882 dawned sunny and cool in Erie, the small Northwestern Pennsylvania town named for the great lake on whose banks it was built. Belle Koehler lumbered uncomfortably to the back fence and called for her next door neighbor, Clara.

Yoo—hoo, Clara, she called. Clara appeared, wiping her large, chapped, red hands on her apron. Time to send for Biddy Morgan. I feel like my time’s about on me. Belle’s water broke just as she said the word, time. It spilled warmly down her legs in a sudden rush onto the remains of the flower garden.

In dismay, she kicked off her wet, dark, felt carpet slippers, abandoning them by the fence. Better hurry, she called over her shoulder as she moved toward her own kitchen door, barefooted, hands splayed, holding her lower back. Oof. Belle waddled, then gripped the door handle. God Almighty. I hope you’re sending in an angel or two since this whole business was your idea. I’m pretty sure we’re bringing a new life into the world this morning. Oof, she grunted out again, sitting heavily at the kitchen table, resting her head in her hands. She was already sweating despite the chill November morning.

Jackson

Andrew Jackson Koehler had been at the brewery since before dawn, fully dressed in suit, vest, and tie. In his early forties, Koehler’s dark brown hair was already thinning, making his forehead seem inordinately high. It was now wrinkled in a frown as he tugged deliberately at one side of his handlebar moustache.

His dark brown eyes seemed black as he spit out angry words at Kirchener, the brewmaster who was drunk on the job. He confirmed Jackson’s growing suspicions that the man’s personal problem was now the brewery’s problem.

I could kill you, he shouted at Kirchener. I should fire you! He hoped that a tongue-lashing administered in both German and English would inspire an ordinarily good brewmaster to overcome his natural enthusiasm for tasting the product. Kirchener’s shirttails hung out, his black tie was askew, his suit disheveled. He was hatless and reeked of beer.

Are you trying to empty one of the barrels all on your own? Fool! You could ruin me, Kirchener, shouted the owner and president of the Eagle Brewery. Now go home and don’t come back until you’ve sobered up. You mess up a batch of beer and you’ll pay with more than your job, threatened Koehler. My reputation is at stake—my good name! I’ll take you down to the foot of State Street and throw you in the bay if you’re ever drunk again around here! Get a job at a tea company if you want to guzzle samples!

Koehler escorted his errant brewmaster out the front door, aimed him in the direction of home, and headed around the corner himself for his own home and a cup of coffee. Hopefully, Belle would be up and ready to fix something hot for his breakfast.

Their small brick house was located conveniently, for him, next to the Eagle Brewery at Twenty-sixth and Holland Streets. Owned by his father, Charles, since 1847, he and his brother, Fred, had inherited the brewery in 1869. Jackson had bought the house at auction as an investment. As a bachelor, he hadn’t minded the tiny, cramped size of it; somehow he didn’t even notice it.

Had the brewery been a church, the little house would have been the pastor’s manse. Humble, old, worn, and impossible to keep clean. The brewery’s shadow completely obscured the sunlight from their tiny backyard by early afternoon, and on rainy days, the little house was dismal, damp, cold. Jackson, however, seemed oblivious to the darkness. It was home. That meant hot meals and a chance to see his little girls, rest in his comfortable rocker, or go early to bed with his round young wife, Belle.

Just thinking about her breasts and how he loved to nuzzle his head in between them made him wriggle uncomfortably, his trousers suddenly swelling. Lately, though, with her about to drop another child, she had forbidden his getting between her legs. You might hurt the baby, she’d whisper, rolling over, turning her back unsympathetically.

For all she was a good cook and housekeeper, she certainly made that part of life difficult for a man. Two months without now, and likely to be at least another month or more. He hoped he wouldn’t be tempted to stray with the whores who worked the taverns on Eighteenth Street. He wished that when Belle wasn’t expecting, she’d be a little more, well, he didn’t know what word to use, but settled on willing.

Jackson found Belle in distress at the kitchen table, gripping its edges with her fingers. Her knuckles were white, her face was pale, and sweat was running down her temples, cheeks, and neck. Her breath came in short gasps.

I’ve sent for the midwife, she said through clenched teeth. That pain subsided and she relaxed for a moment, taking charge again. I want you to leave after you take the girls next door to Clara. She’ll look after them.

Belle, he knelt at her side. What can I do? He looked frightened, still mystified by what was about to take place in their lives for the fourth time.

I just told you. Take the girls next door. First, help me up to bed and then go to your work, she ordered tersely. This is my work and I’ll do it better if you’re not here.

Belle’s view was that men had no place in the entire messy business once they had worked their will and left their seed inside. She wasn’t convinced of the need of any of it, especially right about now as another pain lashed at her during their slow progress up the stairs. In hard labor now, having bypassed the usual slow start of her previous three deliveries, Belle could hardly wait for Jackson, the source of all her present pain, to just betake himself out of her sight.

Jackson settled her into their high-backed, dark walnut marriage bed, and reluctantly left the room as Belle gasped in pain.

I’ll-be-quite-all-right, Belle had grunted in gasps between clenched teeth again. Jackson fled the room, deciding to wait at the kitchen door for the midwife. When Midwife Morgan came, Jackson called the little girls to him.

Come now, Lillibelle, Flossie. Time to go next door to play. When I come back for you, your Mama’s going to have a baby brother for you to play with.

Holding each one by the hand, Jackson left abruptly, barely remembering to stoop to give them kisses.

Bye Papa, the little girls called after him when he had deposited them with Clara. He waved almost as an afterthought and was gone, his jaws clenched grimly.

Jackson left Clara’s warm kitchen hurriedly even though she offered him a cup of hot coffee and some hot bread, saying he looked tired. He was feeling dreadful, unspeakably lonely. Why didn’t I stay? He wondered. It was cold outside. He was hungry. His teeth chattered as he rounded the corner to the brewery. Why couldn’t I have taken a cup of coffee from a neighbor? Clara’d understand a woman can’t do two things at once—make coffee and have a baby.

He had gone out without his coat. Small wonder I’m freezing. Damned if I’ll go back for my coat. Belle wouldn’t care anyway if I froze. I’ll go back when my son is born! He went back home anyway. If anyone had noticed Jackson’s face, they would have seen the pout of a nine-year-old boy on the face of a grown man, and wondered.

When he slammed into the kitchen, Biddy Morgan yoo—hooed down the stairs. If that’s you, Mr. Koehler, please go for the doctor. I think the baby won’t be long in coming.

Jackson grabbed his coat, ran the three doors down to Dr. Straub’s home, rousing him with a brief apology.

Sorry, Doc. My Ida Belle’s time is on her. Midwife Morgan says it’s time for you to come. I guess you don’t need me. I’ll be going on to the brewery—I’ll be in my office.

I’ll be along in five minutes. Just dressing, came the muffled voice from just inside the doctor’s front door. The doctor’s wife clutched her robe tight to her breast, but managed a tired smile. She was obviously used to interruptions.

Breweries frequently owned taverns so they’d be assured of ample customers. His weren’t even open yet. Grumpy and light-headed with hunger, Jackson closeted himself in his office at the Eagle. Standing at his rolltop desk, he busied himself with the accounts, a comfortable task that had some clear answers he could understand. Dollars and cents entered in a ledger book offered no unsettling feelings of guilt the way just thinking about Belle always did.

After three hours of intensive low back labor attended by the doctor and midwife Biddy Morgan, whose coos of comfort had begun to drive Belle crazy, Belle gripped a knob at the head of the bed, gave an enormous push, and a final decisive groan. The child slid out into Dr.Straub’s waiting hands. Belle began laughing and crying in relief.

Oh God, what do you have against women? she began, but Biddy’s cluckings interrupted her railing against God. Squealing, Biddy Morgan held the baby up so that they could all see the hooded membrane over the child’s head. The masked child was quiet, but not Biddy.

Mrs. Koehler! She’s born with a caul. What good luck! We’ll save it! Help me now, Dr. Straub. We’ll just peel it off and tuck it away for a good omen. They continued their work as a team, gently but speedily removing the mask-like membrane from the baby’s head. Dr. Straub was holding the baby’s bottom and back in his two hands, cradled on his arm, his fingers under the back of the baby’s neck. As the caul was removed from over her mouth and nose, the baby began to cry softly, sucking in rapid, shallow breaths. Biddy gently laid the caul on a clean, dry towel.

I don’t see this too often, murmured Dr. Straub. Must be a special child.

She’ll have the second sight, no doubt about it. And for sure she’ll never drown, announced Biddy with absolute certainty. I know. My uncle’s a sea captain—always had a caul with ’im when he went to sea. It was for good luck against drownings!

Dr. Straub massaged Belle’s abdomen until the afterbirth was expelled. What’s her name, Mrs. Koehler?

Belle smiled. Susan. My mother’s name. Jackson had only picked out a boy’s name, thinking it would insure his getting a son.

Biddy washed Susan Koehler and laid her gently on Belle’s stomach, where her silky, black hair was a stark contrast to Belle’s white skin. Dr. Straub smiled benignly. You’re in good hands, Belle, Dr. Straub said as he rolled down his sleeves. I’ll come see you this evening. As Biddy began to wash Belle, the doctor left the room as though his status there had turned to that of an intruder.

Dr. Straub paused to wash his hands at the kitchen sink before letting himself out by the kitchen door. All the latest medical information suggested that a lot of diseases could be prevented if people were cleaner and washed hands more often.

There was certainly no problem with a clean house at the Koehler’s, he’d noted. Every room was clean and would have smelled fresh and good, he was sure, but for the overwhelming odor of boiling mash wafting through every possible crack in the house from the ever-present brewing next door. He wrinkled his nose.

Dr. Straub plunged his hands into a dishpan of cold, soapy water that Belle had left in the sink at the start of her hard labor. She’d have been mortified if she had been aware of it. He dumped the pan of water out and left it in the sink to drain.

Dr. Straub headed straight to the brewery office to tell Jackson the good news about the latest addition to his collection of daughters. The office was empty.

Jackson was at Freida’s Tavern having a hearty breakfast of beef stew, dark bread, and draft beer. Nothing quite like a good breakfast to cure self-pity.

Jackson slipped into the house by the kitchen door. His huge mid-morning meal at Freida’s Tavern, washed down with two large mugs of Eagle Beer, was making him feel expansive. He was so cocksure of news of the birth of his son that he almost went over to kiss Biddy Morgan as she greeted him cheerily from the stove. She was boiling water in the copper boiler to wash the blood-stained birthing cloths and bed sheets.

You have another beautiful daughter, Sir, she crowed, not noticing the look of disappointment shadowing his eyes. The doctor’s only just left; you can go in to see your girls now. They’re all freshened up and Mrs. Koehler is resting. She might be asleep, though, so Sssshhh.

As he left the kitchen, Biddy opened the window to let out some of the steam. The smell of malt and hops drifted in strongly from the brewhouse, very nearly gagging her. Imagine smelling that for nine months of pregnancy! Belle Koehler must have a cast iron stomach. Her own was strong, but even so it gave a turn. The smell of raw, cooking mash was particularly overwhelming when one wasn’t used to it. Today it was worse as the wind was blowing from the south, carrying the strong odor straight into Biddy’s nostrils. She slammed the window down quickly.

How it ever turns into good-tasting beer, I’ll never know. She tutted and clucked, stirring the clothes with a long wooden paddle.

To Get A Son

Jackson stood over his newest daughter’s cradle, staring at the red-faced sleeping baby with the head of black silky hair. He thought Belle slept as well, but she was just resting her eyes, trying mightily to forgive him for the pain she’d endured once again.

Well, another girl, he murmured. "Four out of four, and Marie born dead. Still this one’s a sweet little thing. I wonder what a man