My Search for Air

By Jeanne K. Johnson

Plainsville, Pennsylvania, is a town as dull as it sounds, and for high-spirited Lilith Brown, it is a torturous existence. Coming of age during the late Victorian Era, Lilith finds herself questioning the prevailing ideology of social stratification and its resulting inequities.

Thirteen-year-old Lilith is lucky to have two like-minded women in her life who, unlike her parents, encourage the young girl to reach her full potential.

But although their minds may be strong, the injustice they must fight against is stronger still. Lilith's ideals are thwarted when a ruthless businessman, Gregory Wentworth, takes an interest in the coal mining industry, and she is forced to learn the hard truths of greed, intimidation, and harassment.

As she fights against injustice, she, and those around her, suffer serious consequences. Lilith questions whether there is any justice in a world where the rich and powerful can prey on the weak without suffering any consequences. Is there any winning a battle where the enemy controls all the resources and weaponry?

"My Search for Air" examines the subjectivity of morality, the concept of sin, and the meaning of forgiveness. Are those in power today still reaping the rewards at the expense of the vulnerable?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667805351

Book preview

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Copyright © 2021 by Jeanne K. Johnson

Although portions of this novel were suggested by real events,

the settings and each character in it are fictional. Where real-life institutions, agencies,

and public figures appear, those situations, incidents and dialogue

are entirely fictional and not intended to depict actual events. No reference

to any persons living person or dead is intended or should be inferred.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced

or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except

for use of quotations in a book review.

Grateful acknowledgments are given to the following:

Pennsylvania Annual Reports of Mine by Year (libraries.psu.edu)

Coal Mining in Pennsylvania PA Mining History (dep.pa.gov)

ExplorePAhistory.com

Newspapers.com

The Ladies Book of Etiquette and Manual of Politeness (Gutenberg.org)

Fairy-Land of Science (guternberg.org)

A Miner’s Story (ehistory.osu.edu)

A special thank you to Ronlyn Domingue for her insightful comments

on my original transcript and for her encouragement to continue on.

Cover illustration by Escha van der boger www.eschagallary.com

Cover design by Base Camp (Book Marketeers)

ISBN: (paperback) 978-1-66780-534-4

ISBN: (ebook) 978-1-66780-535-1

Printed in the United States of America

For Mabel

I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out;

and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.

– Virginia Woolf

Breathing, according to me, corresponds to taking charge of one’s own life.

– Luce Irigaray

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

RULES

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

QUESTIONS

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

STING

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

FIGHT

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

REALITY

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

TRANSFORMATION

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

RESOLUTION

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

RELEASE

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

Lilith—1916

Odessa—1932

PROLOGUE

My parents should have killed me the day I was born. Well, that may be harsh as I do believe they loved me. But I was an outspoken and obstinate girl, not suited for the time and place in which I was born—a misfit.

The story of my birth has been recounted many times by Mrs. Matilda Gower, the Presbyterian minister’s wife who was at my mother’s side during labor. According to Mrs. Gower, my mother had been suffering for seventy-two hours, and there was no coaxing me out of the womb—I refused to emerge. My long-suffering father had been waiting in an adjoining room, and although known for his unfailing patience, decided he’d had enough and summoned the doctor. The doctor was none too pleased, as he was roused from sleep in the middle of the night during a sleet storm, and upon leaving the warmth of his house, slipped on the ice and fell down the stairs. His shout woke up his wife, who jumped out of bed and broke her ankle. I hadn’t even been born and was already wreaking havoc. When the doctor arrived, he demanded to see the problem. He was in no mood for foolishness, and upon entering the bedroom, ordered my mother to open her legs, shoved forceps into her canal, and then turned, bent, and manipulated the unyielding object—me. It is no wonder my mother always resented me. The next part of the story seems more than a slight exaggeration.

The manipulation worked, and although extracted, I wasn’t ready to give in yet. I had wedged my left hand into my mouth, and neither the doctor nor Mrs. Gower could remove it. My mother could not substantiate the story as she was delirious, and the doctor died soon after my birth, which I’m told was my fault. They kept yanking at the offending hand, but I held tight. Alas, hand not being removed from the mouth can result in the new arrival not breathing. My parents had lost two souls soon after their birth, so Mrs. Gower was determined another would not go into the darkness beyond, even if I would be the bane of my parent’s existence. She must have believed that even the troublesome ones have a place in the world, and so ran to the kitchen, grabbed a container of quinine from the medicine cabinet, and poured it onto the offending hand. I removed my hand, took a long sighing breath, and wailed. The two before me must have decided a regimented life would be too much to bear and bowed out early. They chose easy. I chose difficult.

If you believe the above account, I must point out in my defense that I did attempt to stifle myself before I even took my first breath. Soon-to-be Lilith must have sensed that nothing good could befall a tempestuous girl born into an airless family—not for the family or the girl.

As if this story weren’t bad enough in showing off my less-than-admirable qualities, Mrs. Gower portended that my obstinance would result in my early demise. Unfortunately, I have every reason to believe she was right. And should I be mistaken and live to some ripe old age, can I make amends for my lapses in judgment, or should that be my sins?

No matter. I will write my story. Is the story true? Aren’t all the stories we tell ourselves true? Its accuracy is based on my skewed memory, the fanciful musings contained in a young girl’s diary, and old newspaper clippings. Writing this is no easy task as I must be sure it remains undiscovered until I am gone. Won’t everyone be surprised when they find it hidden in my bureau drawer underneath my Bible and my secret copy of The Yellow Wallpaper. I think that may have some significance but haven’t determined what that may be and don’t have time to dwell on it. There are more important things to worry about. You may ask, What does one worry about when confronted with death up close and personal?

I don’t know about others’ concerns as I’ve never asked. My thoughts focus on whether my life had meaning. Did I make the right decisions, or were they impetuous and self-serving? Should my story ever be published in say, Godey’s Lady’s Book or Harper’s Weekly, I would be interested in readers’ thoughts and how I will be judged. Or should their opinions even matter? Our notion of right and wrong is like beauty; it lies in the eye of the beholder.

RULES

CHAPTER 1

I was born Lilith Mary Brown in Plainsville, Pennsylvania on Friday, February 13th, 1878, at 4:13 a.m. to Philip and Mary Brown. Three other girls followed within the next three years and were obedient (unlike yours truly) and popped into the world without resentment. Our names seemed to destine who we would become: Mine, Lilith (the girl who won’t conform), Penelope (the weaver who became an accomplished seamstress), Rose (the flower whose beauty was known throughout the county), and Adelaide (the noble one). Adelaide went onto marry an attorney—considered nobility by my family. And, let me not leave out Aunt Odessa, my father’s younger sister. I thought of her as my other mother, but the one who loved me unconditionally—no rules imposed, no judgment handed down. If she had raised me, perhaps my rebellion could have been channeled into some noble aspiration. But my parents set the protocol for appropriate behavior, and they taught the rules early while the mind was still malleable. My sisters did not have a problem with this indoctrination. To me, it was coercion.

The first three rules

Rule 1: Know your Bible.

We were to recite a new Bible verse at the breakfast table each morning. This rule was easy as it was rote—no thinking involved.

Rule 2: Cleanliness is next to Godliness.

This rule meant one should be pure and wholesome, but I thought it meant following good hygiene rules, and I became obsessed with cleanliness. I washed my hands until they were raw, scoured my face and body with a course cloth at least twice a day, and washed my hair once a week with castile soap. (My mother rationed the castile soap, but sometimes I snuck in an extra washing if I felt exceedingly sinful.) After all my cleansing, I sat statue-like in hopes of not being contaminated with sin.

Aunt Odessa must have been watching me for a few days, and one morning she asked, For the love of God, what are you doing?

I am staying clean and pure to ward off sin.

She must have been thinking, the girl is a complete ignoramus, but kept this to herself and instead handed me a book and convinced me reading would not taint me. Of all the books she could have given me, this was a most interesting choice: The Fairy-Land of Science. It encouraged freedom and exploration: If you go through the world looking upon everything only as so much to eat, to drink, to use, you will never see the fairies of science. You must ask yourself why things happen and how the great God above us has made and governs this world of ours. Questioning was the very thing I was trying to avoid, but she must have known this was the push I needed to keep me from plunging into insanity.

Each day, I read the book sitting in my clean, statuesque position and gazed out the window waiting for the fairies of science to appear; when it dawned on me, I wasn’t going to find anything wondrous by looking out a window. Then, my eyes fixated on the muddy field behind our house. It beckoned, Come forth; sin is calling you. Before I could change my mind, I jumped up and ran faster than the gingerbread man to that field. Running was an unwise decision as I slipped in the mud at least twice. Oh how wonderful the ground smelled—earthy, pungent, and downright filthy. But my time was limited, and I knew I must make good use of the minutes I had. A voice inside me screamed, Try something. Don’t be a dullard; use your imagination. It didn’t take long.

First, I was a butterfly and had just been released from my cocoon, transformed from a creature trapped inside a dark cell to one floating on a breeze. I flitted around for a bit but soon became bored. Now I was Black Beauty and galloped around looking for a field with no corrals. When I tired of that, I climbed a tree and hung upside down from a branch to see if the world looked different in that position, my skirt up around my ears, showing my wears to anyone who happened to walk by.

Then, I noticed the most unusual site—a large mound of dirt. A heap of dirt sounds none too exciting, but you would be amazed at the potential contained in a pile of dirt. I jumped down to take a closer look and saw a little castle, and ants were marching back and forth with great precision. Here it was, my first opportunity for experimentation and the chance to find out why the great God above made ant castles! I poked a stick into the structure and stirred around a bit, and an entire army of ants marched out with their sights set on me. In a matter of seconds, the army claimed my body as their hostage, but they would not take me so quickly, so I plotted my counter strategy—I screamed at the top of my lungs. My mother, Aunt Odessa, and my sisters came running but halted when they saw me, I’m sure hoping this girl covered in mud and ants was a figment of their imagination. Aunt Odessa must have accepted the imagined thing was real. She grabbed me, rushed to the water pump, and flooded my body with the ice-cold water as if I were on fire. This strategy wiped out the army, but I was a casualty of war. How pathetic; consumed by ants. She carried me to my bed, stripped off my clothes, and covered me with chunks of ice.

My mother asked in a frosty voice, Lilith, what in the name of heaven were you doing?

I was going to be in so much trouble; I had better think up some excuse. I was gathering wildflowers so I could arrange them in the parlor. I have been thinking of taking up water coloring for some time now, and painting wildflowers would be the perfect way to start. It is quite a ladylike pastime, and wouldn’t you know it, while searching for the most beautiful flowers, an army of ants attacked me.

I didn’t see one wildflower anywhere near you, and ants do not belong to armies and do not attack people, my mother said.

Mother, there is an exception to every rule, and I must be that exception.

You seem to be the exception to any rule, she said and then left the room.

Upon her return, I saw she held a bowl of honey and onions, which sounded none too tasty, except she didn’t feed me this potion; she began rubbing it on my body. I was being prepared as a meal and would be served to a witch like the one in Hansel and Gretel.

Mother, I will be a better girl and follow the rules, but I beg of you, do not feed me to a witch!

Whatever are you talking about? Don’t be a simpleton; this will alleviate the itching.

It did relieve some of the discomfort; however, I developed hideous welts on my body. My sisters came in frequently to stare and taunt me. Look at ugly Lilith, once again in trouble and paying for her sins. I knew how to fix them.

Shoo, or I’ll rub my welts on you, and you’ll grow ones more gruesome than mine.

They ran screaming from the room to tattle to our mother. So much for my first experiment on how the great God above governs ant houses. I received two punishments for my misbehavior—a lecture from my mother and Bible verses to memorize.

If you followed the rules, you would not be suffering from this painful indignity, she said. Perhaps it will be beneficial if you add fifteen minutes to your Bible reading each morning and be sure to enlighten your father and me with any verses you think may help you overcome your failings.

I memorized a verse from the book of Proverbs, which I felt was appropriate, and knew it was for me: Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise. I interpreted that I was a sluggard, had gone to the ant, but not given a chance to consider her ways and grow wise as those ants would have devoured me had it not been for Aunt Odessa. I did not want any other opportunities to consider the ways of ants and decided to give up contemplating God’s great mysteries for a while.

I correlated rules 1 and 2, and still to this day, when I commit a misdeed, I recite a Bible verse and wash my hands.

Rule 3: Speak civilly.

This rule meant that one should not talk incessantly, never comment on family matters, not speak of others’ unpleasant, embarrassing, or questionable family affairs, and only speak when spoken to by adults. None of these were easy for me. I was referred to as a chatterbox, had once blabbed to our neighbors that my mother was suffering from a nasty bout of diarrhea, and if I waited for adults to give me a chance to speak, I might as well have been mute.

The time for sharing the events of the day was each evening at the dinner table. My father would talk about his day, and when he finished, my mother and Aunt Odessa were permitted to speak. We were always last. One evening, I could barely sit still and eat my meal; I couldn’t wait to tell them about my day. I waited and waited and thought they would never finish.

After what seemed forever and twenty days, my father said, Girls, how did you spend your day?

Before any of my sisters could speak, I barreled ahead. I spent the day with my friend, Loretta Bishop. Her father has a farm.

My father smiled and asked me what I thought of the farm.

I had fun! Mistake one. This word was considered shallow with no redeeming quality.

My mother said, You mean you enjoyed yourself.

Yes, that too! We looked at crops, and Mr. Bishop explained how he grew food. He showed me their farm animals. The horses were the most interesting.

They asked why.

It appears they can do things with their bodies that other animals can’t. Those horses were tangled together most awkwardly. It looked uncomfortable, especially the one on the receiving end of this entanglement. Mr. Bishop said we should leave them alone and see other animals. I must have had a peculiar look on my face, and he told me this entanglement would result in a foal. I waited all day to see that little thing, but it didn’t appear. Why would two animals tangled up together result in a colt? I know you aren’t farmers, but do either of you know anything about this? Oh, and before I forget, I saw Miss Nellie Hawthorne, you know the Baptist minister’s daughter, coming out the back door of Sully’s Saloon dressed only in her chemise and heading toward the church. Is this a ritual with the Baptists, and if so, could we switch to being Baptist instead of Presbyterian? Being a Baptist would be easier on all of us. We wouldn’t have to wear all those scratchy, tight undergarments. And, Mother, you wouldn’t be fussing at me all through church to stop pulling at my bonnet ties.

Ha! There was no doubt in my mind that I had the most exciting story.

Aunt Odessa tried to suppress a smile, my father looked at the wall, and my sisters were wide-eyed, waiting for someone to answer my questions.

After a few awkward moments, my mother responded. Lilith, you have been taught the rules of civility, and you have broken every single one. Please keep the comings and goings of Miss Hawthorne to yourself, and we will discuss the horses at another time. As soon as you have finished your meal, please retreat to your room and memorize ten Bible verses by morning.

I finished my dinner in silence and excused myself. Memorizing Bible verses was becoming quite draining. I would probably go to hell, but I was starting to resent the Bible.

CHAPTER 2

Those three rules were our moral compass, and if we did not stray from the designated path, we were guaranteed acceptance into heaven. As we grew older, we learned other rules, and if followed, our reward would be entry into society’s privileged class.

But before we even received the next round of indoctrination, I picked up little nuances and subtleties of behavior between my parents and some of our neighbors. While my mother and father were polite, their politeness carried a condescending tone. They addressed those considered lower class by their given names, but it was Mr. Brown and Mrs. Brown when these people addressed my parents. Also, our dialect was different. Some of the people in our town used words I had never heard of, such as: you’ins, ain’t, and warsh. I liked the sound of these words and wondered why my parents didn’t use them. Maybe they didn’t know of these words, so one afternoon when I returned home from school, I decided to introduce them to this new manner of speech.

Hey, you’ins. Sorry, I’m comin’ home so late. I ain’t missed nothin’, have I? I’ll go warsh up now.

My parents looked horrified, as if I had taken the Lord’s name in vain.

My mother said in a strained voice, It is time you learned who we are, and Penelope, Rose, and Adelaide, it wouldn’t hurt for you to hear as well. How about if we spend tomorrow afternoon in the parlor, and your father and I can explain our heritage.

I received snarly looks from my sisters.

The next afternoon, we sat in our assigned spots and learned of our supposed superiority. Although they did not use the word superior, as it would have seemed vulgar, I knew that was the message.

Girls, my mother began, Lilith came home yesterday using some words that should not be included in our repertoire. Correct usage of the English language is of utmost importance. Here are some examples: Always put the proper ‘ing’ on the end of each word, when appropriate. Never say ‘I’m comin’ home late or goin’ to see ya.’ Do not use the words you’ins, ain’t, or warshed. Those words do not exist. Under no circumstances should you use phrases such as What-d-ye call it, thingummy, or what’s his name, or any such substitutes for a proper name or place. If you cannot recall the words, do not tell the incident connected with them. No lady of high breeding should ever use these substitutes in conversation. Philip, do you have anything to add?

No, I think you covered the subject beautifully. No one can speak the English language more eloquently than you. If it is acceptable, I would like to explain our lineage now, my father said. You must understand we are from fine stock.

I pondered this for a moment, Stock—as in animals?

I am sure you have all heard of the Mayflower, correct?

We nodded our heads.

We are descendants of those who arrived on the Mayflower, and your great, great grandfathers, on both my side and your mother’s side, were close acquaintances of George Washington. Our pedigree is one forged of brave and refined gentlemen.

I never read about this in school. Wouldn’t something so important be mentioned? I asked.

If you studied your history more carefully, I’m sure you will find this to be a verifiable fact.

Then somehow, the conversation about George Washington shifted to my father and his business.

I am a highly-respected man in our community, he said. "As you know, I own the Plainsville Planing Company, which has constructed many of Southwestern Pennsylvania’s buildings. My father, Christopher Brown, designed and oversaw the construction of some of the finest works of architecture in the Middle Atlantic States.

How about their wives? What did they do? I asked, hoping for something shocking.

Nothing worth noting, and please do not interrupt your father when he is speaking, Mother said.

Now my mother imparted her wisdom. God, grant me strength and patience.

I am one of the Squires, she said, as if that one word explained all we needed to know.

We stared with blank expressions. I thought, what did being a Squire mean? Our teacher had read a book to us once about a squire who was a knight’s son, but my mother wasn’t a knight’s son. Rose asked what that meant. Mother was shocked that we did not know the importance.

I am the granddaughter of Webster Squires; he was a renowned physician in Philadelphia, Mother said. My grandmother, Ophelia, was one of the finest ladies in town and known for hosting the most elaborate balls, could recite poetry, and spoke fluent French.

I knew people considered Philadelphia to be the height of culture in Pennsylvania. I had yet to visit the city. However, I knew the city displayed something called a liberty bell. The bell had cracked at least once. How sophisticated could these people be if they could not even design a bell that wouldn’t crack?

We must conduct ourselves in a manner which honors those who came before us and continue to work for the betterment of civilization. Men hold the highest role in contributing to the world, as they are the great thinkers, wage earners, and leaders. Girls, I am sure you are wondering what females can contribute. We are man’s helpmate, and while we do not have the high calling of men, we are tasked with creating a tranquil domicile, raising children, and instilling proper morals not only within our family but throughout the community.

I thought, No pay for all of that? Females were always getting the short end of the stick.

Here are the ideal qualities of a well-bred lady: piety, purity, domesticity, and submissiveness. If you adhere to these principles, you will secure your place among the upper crust of society.

I may be young but not stupid. Principles meant rules. I wasn’t sure what piety, purity, and domesticity meant, and instead of asking and risking another lecture from my mother, I decided to consult our Webster’s dictionary:

Piety

According to Mr. Webster: Filial reverence: affectionate reverence of parents, or friends, or country. Veneration or reverence of the Supreme Being.

My Translation: Keep your mouth shut and do not question your parents or anything in the Bible.

Purity

According to Mr. Webster: Freedom from any sinister or improper view; freedom from foreign idioms, from barbarous or improper words or phrases.

My Translation: Do not have any views outside of those you have been taught, and use proper grammar.

Domesticity

According to Mr. Webster: The state of being domestic; a household act or life.

My Translation: Stay in the house and live