Willa

By Mary Katherine Arensberg

Willa
By Mary Katherine Arensberg
Comment by Barb Clairhew at the 2008 National Federation of Presswomen in Idaho this September 12: A sense of place and time, told in this case through the convincing voice of an assured and confident writer. You get the sense that this (story) sprang from the telling and retelling of (a) family narrative orally transmitted through the generations.
Willa is an award winning novel! TWICE. Willa won second place in The National Federation of Press Womens Comminicators Competetion! In May of 2008 the Arizona Press Women selected Willa to represent their state at the September 12th annual confernece of the National Federation of Press Women in Idaho Falls. Sept. 6, 2007 Southern Arizona Authors review in the Arizona Daily Star by J.C. Martin: The American Civil War is Willa Rolfs war. "Willa" (Xlibris, $21.99 paper) by Mary Katherine Arensberg brings to mind Willa Cathers classic "My Antonia," as another strong Midwestern woman takes over the management of the family farm. But (Willa) Rolfs life adds highlights - a love story and an involvement with the Civil War. ***Sept. 10, 2007 Columbus Messenger Westside review by Sandi Latimer, staff writer: Arensberg has a strong character and believable story line. For those who enjoy a good Civil War era story, this book can be a page turner. "Willa" can be purchased through Xlibris for under $20. ***Look for Willas ad in Blue and Gray Magazine ***NEW FAN MAIL!!*** A gold star for Willa, I dont like to read, but I couldnt put it down. Paula A, Newark, Ohio ***FAN MAIL!*** I totally enjoyed reading Willa. You need to publish all the other books youve already written! I read a few chapters every night and I would tell my husband, "Well, lets see what Willa is up to tonight!" since she was such a real person to me! Sharon Davis-Reynoldsburg, Ohio *****Willa earns a Five Star Review from Readers Favorite!

1860s Setting include rural Ohio, Chicago, the southern battlefields of William Sheridan, the Eastern Theater of war and Washington City.

The outbreak of the Civil War marks the opening of a military camp just miles from Willa Rolfs farm and the daily news of the battles come right to her front door. The story is told from three different experiences, Willa at home, her brother Louie on the march to Atlanta with General Sherman and the battlefields in the east through the eyes of Artist Matthew Alison. As the nation is in crisis so is Willas once orderly life; and the burning question is, will she ever find true love?

The war reaches a crescendo and Willa just has to do something to help. Time speeds by, General Lee surrenders and then the nation mourns President Lincolns assassination. Willa is a survior and as all good stories should end, she realizes her hearts desire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 4, 2006
• ISBN: 9781462826339

Mary Katherine Arensberg

Mary Katherine Arensberg is a multiple award winning author of Historical Fiction, also earning Five Star reviews. Her love of American History and the women who shaped our country sparked her ten book Women of Character Series. She has always been an observer of life.

Book preview

Willa

Mary Katherine Arensberg

Copyright © 2006 by Mary Katherine Arensberg.

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.

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Contents

Acknowledgment

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

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

Chapter Last

Acknowledgment

Thanks to my husband George, who encouraged me and who believed I could. Also thanks to my friend Marilyn Lutz, who stayed up all night reading the first draft.

Prologue

Wilhelmina! Her mother’s voice trilled melodically across the crisp twilight. The air smelled sweet of earth and grass and dew. There was no answer. Where can that child be?

Willa Rolf, come home! Her father’s deep baritone command quickly followed.

Five-year-old Willa Rolf heard it from the top of the hill. She had backed out of the groundhog hole she had been exploring, wiped the dust from her faded and patched green homespun dress and stood facing the direction of the voices. Coming, Papa!

She was a tall child; most of her body comprised of legs and arms. Not an ounce of baby fat remained on her small frame. She was delicate like the stem of the lily of the valley but strong as the iron wood saplings that claimed their right to life among the forest of giant oak, hickory, and beech trees at the far end of the property. She turned toward the west, a squint to her green eyes. Her eyes were not an emerald or grass green but a color like the early watercress that grew under the fast running waters of a silver stream. A green so pale, she was sensitive to bright light; and now the setting sun, gold and flaming in the lavender sky burned into them causing tears to well up. Be home before dark, it was the one rule she knew by heart, and she knew the consequences if she failed to obey. She raced down the hill, heart pounding and legs churning; her silver blond hair plaited into tight pigtails flying wildly as she ran; the silken strands loosened and fluttered about her face. It was not an angelic or pixie face but more suited to the wood nymphs of lore. A sparkle of curiosity gleamed from her large round eyes, eyes that held a look of wisdom even in a face so young. It would not do to disappoint Papa and she nearly stumbled as she forced her legs to move faster. Rounding the curve in the path, she saw him standing beside the massive covered wagon that was now her home.

Papa stood with his arms open wide. Mother stood at the back of the wagon, a crinkle of a frown on her otherwise pleasant face; oh, how she worried about that girl. Where have you been, child?

Papa scooped her up in his strong arms. Let it be, Mary Elizabeth; she’s home now.

Annanias, it’s not fitting for a girl child to be roaming over hills and valleys all by herself. Mother snapped as she wiped her hands on the canvas apron the girdled her bulging waist.

You worry too much, Mother. Papa smiled. Mary Elizabeth pushed a full-blown frown onto her face and turned back to the simmering pot of rabbit stew. Would her husband never understand her fears? To lose a child, especially one as lively and enchanting at this one would devastate a mother. She knew that for certain, for hadn’t she nearly lost her mind when her first child was still born? She had grieved for months and had never known the touch of his tiny hand or the flow of warmth from a smiling face. Wilhelmina was a precious treasure that should be guarded against all harm. She rubbed her belly and tried to smile as she thought of the new life she carried, lifting her gaze she scanned the isolated valley and regretted again following her husband to this barren place called Ohio.

Willa patted her papa’s face and leaned in to whisper. I’ve been exploring and I found the most wonderful hole over there. She pointed to the place she had just left, and her papa smiled and the night air did not seem so chill.

Supper’s ready! Mother called out. Papa deposited her on the ground and taking her tiny hand in his massive, muscled hand they walked to the makeshift table at the back of the wagon. The little girl, skipping to keep up with his long strides, glowed in the warmth of his attention.

Annanias Rolf had married Mary Elizabeth Smithfield seven years ago. He was the only son of German immigrant farmers who had spent their days eking out a meager existence on a rocked filled farm in southeastern Pennsylvania. She was the youngest of seven daughters born to a mildly successful merchant and his wife in nearby Virginia. It was fate that brought them together when he was sent to pick up a new plow at her father’s store. He was twenty-eight; she was twenty-two. He thought it was time he married, so in his usual, no nonsense way, he asked her. It was time for her to marry, past time as her older sisters saw it, and so with in the space of two days she married the young farmer from across the border and set out to begin a family of her own.

Annanias soon grew restless working the worthless soil on his father’s farm; he yearned for a place of his own; and so in the early summer of 1836 he gathered his wife and daughter and his few belongings in the second-hand wagon and headed into the Western Reserve to the state of Ohio. Never one to borrow or to lend, he had used every cent of his savings, all thirty-five dollars, to buy the 150-area parcel that was to become known as the Rolf Farm.

Little Willa loved the farm. She loved the freedom that was hers, both her parents were busy building, planting, and clearing the land in an attempt to hold at bay the ever-encroaching forest of trees, trees that from her view seemed to brush the clouds. She would sneak out of the wagon before daylight, grabbing a cold cornbread stick for breakfast. It didn’t matter to her where she roamed, just as long as she could sit quietly among the trees, feel the warm summer sun on her bare arms, and listen to the riotous songs of the birds above her. They had only been at the new site for a month, but already her skin was as brown as a hickory nut, almost as brown as the fertile earth that Papa had promised would one day make them rich.

Annanias Rolf began in earnest to turn the acreage into a farm to be proud of, damning the racing stream to form a pond, planting the twenty-five carefully wrapped apple trees he had brought from Pennsylvania, and selecting the site for their new house. A sun-drenched hillside, sheltered from the wind and dry from proper drainage, halfway up that hill is where he would build their home.

April 20 was a special day, for that was the day they would start on the house. Willa awoke earlier than usual, stirred from the nest of warm quilts, and rolled over. Mother was not in them. She stretched out longly; Mother was getting so big and was taking up more space in the bed. Where was she? She remembered hearing her parents talking late into the night. She was not worried, for she knew they would be digging the cellar for the house today. Papa had shown her the drawings, done on rough brown paper. Mother wanted the kitchen to face the rising sun, with windows to let the morning light flood the room where her days would begin. She sat up and strained her ears but all about her was silence. Where was Mother? She pulled the freshly laundered dress, her only dress, over her head. Mother washed it out each night and pinned it to the ribs that supported the canvas covering over the wagon bed to dry. Poking her head out the opening, she surveyed the new day, and then jumped down.

Three men stood on the hill where the house was to be built, talking and resting their arms on the shovel handles. The sun backlit them, casting their faces in shadow, but she recognized them as Papa’s friends, old Mr. Ellis from the farm next to theirs, which was more than a mile away, and Mr. Rhyce, talking low and solemn, while Mr. Revelle nodded his head at the words. Just below that spot, under the willow tree, sat her mother wrapped in a brightly colored patchwork quilt. Her face looked very pale and tired in contrast to the lively pattern that surrounded her slumping shoulders. Willa turned in a half circle and saw her papa with a shovel; he was digging. She ran to him crying out. Papa! She was out of breath when she reached him. I thought the house was to be over there. And she pointed to the men. She looked at him for an answer and then saw the tears that wetted his tanned and wrinkled cheeks. Are you crying, Papa?

He straightened his back; the bare earth he had been working had been patted smooth and hard. Go tend to your mother, see if she needs anything, Willa. She didn’t move but stared up into his face. You, take care of her today, while I build our house. Go. He said no more to the confused little girl only walked away toward the waiting men.

Willa puzzled over the little mound of earth, and then ran over to her mother. Throwing her arms about her waist, she drew back in confusion. What’s wrong, Mother? You are so skinny today, are you sick? Mary Elizabeth said nothing, her lips trembled and her eyes overflowed with tears as she caught her little daughter close. Willa patted the thin arms that held her. Don’t cry, Mother, I’ll take good care of you.

They sat together throughout the long afternoon. She never left her mother’s side, bringing her food and drink and comforted her as best as she could. They watched the men wear away the side of the hill as shovel after shovel bit into the dark earth. It was the beginning of their home, and she was excited and wanted to be in the thick of it, but she would not leave her mother. Sometimes Mary Elizabeth would doze and she could turn her full attention to the men working beside Papa. She knew old Mr. Ellis as she had seen him often since the first day their wagon rolled to a stop and he had stood beside her papa with a welcoming grin and a heavy handshake. Mr. Revelle was a giant of a man, broad shouldered with black curling hair and skin like the color of the earth itself, he could do the same amount of work as her papa. Then there was the younger man, Seamus Rhyce. Skinny, she thought, but tall like Papa. He smiled a lot, for no reason that she could tell, and when he talked, she couldn’t understand a word he said. It sounded to her as if he were rolling marbles around in his mouth. She watched, and her sharp little mind captured every detail of the day.

The years flew by; the house was built. It was a sturdy little two-story dwelling made of timber and cream-colored stucco. Papa’s apple trees on the hillside behind the house blossomed and bore fruit. Mother planted three pink climbing rose bushes to shade the front porch from the summer sun. Together, her parents added two more babies, all boys, to the little cemetery near the orchard. Willa watched from the back porch as they were buried, but they never spoke with her about the babies; in fact, she had never even seen them. All that she knew of her brothers were the three neat little graves marked by whitewashed wooden crosses.

The farm prospered. More buildings were added: the barn, a massive structure constructed of hand-hewn timbers and rough-planed sideboards, two stories tall with a cavernous haymow; next came the springhouse and a corncrib. Willa followed her mother everywhere, helping here and there, handing her clothes pins or fetching more potatoes from the cellar, always trying to ease her burden or her lessen her sadness. She was a good daughter, never causing a moments grief to her parents. The farm may have prospered but it was a lonely place for a single child, there were no children to play with, if indeed she would even know what playing was. Her days were filled with work and she wore that work like a second skin, for she didn’t realize that washing the vegetables in the tub of water or gathering eggs were not enjoyable. Little dimmed were her smiles or gleeful laughter as she was a happy child of naturally strong will. Mother had once called her stoic and Willa liked that word. She decided she would be stoic her entire life.

It mattered not that few children came to the farm for Willa was not lonely. Papa and Mother were her friends. She chattered away as they sat at the supper table, telling them of her recent explorations. They confined to speaking of the daily workings of the farm, but she listened anyway because she loved them. Secretly she knew she loved Papa more than Mother but she never let it show. She liked Papa’s friends too. Thomas and Seamus, the two men who helped dig the cellar, had remained friendly and visited often. Thomas had a wife, Odessa, and Willa thought her as the most magnificent creature she had ever seen, with skin as smooth and dark as Papa’s morning coffee. Mr. Whittig the attorney came to play chess. She called them all her uncles. If Papa had many friends, Mother only had one: Annie Coates, a rail thin Englishwoman whom she had engaged to teach her daughter to read and write. Annie declared the child to be brilliant. Lessons came easily and she even excelled at math, although all agreed it was unseemly for a girl to do so.

Willa’s childhood freedoms ended when she was eleven for Papa needed help with the farm that year. He showed her how to hitch the team of horses and how to stand on the harrow and slowly guide them across the plowed fields. She had always loved the land, the hills, and treed copses by the stream; but that year she fell in love with farming, the stewardship of the land as her papa had explained the intricate details to her. It was that year that she began to question what love—that emotion so strongly embedded inside her—meant. Love was something that she gave freely, but never felt returned in measure by her parents. She couldn’t stop her feelings nor could she want to, so she transferred that great wealth of loving to the farm animals. The horses would race to the fence if she neared it, patiently waiting to be petted or to be fed an apple. When old Bossy the cow got lose, Willa had only to call her name and the bony, sagging beast came at a shaking trot. She desperately wanted her papa to love her and so with her keen mind she absorbed every detail of farming to please him. He beamed his pride in her and that he was proud of her would have to be enough. He taught her to play chess, and she was allowed to stay up late and serve the elderberry wine that he made when his guests came to visit. She was Papa’s girl and she would do anything to feel the warmth of his smile. And then it happened.

She was fourteen the year her brother Louie was born; his survival took her by surprise. Papa was elated but Mother became more fearful than ever. Willa was on her way to the necessary house one night when she heard her mother’s voice through the closed bedroom door crying out in anguish. I can’t lose another, Annanias; I’m just not strong enough.

Louie Charles Rolf, born on June 16, 1845, was sickly from birth. Willa was not allowed to witness his coming into the world even though most girls her age were either engaged or already married. She sat in the parlor and waited, swinging her legs and wishing she could be outside. What did they need her for anyway? Papa could just call for her when the baby arrived; of course, she never expected to see that one anyway. No sounds came from the upstairs bedroom. The mantle clock ticked out its boredom as she waited. The door opened and Papa came in with a tiny bundle wrapped in new blankets. He didn’t speak, but lowered the bundle so that she could see. A little wrinkled red face tossed in the covers, searching for something until he found an equally wrinkled little fist. Gently moving the covers aside she inspected him. Is that the best we can get? She raised her eyes to her papa’s proud face. He sure ain’t much to look at. Is he? But Papa didn’t seem to hear; he fixed his eyes on the baby with what Willa could only describe as complete adoration. She felt as though she had just disappeared from the face of the earth. Would Papa ever see her again?

A son doesn’t have to beautiful. He just has to be a son. Papa turned and left the room. She sat for a while wondering if she was needed. An hour passed and no one came in the room. Sad and dejected she walked out onto the front porch. Clouds hid the moon and in the blackness of the night, she stood with tears streaming down her face. I am to be forgotten, she whispered to the night sky. Carelessly, she made her way down the steps and wandered aimlessly until she found herself standing at the edge of the pond. It would be so easy to jump in and slide beneath the glassy surface; no one would miss me, she thought. A breeze stirred the air, the aroma of fresh mown hay wafted around her; the night birds cooed, the crickets sang, and frogs chirped, all unaware of her sadness. The clouds suddenly shifted and in the brightness of the moon; she saw a feather floating on the water. Using a stick, she guided it to shore. It turned silver by the moon’s light as she stirred it in tiny circles. A silver feather, she thought plucking it from the water and then clutched it tightly in her hand. The magic left and it was only a gray feather from a goose winging its way north. She put it into her pocket and stood breathing in the night. She thought of the brother born that night and what he would mean to her. The horses nickered in the barn, and she smiled at the sound. The magic in her life was back and that magic was called love. She loved the land. I love this farm and one day I will own it, she vowed to the darkness, rolling the gray feather between her fingers as she made her way back to the house. Once inside she changed into her nightclothes and before climbing into bed, carefully placed the feather into the wooden box her papa had made to hold all the other treasures she had found on the farm.

Papa doted on Louie, he became young again, a spring in his once tired step. Mary Elizabeth, however, at the great age of thirty-six was worn and weary. Raising a toddler proved to be too much for her fragile health, so Willa was assigned the task. She soon grew to love her brother, but it pained her to see how Papa made such a fool of himself over the little boy. He was just a baby for God’s sake; he couldn’t even walk yet and already Papa was making plans for what they would do together. She felt left out, betrayed by the father she loved so dearly. In a fit of self-pity, she moaned, I am no more than a servant in this house. And then her mother became ill and she regretted her selfish thoughts. It was Louie, she railed, that tiresome boy who was the cause of it all. Somehow, he managed to come down with influenza and Mother had to nurse him. He was four years old and Willa was eighteen by then. She scowled every time she peeked into his room and saw Mother lying across his bed, her head cradled on her arms. Mother nursed the boy for weeks, never leaving his room; and one night as Willa tip toed in and listened to his rasping breath and convulsing chest and seeing his fevered face so small, so helpless, so dependent on her mother she fled the room in shame.

There was an ice storm during the night. The wind raged and howled. Unknown things bumped against the house; the fire died out in the fireplace. Willa was cold, shivering herself awake and sitting up in the darkness she stared unseeing as an unknown fear clawed at her. Ridiculous, she thought, here I am nearly grown and afraid of a storm. I’ll stir up the fire and go check on Mother.

She found that Louie’s room was warm, the small brazier well tended. Mother sat looking out at the gray streaks of dawn. Come in, Willa, she whispered softly and motioned for her to sit next to her. They sat in silence and watched the slumbering boy breathe. He seemed to have improved but his sleep was fitful. They kept their vigil in noiseless companionship as together they watched the sun light the morning sky and looked out upon the havoc the storm had wreaked under the blackness of night. Trees lay strewn across the hillside; a piece of barn roof rested near the willow tree at the side of the house. They watched Papa make his way out to the barn to check on the animals. Louie stirred but did not awaken.

Mary Elizabeth sighed deeply before speaking to her daughter. Willa, do you see those great trees, the giant walnut and the mighty sycamore lying in pieces, shattered now and of no good use? Willa nodded. Mother pointed to the willow tree. It isn’t always enough to just have strength, daughter, sometimes you have to be able to bend to survive. She wearily closed her eyes. Louie stirred and whimpered in his sleep, but Mary Elizabeth never opened her eyes. Willa’s heart stopped. Mother? She touched her arm. There was no response. Dressed only in her nightgown and thin slippers she ran from the room, down the stairs, and out into the cold winter light. Her lungs burned and her body shook from the cold. Papa! she screamed into the barn. Papa, it’s Mother! He dropped his pitchfork and ran up to the house, up to the room where his son laid near death. He stepped inside expecting to have lost another son, but there in the chair, the golden sun caressing her cheek sat his beloved wife of twenty years, her life all used up. All worry, all exhaustion gone from her still fine features. A great knot of a sob worked its way up and out to his chest and he dropped to his knees in front of her and buried his head in her lap. Louie awoke and began to cry. Willa watched from the open doorway turned to stone by her papa’s sadness. Tend to the boy, Willa were the only words he had for her.

She picked up her brother and rocked him against her chest. Annanias picked up Mary Elizabeth, carried her into their room and closed the door behind him. It seemed like hours before he finally reappeared. I’m going into town to get the doctor.

Papa? What shall I do? She wanted to say, but he was already out the door.

Willa sat in the silent house and waited, Louie slumbered, but she could not bring herself to look upon her mother. Papa returned after a time with the doctor and Annie Coates. Why now? she thought. Why had he waited until there was no hope? Louie would be fine. The white-haired physician declared after a thorough check. He sadly shook his head at the bedroom door behind, which lay her mother.

Annie stepped up to Annanias with a hard look on her face for they had never gotten along. Do you want my help? It was a challenge, for she had just lost a dear friend. He nodded. I shall bathe and dress her then.

He seemed to come back from a long distance. Annie, I want her buried at Greenlawn Cemetery. She hated it out on this farm.

Willa jumped to her feet. No, Papa! She wanted to be buried next to her babies. She told me! Tears were streaming down her face and dripped from her chin, but it was as if Annanias had turned to stone and he would not budge. She told me! She stomped her foot in frustration and her mother’s words drifted back to her. Bend, Willa.

Mary Elizabeth was buried. Louie soon forgot the woman who had given her life for him. Annanias worked later and later each night, stopping only to eat his supper standing up before retiring to the barn where he hid his tears and labored through his grief building meticulously carved pieces of beautiful and fine furniture. He rarely spoke and the son he had once adored became his object of scorn. Willa, now the woman of the house vowed never to forget her mother.

The years did not lessen Papa’s odious feelings; the long hoped for male heir had cost him his beloved wife. The duties of keeping the house naturally fell upon his daughter’s shoulders, and Willa took to the yoke with determination and love. Never a word of praise did he utter in her direction, but that he noticed her efforts made their lives run smoothly once again. She wanted more from Papa, but in some ways she was relieved that she escaped his attention for every time he saw Louie he heaped criticism upon his young son’s shoulders.

The years dragged by; lonely, silent and sad and no hope grew in the breasts of Annanias Rolf’s children. He never noticed their dwindling spirits for after all he kept them clothed, feed, and sheltered. He did what was expected of him; he filled his years with duty and hard work until the year 1851 when the Almighty dealt him a burden so cruelly harsh that he knew he would never survive it. Cancer. The same physician who had declared his beloved wife beyond help now had the same words for him; cancer was eating away his stomach and bowels. He began to put his worldly affairs in order, he did not know how long he had, but he would squeeze every moment out of life that he needed to assure his family’s future. He did not tell his children he was dying.

Chapter One

1859 WILLA’S STORY

I have never thought of myself as anything but a plain and simple farmwoman. I never aspired to greatness or to glory but only to be secure and happy on my farm, the place where I grew from a child into a woman. If I am entirely honest, that is not truthful because I have always aspired to be loved. I know how to give love, but I had never, in the first thirty years of my life been the recipient of such tender feelings. Saint Paul said in his letter to the Corinthians that love is the greatest gift that God gives us; my gift was, however a long time in coming. My name is Wilhelmina Rolf; but, folks, just call me Willa.

Most stories start at the beginning, but for mine, I should start at the end: the end of my papa’s life. For his death brought an end to a way life I had grown accustomed to and caused a great change to sweep across my sheltered, secure little world. The year was 1859, and he had just died and I was left alone at twenty-eight years old, and a proper spinster to boot. I didn’t know what would become of me, but like many folks in those pre-Civil War days, the path fate would lead me down had already been cast by events beyond my control. I lived on a small farm just west of Columbus, Ohio. Abraham Lincoln hadn’t been elected president yet, but the rumblings of the war to come had even then spread their dreadful tentacles of uncertainty to the very gate of my isolated farm.

Papa’s death meant I had to go into town for the reading of his will and I was scared almost into a state of panic, it was February 10 and the weather was cruel and bitingly cold. I was afraid to go into town but not because of the snow and ice, but because I was alone for the first time that I could remember. My mother had died ten years earlier and at that time, I had been thrust into the role of surrogate mother for my younger brother Louie. It was not so very difficult then as Papa was still alive then and I knew I could always count on him to guide my path. But he had died the week before, and now my brother and I were all that was left of the family.

Louie was fourteen years younger than I was and had always been sickly; even as a baby, he had required a lot of care from Mother. She died when he was four years old. There was an outbreak of influenza, Louie caught it and I remember how she nursed him day and night; I don’t remember if she actually caught the illness herself, or she was just worn out from the years of farm life, but she died. I was by her side the day she died, I don’t remember much of the events of that day only that Papa secreted her away and that I cried for weeks after. Louie, who was little more than a baby at the time, survived; and to his dying day, I think Papa blamed him for Mother’s death. He never said so in words, but he was awfully hard on Louie after that. I think that’s when I began to think of myself as Louie’s substitute mother. I was only eighteen and trying so desperately to make amends for the harsh way Papa treated him.

As I said, I had to go into town for the reading of the will. Mr. Whittig was Papa’s lawyer and he was also Papa’s friend. I remember the grand conversations they would have when he used to come to the farm to visit. They would sit in the front parlor talking late into the night and I would listen through the air vent in the floor of my bedroom. I was always curious about everything then and though I didn’t understand much of what I heard, I did so enjoy the exchange of thoughts of ideas they shared while sipping their wine and sliding the chess pieces across the chessboard. But the house had grown quiet after Papa died. We had no more visitors. Louie didn’t much like the farm so he was staying with some friends of his in town. I encouraged him to go because I thought a young boy needed friends. I knew he needed friends for I did not have one friend of my own and I could have certainly used one that week.

I never went into town much; in fact, I had never left the farm at all except to attend Mother’s burial ten years before Papa’s death. He told me it was my duty to tend to the house and gardens, and so I stayed home while he and Louie went into town to get supplies or to sell anything extra from the farm. I didn’t mind and I’m not complaining for I loved that farm. I had even made pets of most of the work animals. As I look back, I was very happy then.

Well, the house had grown quiet; but if I close my eyes, I can still hear Papa’s booming laughter as he settled his chess piece and crowed out, Checkmate! And Mr. Whittig—Louie and I called him Uncle Isaac—would peer over his glasses and scan the board as if it had somehow been responsible for his loss to Papa again. The mahogany clock that set on the mantle had ticked away the minutes in joyous abandonment, blissfully ignorant of what time would soon bring.

I had to go to town and I didn’t even know what to wear. There really wasn’t much of a choice; I only had three dresses to my name and two were only a couple of washings away from becoming rags. I pulled Mother’s old gray silk from the peg and stepped into the skirt; I had to tug to get the bodice to close. The faded silk was cool and soothing as it settled next to my skin. I always loved wearing that dress. I used to think the silk still held a little of her essence in its fibers, and each time I put it on, I felt as if she was once again wrapping her arms around me in a comforting embrace. The dress was close to fifteen years old by that time but it was the best I had. What I didn’t know as I so carefully dressed that day was that women’s dress styles had changed and I was hopelessly out of step with the world I was about to enter.

I remember looking in the mirror to check the fit of the dress. As I turned from side to side, my eyes settled on the face of the lonely creature that stared back at me. The pale skin and hollowed eyes startled me. I had cried myself to sleep every night for two weeks and it showed on my face. I grabbed my shawl and my hat from the dresser and turned away, not wanting to admit that I was that piteous looking woman.

I went down to the kitchen, as was my usual chore to start breakfast, but the room was empty. I didn’t feel hungry so I just made a cup of tea and nibbled on a piece of bread to settle my stomach; I still like a good strong cup of black tea in the morning. The thought of the trip into town never left my mind. The farm had become my whole world. Papa took care of everything and as I said before I was happy enough. I hadn’t minded being left at home all those years. He had taken care of everything, the house, the food, even the clothes I wore. I had no worries at all when he was alive.

Ha! No worries until that day I had to go into town. I went to the barn to hitch up the team. They were two huge horses, crossbred of English shire and Belgian draught horses. Papa had bought them up in Delaware, Ohio eight years before his death. The breed had just been introduced in America and he wanted a pair. He was always one of the first to try something new. I named them Bea and Rollie, and they were beautiful animals with honey colored coats and long blond manes and tails. Both had white masks down the center of their faces and four white stockings on their bucket sized feet. Rollie was a stallion and stood over nineteen hands high at the withers. He was a giant compared to the horses on neighboring farms. Bea was almost a match for him in size reaching eighteen hands high. They greeted me with a welcoming knicker as I entered the barn. I loved those horses; they were my only friends at that time.

I hitched them to the wagon and started down the lane. I hadn’t left the farm alone in ten years, so when I reached the end of the lane I stiffened up