Mamá García’s Salsa

By Ann Jagger

The salsa that made millions, but the brotherhood that was priceless.

 

Step back in time to the early 1900's, where the heartwarming family saga of Mamá García's Salsa begins. In the picturesque Ozarks of Missouri, fate weaves an unbreakable bond between two 8-year-old boys, one American and one Mexican, despite their different backgrounds. They learn the true meaning of brotherhood through laughter, sweat, and the earthy scent of tomatoes on a sprawling farm. Their lives are perfect.

 

But destiny wields her power by bringing an unexpected fate to the inseparable duo when they're torn apart by circumstances beyond their control. One eventually takes over his family's farm, turning it into an empire, but the absence of his brother weighs heavily on his heart. The secret salsa recipe left behind when the boys separated brings immense wealth to the American family and is no longer simply a culinary treasure. It becomes the impetus that sends a young man on an emotional journey spanning decades and inadvertently puts people he loves in harm's way. This narrative weaves a tapestry of emotions, painting a vivid portrait of love found, lost, and sought after across borders and cultures.

 

In this captivating and unique story, questions linger: Can a brotherhood between two young boys planted in the rich soil of friendship and trust survive turmoil, longing, and greed? Will the years of searching finally yield the reunion that is craved, bridging the gap that time and distance have cruelly imposed? Can the Mexican family finally embrace the prosperity they so rightfully deserve?

 

With each turning page, you find yourself seeping deeper into the fibers of this wealthy family's life. It's a tale that cuts to the heart of who we are and what we need most--love, understanding, and forgiveness.

 

Join this heartrending quest and be transported through this timeless tale of brotherly love. It will linger in your soul long after the final page is turned.

 

Get your copy of this generational drama today to see what the past holds for the future. And remember, it's a great gift for anyone with a sense of adventure and a love for the human spirit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lake 'n Moor Ltd.
• Release date: Aug 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781936748501

Book preview

This book is dedicated to my family.

I'm so grateful for the support I have and

continue to receive from the

four generations of people I call family.

I'm blessed to have

such loving people in my life.

I love you all.

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Prologue

Guillermo, a Mexican gentleman in his mid-seventies, sits in his living room having a conversation with a holographic Abraham Lincoln about slavery. The doorbell rings. Guillermo snaps his fingers, making the hologram disappear. He rises from the couch, passing the digital calendar on the wall that reads Tuesday, January 28, 2070. He looks over at a monitor and sees his daughter. Helena is at the door, announces a voice over their audio system. Guillermo responds, Open front door. The door unlocks and opens automatically.

"Papi," an excited thirty-five-year-old woman declares as she walks in.

Helena, he responds, mimicking her tone. The young woman affectionately hugs the man before her.

¿Donde está mi niños?

English, please. How are they going to learn?

Sorry, Papi.

Suddenly, two boys, ages eight and five, their faces, hands, and hair covered in flour, scream, Hi Mom! as they make a quick pitstop to hug their grandfather before flying out the door.

Guillermo’s wife enters the foyer wiping her hands on her apron. Her robot sidekick, Barbara, follows, holding a plate of cookies.

We have two new teachers coming for dinner, Guillermo adds with a big smile on his face.

Doesn’t it get old?

Not for me.

And what about Mami?

She stays in the kitchen and cooks even though Barbara can do it just as well.

I rest my case.

Outside, the boys are extremely vocal about who gets to ride shotgun.

Ugh! exclaims Helena. I’ve got to go. Love you both. She gives her father and mother quick kisses and grabs a handful of cookies from Barbara as she races to quell the argument. Both flour-laden grandparents hold each other as they wave goodbye in the doorway.

It looks like the boys left an impression on you, jokes Guillermo’s wife, a beautiful grey-haired woman, seventy-two years young, as she points to the flour handprints on his pantlegs.

Our guests will be here any minute. I need to change before they arrive.

It isn’t long before the doorbell rings again. I’ll get it. Change your clothes, Guillermo’s wife declares as a voice announces, Brenda Wise and Larry Horton are at the door. Guillermo scans his attire and quickly follows Barbara into the kitchen. Open front door, she responds calmly as she removes her apron.

Guillermo’s clothes change with every snap of his fingers until he finds the combination he likes.

Two eager young people stand at the entry, a bit nervous. They immediately introduce themselves.

Señora Sandoval, my name is Brenda Wise. She shakes the woman’s hand.

Señora Sandoval, I’m Larry Horton. A second handshake follows.

It’s nice to meet you both. Please, come in. My husband will join us shortly. Be careful. Our grandchildren were just here, and they always mark their territory.

A concerned look passes between the two guests. Señora Sandoval smiles. No, not like that, she adds, brushing faint traces of flour from her dress. She laughs, making her guests feel much more at ease. Come. It’s a gorgeous day to relax outside on the terrace.

Can you tell me if we’re going to hear Señor Sandoval’s epic story today? inquires the excited young man.

I can’t say, but Guillermo will be pleased to know the story still draws a crowd.

Brenda quickly follows with, Should we be taking notes? Is this part of our orientation?

Before there is time to answer, an animated Guillermo stands before them. Welcome to our home. My wife and I are thrilled to have the pleasure of your company. A little business first, then a wonderful meal afterwards.

Mrs. Sandoval adds, That’s my cue. If you’ll excuse me, I have a few errands to run, and when I return, we’ll enjoy a few traditional Mayan dishes for supper. Any allergies I should know about?

No.

No.

"Great. Help yourselves to the Pitahaya water. It was nice to meet you both, and I’ll see you later."

Guillermo kisses his wife as she grabs her purse, leaving him with his charges. My wife is a wonderful cook, among her many other amazing talents. Why don’t we get something to drink and then we’ll start. It’s the perfect time to tell you the entire story of how this school came to be.

Yes! exclaims Larry. Guillermo is surprised by his level of enthusiasm. Everyone has been telling us about this epic story since we arrived.

And no one is willing to give us any details, adds Brenda.

Well then, let’s not keep you in suspense any longer.

After everyone is settled in their seats, Guillermo continues. Our story begins in 1905 with a little brown-haired girl with big blue eyes.

Chapter one

Frank and Helen

If Helen Simm’s first four years in this world were any indication, she would need to dig deep and pull every bit of strength from within to face what lay ahead. One of nine children who lost both parents in 1905, before she was old enough to go to school, she had been raised by her older brothers and sisters. Helen loved to play in the dirt. She spent much of her youth watching Mrs. Lippelmann grow tomatoes in her yard. One day, when she was about seven years old, she squared her shoulders and mustered the courage to approach the scary woman whose reputation in the neighborhood was nothing short of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. Helen had a burning question and her garden implement as protection. She approached with extreme caution.

E-e-excuse me, Mrs. Lippelmann, said Helen, expelling words barely above a whisper.

The woman turned, giving Helen a harsh stare. The child’s eyes went wide as she stood there shaking. Mrs. Lippelmann’s demeanor softened instantly. Well, good morning, young miss. What is it I can do for you?

I was wondering if you would teach me how to grow tomatoes? I’m good at shoveling dirt, answered Helen proudly holding up an old serving spoon.

A smile crossed the woman’s face. Yeah, no. Helen’s lip began to quiver as her eyes glistened with tears. No one who works with me in the garden uses a spoon.

That’s all I have.

Come back when you get a proper gardening tool.

A defeated Helen turned away, not wanting to give the woman the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

Mrs. Lippelmann exclaimed, Jeez Louise, will you look at that. Helen stopped, twisting her head around. I think you dropped something young lady, she said, holding up a ten-inch trowel.

That’s not mine.

It is now. Are you ready to work, young lady?

Yes, ma’am.

My friends call me Mrs. L. Are you my friend?

I’d like to be, she answered while wiping her tears with her sleeve.

You got a name?

Helen. Helen Simms.

Well, Helen Simms, let’s get to work. The day’s a wastin’ away.

***

By the time Helen was eleven, she had tomato plants growing in every available spot outside their tiny abode in Branson, Missouri. She went door to door selling her plump juicy red darlings to neighbors. They knew how hard it was for the Simms and tried to support them as much as possible. People called her Mato.

Hers was not a quiet household, and one particular crotchety old buzzard often called the constable. Helen learned rather quickly how to be invisible when needed, charismatic and charming, if necessary, and always assertive when it came to her beliefs. She was no stranger to a hard day’s work either.

Frank Jackson, on the other hand, was an only child. He was drafted in 1917 at the age of eighteen and was sent overseas to fight. He and Helen, nearly two years his junior and high school sweetheart, wrote to each other weekly. It took weeks, often months, for letters to arrive on either side, but even old news was a welcome sight for this soldier.

Helen wrote to Frank and to three of her brothers who were serving as well. Trips to the mailbox made her blood pressure rise. Would there be a letter or not? Were her brothers and her boyfriend still alive? With every letter came a sigh of relief. She couldn’t assume anything had happened when letters didn’t come because, on occasion, she would go ten days with no word, then have a dozen letters in the mailbox at once.

It had been nearly a month since her last letter from James, her eldest brother. When her letters to him came back marked, The recipient could not be reached in good time, this was an unspoken announcement. Constable Abram’s visit to the house was final confirmation. Helen watched from the open window in the living room as he approached the front door. Tears were already streaming down her face. Then came the knock. It made her skin crawl. Helen ran to stop Agnes, her elder sister, from opening the door. Don’t! she cried out.

Mato, we have to know what--

No. That means James is really gone.

Agnes opened the door. There stood the constable in his uniform. Agnes put her arm around her sister as they waited in silence.

Agnes. Mato. It is with great regret that I come to tell you that James and Joseph were killed in France. Please accept...

What? Did he say James and Joseph? No, that can’t be. I got a letter from Joseph a few days ago. Helen never heard the rest of what Constable Abram said. She buried her head in her sister’s chest, both of them crying, holding each other for what little comfort they could provide one another. She and Helen stood in the doorway, in shock. How would they tell the others when they got home?

That day left Helen in a daze. She had to force herself to keep writing letters that week. She couldn’t decide whether or not to tell Frank and her brother Robert about James and Joseph. Maybe Robert knew. What if he didn’t? Didn’t they already have enough to deal with without her adding to that? Would they be mad at her if she didn’t tell them? She didn’t know what to do. Her answer came in an unexpected way.

Less than a week after the constable’s visit, while her brother, Richard, and her four sisters were at work, Helen was home alone. School was out and she had gathered vegetables from their garden for dinner. She was washing them in the sink and thinking about her lost brothers. She heard a knock at the door. The teenager wiped her hands on her apron and straightened her hair as she turned the doorknob. There stood Constable Abram again.

Helen fainted.

When she awoke, she was on the couch with Agnes sitting by her side, replacing the wet cloth on Helen’s forehead. Agnes’ eyes were red. It’s OK, Mato.

No. No. No. Not Robert too? She wailed as Agnes held her, allowing her to grieve for yet another sibling.

They had one funeral for the three brothers--no remains. Their family had now dwindled down to six. It was hard for Helen to imagine never seeing them again; never hearing them laugh or tease her. She was fortunate that she had Frank. She decided to tell him what had happened; it was therapeutic. From that day forward, every letter affectionately let Frank know how much she loved him. Then as sternly as one can in a written letter, she demanded that he return home to her in one piece.

The Simms family was to suffer more that year. For a now sixteen-year-old Helen, it would be the year that would make or break her. The Simms family had managed to avoid the Spanish Influenza that hit earlier in the spring of 1918. They weren’t so lucky when it hit with a vengeance in the fall. All but Helen worked in the same factory, and all were exposed to the Spanish flu. Edna was first to pass at age thirty-two. Richard and his five-year-old twin boys were next. Agnes tried to keep Helen away from everyone, but eventually that wasn’t possible. After their eldest brother, Richard, died, Clara and Hazel needed care.

Let me help. You’re exhausted and—

—I can handle it, Mato.

No, you can’t. Do you have money to pay for help? Agnes didn’t answer. Right, I didn’t think so. Helen rolled up her sleeves and jumped in to assist Agnes in caring for Clara and Hazel. Two days later, Agnes collapsed. Within hours she was gone.

Helen was numb. There was no time for crying or self-pity. She had two sisters left, and both needed her. Why she hadn’t contracted the flu she didn’t know but was nonetheless grateful and prayed it stayed that way. When Hazel’s breathing took on a gurgling sound, Helen knew it was just a matter of time. She was right. Within a day, Hazel had joined the others. Clara was the only one now.

Don’t you die on me, Clara. I know I’m a pain and we don’t get along, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you die and leave me here alone. Do you hear me? she shouted.

Clara was the sickly one in the family. Everyone thought she would go first. Helen wondered if Clara’s compromised immune system was actually keeping her alive now. She had no idea if that thought even made sense, but she would hold on to it anyway. Her sanity depended on it. She stayed by Clara’s side day and night. The virus took its course. Somehow Clara pulled through, but her body would never be the same. Her physical health was worse than before she contracted the flu. As much as Helen hated the idea, Clara needed to be placed in a convalescent home for the poor.

Helen lost her family and her home. Her world had fallen apart. Her seventeenth birthday was next month. There would be no celebration. Frank was the only bright thing left in her life.

She moved in with Frank’s parents at his request. When he returned home after Armistice Day, he didn’t waste a minute. The day after his return, he went to the jeweler and picked out a ring for Helen. Since the pandemic was still going strong, he was forced to propose at home.

He told his parents about his plans. They arranged a candlelit dinner for them in the guesthouse. Helen was awed by the gorgeous crystal, the bone china, the delicate napkins shaped like swans, and the silver place settings all meticulously arranged on the lace tablecloth around a beautiful Thanksgiving cactus. The room was filled with what seemed to be a hundred twinkling candles, creating an ambience that Helen had never witnessed before. It was the most breathtaking thing she had ever seen.

Frank planned to ask Helen to marry him after dinner, but he couldn’t wait. He dropped down on one knee, staring lovingly into her eyes. Helen’s head was reeling. Oh my gosh, what is he doing? Her heart was racing as she listened to this wonderful man kneeling before her.

Mato. Frank swallowed hard before continuing, trying to keep his hands from shaking. From the moment I saw you when you accidentally stepped foot into the boys’ locker room at school, I couldn’t get you out of my mind. I took a lot of ribbing from the guys about being hung up on a freshman. But with every passing day, you settled deeper and deeper into my heart. Now, I can’t imagine my heart without you in it. Mato Simms, would you do me the honor of being my wife?

Frank, I’m still in school.

I know. I’m not asking you to marry me tomorrow.

Frank, you have all this; I have nothing to offer you.

Well, at least you know I’m not marrying you for your money, chuckled Frank.

Stop it, Frank. I’m serious.

So am I. Mato, I love you. Do you love me?

Of course, I do.

Then that’s all that’s important. The rest will work itself out. So, what do you say, Mato Simms? Will you marry me? Frank’s smile beamed his love for her.

Frank--

Frank started to interrupt her.

Shh, answered Helen, raising a finger to her lips. Let me finish. Frank Jackson, I love you with all that is me and it will be my honor to marry you.

Frank pulled a ring from his shirt pocket.

Helen had more to say. If we’re going to be married, you need to stop calling me Mato. I’m not a child anymore. Without hesitation, Frank’s head bobbed up and down. He put the ring on her finger then quickly stood up and kissed his fiancé. He lifted her off the ground and swung her around. He pulled her seat out for her. Then he rang a bell. Their supper was brought out and served. It was a magical night for both of them. They announced their plans to everyone over the next week. Was this a dream? A few painful pinches told Helen it was real. She would stay with the Jacksons until she was done with school.

The pandemic spilled into early 1919. That April, Helen planted tomatoes, with the goal of having one plant for every sibling she lost in the prior year. By June, everything had settled down. Helen graduated. Her memorial tomato plants were thriving. Wedding plans started. With the help of her future mother-in-law, Helen was to have a wedding that she never dreamed possible. It would be bittersweet though.

The following year found family and friends gathered in the church the Jacksons attended every Sunday. As Helen walked down the aisle, there was no one in attendance on her side. She began to tear up. Once she saw Frank staring at her with those gorgeous dark brown eyes, all the angst melted away and she began looking ahead to her life with him. What the future had in store for the two of them, she had no clue. All she knew was they would face it together.

Helen wasn’t accustomed to being alone. Where once there was something going on everywhere she turned, now there was silence, and it was deafening to her. A job at the local grocery store seemed perfect. Helen was great at math but found herself cooped up in an office all day. Things went downhill. She wrestled with depression for months until Frank insisted that she get help. Doc Murphy, the family physician, recommended she find another line of work; preferably something outside.

A thought crossed her mind. A week later, she decided to present her idea to her husband. Frank, what do you think about us starting a tomato farm?

Here? In Branson?

Why not? I’ve done some research. The weather is conducive. There’s little competition in this part of the country. She turned on the charm, We could work together to create a legacy for our yet unborn children. What do say? Helen launched those puppy dog eyes at her husband, and he immediately caved.

Frank wasn’t concerned. After all, how hard could it be to grow tomatoes? So, in 1922, they bought a piece of land from Frank’s parents and borrowed a little seed money to start a tomato farm in the Ozarks of Missouri.

The work was backbreaking. Long days in the fields weeding and praying for the heavy rain to remain at bay during summer were the norm. Some years, the harvest season was rich and plentiful. Other times, there was barely enough to keep the farm going. Farming took its toll on both of them, but neither was willing to quit.

Eighteen years passed. Frank and Helen had learned to manage, overcome, or deal with blight, blossom end rot, catfacing, fusarium wilt, sunscald, and other issues that could be had with tomato plants. Their long days in the fields and on the hillsides were rewarded with raw, bleeding fingers, calluses, and constant aching backs. They had managed to make enough money to purchase additional acreage. That meant Frank’s winter months would be filled with constructing cold frames to protect the newly planted seeds in the upcoming season.

People in town gave Frank their old storm windows and doors, and any large pieces of glass they no longer needed. Once he had his hardwood frames constructed, he added hinges and attached one of his donated glass pieces. Seeds were planted on the level part of the property. Cold frames allowed light and heat through to the young seedlings, protecting them against the killing frosts. The glass panels could be lifted so as not to overheat the plants on warmer days until the temperature was no longer a threat, and the frames could be removed.

Six weeks later, these tender seedlings were transplanted on the hillside acreage. It was nearly impossible to get it done by themselves, so, whenever they had the money, they enlisted the help of migrant workers during the transplanting phase and at harvest time. More often than not, especially during the early years, they toiled alone.

Frank took every opportunity to teach Helen the art of dancing. His parents were big fans of music and dance, and in 1925, bought their son and daughter-in-law a radio. As a toddler, little Franky firmly planted his feet atop his mother’s, and they moved around the floor together as she sang songs to him.

Dancing for Helen often took her mind to an imaginary ballroom where she pictured herself in a beautiful gown. Her husband was amazed at her ability to feel as light as a feather in his arms. Reality told her she had a long way to go before becoming that elusive feather. Helen knew Frank’s love for dance was important to him. She wanted to learn so they could enjoy it together. Frank excelled at waltz and foxtrot. Awkward is where Helen shined.

The two of them regularly sang and danced to songs like Fascinating Rhythm, Someone to Watch Over Me, and I’ve Got a Crush on You, from the seeding through the harvesting season each year. The Gershwin brothers were favorites of Frank and Helen. For the first time, in July of 1929, Frank heard Al Jolson sing Liza, another Gershwin song. He was hooked. That became his favorite. He sang or hummed it all the time, to the point where everyone on the farm, even the temporary migrant workers who spoke no English, knew the melody and lyrics, whether they wanted to or not. Helen was often pulled aside and asked if Frank was related to the Gershwins.

1929 brought with it the start to the greatest depression in American history. The stock market crash destroyed many families, including Frank’s parents. His father had heavily invested funds that he and his wife had planned to use to travel, as well as to provide Frank with a financial legacy. They were overleveraged and lost everything. To their dismay, they had no choice but to move in with Frank and Helen. The younger Jacksons were accustomed to hard work and long hours, unlike Frank’s parents. The elder Jackson took his life less than a year later. Shortly after, Frank’s mother fell into a severe bout of despair from which she never recovered. Helen and Frank took care of her until her passing in late 1935.

Singing and dancing filled a great void in the Jacksons’ lives, whether in their home or in the fields together moving to the songs on the large farm radio. At times the weather interfered with the signal, and Helen often laughed as she watched Frank dance with the radio’s antenna. She and that antenna had a lot in common. Although her level of dancing had improved over the last ten years, Helen considered herself to be an average dance partner. Frank never complained and looked forward to every chance they had to be in each other’s arms enjoying music and forgetting about the world around them.

They had resigned themselves to the fact that children might not be in their future. Conversations about it stopped during the great depression, and now, neither wanted to dredge up that painful topic. They would always have each other—that would have to be enough.

It was Thanksgiving 1939, when Doc Murphy stopped by on his way home. Frank and Helen had just given thanks for their bountiful harvest that year and were preparing to eat. A knock at the door brought a look of concern to Frank’s face. Cautiously opening the door, he was taken aback to see the town doctor standing there.

Doc. What’s wrong? Frank flashed a panicked look at Helen before looking back at the doctor. Sorry, Doc. Where are my manners? Come on in. You’re welcome to join us.

Helen, it’s nice to see you, again.

Hello, Doctor Murphy. Please sit down.

Frank jumped in, What do you mean it’s nice to see her again?

Helen was concerned about a female issue.

Frank turned to his wife, You didn’t tell me anything about a female issue. He turned back to the doctor. Is she all right?

Frank, sit down. You’re going to have a problem next year at harvest time. Doc winked at Helen. Her eyes lit up in anticipation of his next words.

With the most sobering face he could muster, Doc continued, You’ll be doing the harvest alone next year.

Terror crossed Frank’s face; tears filled his eyes. Helen was counting on her fingers with tears of joy streaming down her face.

Doc turned to his patient and asked, Do you want to tell him or should I?

Helen jumped up. We’re having a baby. We’re having a baby, Frank!

You’re not dying? A baby? You’re having a baby?

We’re having a baby!

Frank leaped from his seat, put his arms around Helen, lifted her off the floor and twirled her around. He stopped abruptly, gently putting her down. Panic filled his eyes.

We’re both fine, Frank.

He reached out and shook the doctor’s hand. Doc, you had me scared for a minute, you dog.

Sorry, Frank. I know you’ve waited a long time for this, and I wanted to see your face for myself.

Are you sure you can’t stay? asked Helen.

Any other day I’d say yes, but Martha’s waiting for me at home. May I share your good news with her, or would you prefer to tell her yourself?

Please tell her. That way you can give her a visual of Frank’s reaction.

Ah, and so I shall. I’ll take my leave. You two enjoy this most auspicious day. Helen, I’ll see you in my office next month. In the meantime, do what you normally do.

Frank was embarrassed and hesitant to ask this next question. Ah, Doc? Do what we normally do?

Yes, Frank. That too.

Whew! Oh, I mean, ah, that’s great news. OK, I’m not saying another word.

Doc and Helen laughed as they all walked to the door. With his hand around his wife’s waist, they both waved to Doc as he got in his car and drove away.

A baby. Their lives were about to change in ways they couldn’t imagine.

Chapter two

A New Little Jackson

It was a cold winter, and the soon-to-be father spent much of his time in the barn, building baby furniture. He refused to let Helen help with anything that required manual labor. When Doc told him she could help with planting and transplanting as long as she didn’t overdo, to Frank that meant a couple of hours a day which led to heated debates on Helen’s fragility. She stopped arguing with Frank in April of 1940 when he told her, We’ve been childless for so long, and I would never forgive myself if anything happened to this child because of a tomato. Helen lost it. She burst out laughing. Frank just stared at her. OK, Frank, she agreed as she continued to laugh, No more than two hours a day. I promise. As always, she grabbed his face with both hands and passionately kissed him. Do you know how much I love you?

To the stars and back? asked Frank.

To the tomato and back, answered Helen. Then she burst out laughing again as she slapped his behind. Now, get back to work. Those cold frames won’t tend to themselves.

Frank worked alone. Instead of spending money on the number of usual workers during transplanting in May, he wanted to keep the funds to be sure he’d have ample help during the summer harvest when his child was expected. He wasn’t sure what his role would entail, but he wanted to be available if needed. Helen saw the toll that these excessively long days were taking on her husband. Although he never said a word, she could see the pain in his face. They went through an entire bottle of Sloan’s Liniment during that year’s transplanting season alone. Occasionally Helen couldn’t bear it and offered to help. Each time she encountered the over my dead body look from Frank, and each time she immediately dropped the subject. Seeing her husband suffer like this brought back unhappy memories and sorrowful tears.

Flooding was a regular concern in this part of the country in spring. This year the weather was perfect. While Frank worked the fields, Helen crocheted clothing, curtains and rugs, and blankets for the baby’s room. August was coming to an end and Helen’s limping gave away her discomfort with sciatica.

Within a week, Helen feverishly began cleaning the house from top to bottom. Frank offered help. Helen returned the "over my