Sophie's Gifts

By Shirley Coulter Ericson

Ten-year-old Sophie Glidden lives in a rural Maine community in 1933. She and her best friend, Evelyn Murphy, enjoy hanging out in Evelyn's tree house and exploring. There is also a difference between the girls. Sophie is a Protestant, and her roots in town go back many generations. Evelyn is an Irish Catholic immigrant. Their difference in religion is something neither of them considers until Evelyn gives a rosary to Sophie to comfort her following the death of Sophie's grandmother. When Sophie's parents discover that she has prayer beads, trouble quickly settles in the Glidden home.

While searching for answers about why many adults in Kittington are biased against Catholics, Sophie uncovers secrets about First Christian Church--where she and her family attend services.

Sophie is bold and tenacious. She holds her ground and speaks up to adults in her struggle to gain justice for her Catholic friend, but at what cost?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798890611574

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Notes from the Author

The Rosary

The Lonely Man

Wednesday

Why Don't You Like Catholics?

More Angry Words

A New Acquaintance

Wounds

Popped Antennae

Perilous Adventure

Trapped

Mrs. Weymouth's Story

Impertinence

Apology

Spies

Kidnapped

Time to Face the Truth

Church

Pickle Face's Visit

Shared Secrets

Dear Sophie

Three Questions

Dad's News

Slingshots

Preparations

The Assault

We Need a Revolution

The Tea Party

Pepperrell Classical Institute

Gladys

Can You Make My Bed?

Dear Evelyn

Letters

Crumbs

Roadblock

The Gamble

Heavens to Betsy!

Dad's Bewilderment

A Cheeky Note

Secrets Revealed

Glory Be, Sophie!

Bittersweet

The Final Puzzle Piece

One More Gift

Acknowledgments

About the Author

cover.jpg

Sophie's Gifts

Shirley Coulter Ericson

Copyright © 2024 Shirley Coulter Ericson

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2024

ISBN 979-8-89061-156-7 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-89061-693-7 (Hardcover)

ISBN 979-8-89061-157-4 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

To the memory of my grandmothers, Abby Gillette Coulter and Verna Leach Higgins.

Notes from the Author

This story is based on events that took place in Maine in earlier years. The setting and all characters are fictional.

Everything around us changes with time. Inventions change the way we do things. We no longer use a scrubboard to wash laundry. We no longer use an outhouse, a building similar to a porta potty. Most people today depend on an electric or gas-powered lawnmower to keep the front yard looking like a green carpet, and electricity has replaced our dependence on candles and kerosene lamps for light.

Years ago, most people only traveled ten to twenty miles from their birthplace because travel was slow. It takes much longer to walk ten miles or to travel there by horse than it does to go in the family car. Today, some people travel twenty miles away from home, daily, to get to work or school. Years ago, people worked jobs within a very short distance of their homes and walked there. Many people lived on farms. Animals needed regular attention and kept farmers from going very far.

Life changes in other ways; the words we use when we speak, attitudes, how we spend our spare time, how we get our news, and the organizations we belong to all change with time.

Sophie lives in the 1930s. There were cars and electric lights, but there was little else about her life that is like yours today. There were no televisions, computers, or cell phones. Although some families had a telephone in their homes, Sophie's family didn't. All of the children in Sophie's small country town attended a two-room schoolhouse with four grade levels in each room. Sophie's clothing was made from emptied sacks that grain for animals and flour for cooking came in. The bags were made from several different colored cottons. Many had designs on them such as flowers. During the Great Depression, it was thrifty to wash empty bags and cut them apart to make dresses, shirts for boys and men, underwear, towels, and curtains. It took three bags to make one women's-sized dress and two bags to make a long-sleeved shirt for a ten-year-old boy. Sometimes neighbors swapped bags to have enough sacks with the same color or design for their sewing projects. Grain sacks continued to be recycled into clothing during World War II when materials were needed for the war cause. Eventually, paper bags replaced cloth sacks, which led to the end of the era of grain-sack clothing.

Children did not have as much clothing as they do today. During the Great Depression, most children had two or three outfits—one for play, one for school, and one for church. Sophie and the other girls might have had a pair of bib front overalls for play and for helping out around the farm, but not all girls had pants. Girls who did have overalls only wore them around the home. They were never worn in the village or to go to town.

The church was important in people's lives when Sophie was a child growing up in Maine. Almost everyone went to church on Sunday, sometimes twice, once in the morning and again in the evening. Churches made decisions about right and wrong. The church told people how they should live their lives. There was a time when the people who went to Protestant churches didn't like people who attended the Catholic church. The Ku Klux Klan, a hate group, was active and did unkind things to Catholics. Over time, these negative attitudes changed. Catholics and Protestants learned about each other and how they worship. They learned to accept their differences, and they became friends. Eventually, the Ku Klux Klan became almost invisible in Maine.

In this story, Protestants often use the term papist when discussing Catholics. It is an impolite term, and it is unacceptable to talk that way. The word is used in this book to stay true to the period the story is set in. Papist is name-calling, a tactic bullies use to belittle someone or a group of people.

When we allow ourselves to open our minds, listen, and understand, we learn that all people are a gift, regardless of the language they speak, where they live, their religion, gender, skin color, their physical, or mental capabilities. Sophie is an advocate for justice. Thanks to Sophie and many others, the attitudes between Protestants and Catholics have changed, and today, we embrace our relationships with each other. What barriers can we break down today with an open mind?

The Rosary

Agood fart launched Evelyn's and my friendship, and it was the funniest thing that ever happened in school. It was 1930, and Evelyn's first day attending elementary number 3, after moving to Kittington from Ireland.

Mrs. Grimes stooped down at Burt Gillette's desk to help him with a problem. When she bent over, she let out a tremendous explosion of air. It got everyone's attention, but poor Evelyn sat across the aisle from Burt and was right in the direct line of fire. She put one hand over her mouth and nose and waved the other hand up and down. Mrs. Grimes turned and looked at her. Whatever are you doing, Miss Murphy? Is something the matter?

Evelyn shook her head, No, Mrs. Grimes.

Good. The teacher turned again to help Burt.

Evelyn moved her eyes from side to side when she heard snickers. I caught her attention and smiled, rolled my eyes, held my nose, pointed toward Mrs. Grimes, and waved a hand in front of my face. Evelyn grinned at me from ear to ear, and I knew we'd become friends.

Today, we are best pals, bosom friends. We are alike in many ways. Here are three ways we are the same: (1) we both like to explore, especially in places we're not supposed to be; (2) we love spending time in her tree house, imagining other times or places we've never seen; (3) neither of us likes liver, and we just as soon not eat bitter dandelion greens.

There is one difference between us too. Evelyn attends the Catholic church at the west end of town, and I belong to the Protestant one. Our difference in religion isn't a big deal as far as we are concerned, but that isn't how many people in the community feel. There are way more Protestants in Kittington than Catholics, and some Protestants wish there weren't any Catholics in town; zero. Evelyn and I hadn't figured out why, but we were about to learn more about that.

A few days after my Grandma's funeral, we were together in Evelyn's grand castle among the leaves. Unlike the platform in the crotch of an apple tree that is my hideaway in the branches, Evelyn's tree house had walls, a roof, and a rope ladder that we could pull up through the hole in the floor to keep out her sister and little brothers. It even had two windows. They didn't have glass, but there were shutters that we closed when it rained or if we wanted to make sure no one could hear what we were saying. One window faced south and overlooked Jonathan Lake. The view was nice, but I liked looking out the window that faced east better because I could see the entire village: the Grange Hall, the two-room schoolhouse, Maddocks's Store, the firehouse, the spool mill where Dad worked, all eleven homes, and the little white clapboard church where I attend with my family; its steeple reaching toward the sky.

Evelyn and I shared everything in that tree house: giggles and secrets. We read books, put together puzzles, and played jacks. Sometimes we climbed onto the roof or went high into the limbs of our oak.

That day in Evelyn's tree house, she reached into her pocket. When she took her hand out, it was closed up tight as if she had caught something and didn't want it to escape.

What do you have? I asked.

Her blue eyes sparkled, and she opened her palm. Her fist was full of smooth, shiny wooden beads. She stretched her arm toward me so that I could see the different shades and sizes of blue spheres.

They're so pretty. Where did you get them? I asked.

It's a Rosary. Evelyn picked it up and let it dangle, and I saw the shiny beads strung together. A little white cross dangled at one end. It's for you.

A Rosary? What do you do with it? I asked.

We use them when we pray, Evelyn said as she passed the Rosary to me.

Holding it in my palms, I ran my fingers over the soft, glossy beads. They were beautiful, and the little white cross was perfectly carved. It was larger than the gold cross on the necklace Dad gave me when I turned ten but every bit as exquisite. When I started to put it over my head, Evelyn corrected me.

No, don't wear it around your neck. It isn't jewelry. Wear a necklace if you want to look pretty. Use a Rosary when you pray. One other thing, prayer beads are for both boys and girls, she explained. Evelyn took the Rosary back. Watch. Hold it in your hand like this. She held the first large bead above the cross between her thumb and pointer finger. When you touch this one, say the Our Father."

The Our Father? Do you mean the Lord's Prayer? I asked.

Evelyn nodded. It's the same thing. She passed the Rosary back to me. You try it.

I held the large bead as she showed me and recited the Lord's Prayer. How did I do?

You didn't cross yourself, Evelyn answered. But other than that, you did just fine.

I scrunched my nose and looked into her freckled face, framed by red braids. Cross myself. What do you mean?

Like this. With her right hand, Evelyn made the sign of the cross over her body. First, she touched her head, then her chest, left shoulder, and right shoulder.

Oh, I said. We don't do that at my church, but I think it is nice. I copied Evelyn's example.

Good, Sophie. Evelyn crossed herself one more time. "Say these words when you make the sign. ‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.' There are other prayers that we say when we use the Rosary, but I think it is okay if you say the prayers you know.

I wonder why we don't have prayer beads at my church or cross ourselves, I said.

Evelyn shrugged. How would I know? Anyhow, I hope it makes you feel better when you think about your grandma.

I love it, Evelyn. Are you sure it is okay to give me this? Did you check with your parents first?

Don't fret, Sophie. It's mine. Besides, I have another one.

You have more than one Rosary?

I did until I gave you this one. I kept the one my grandpa gave me.

I tucked the prayer beads deep into my pocket and hugged my bosom friend. I'm going to keep these forever, I told her.

I truly loved the Rosary and wished I could share it with Mom and Dad, but something Dad said one day when he and I walked home from the mill together gnawed at me. I saw Evelyn leaving Maddocks's Convenience and ran up to her to chat for a minute. Dad kept walking, and when I caught up to him, he asked, Don't you have any Protestant friends, Sophie?

Of course, I answered, but I wanted to tell him that none of my friends who attend First Christian are as dear to me as Evelyn. I knew he wouldn't like that, so I skipped ahead of him and didn't say anything else.

The Lonely Man

In the darkness that night, I pulled the Rosary out from under my pillow, felt the shape of the little cross, and ran my fingers over the smooth, wooden spheres. I thought about how nothing is better than having a bosom friend, especially one gentle, kind, and loyal like Evelyn. There was something else I liked about Evelyn too. She had gumption. I first realized this the day she heard Willard Comins teasing me.

Hey, Sophie, where'd you get those chicken legs? Do you flap and squawk like a hen too? he asked.

Before I could respond, Evelyn jumped in between Willard and me. She stood firm with her legs slightly parted and feet stuck solid to the ground as if she were standing in mud. Her hands were on her hips, and she stared at Willard the way a bull and matador face off before the charge. Willard, I declare you are so mean that I bet you don't even like yourself.

I was too dumbfounded to speak.

There was a boy at my old school, back in Ireland, just like you. He was always picking on someone. I didn't like him one little bit, but Pa told me to return his nastiness with kindness 'cause it's the right thing to do, Evelyn declared.

Willard rolled his eyes. And you think your pa knows what he's talking about?

He does. Better than you anyhow.

Tell me, Evelyn, was it difficult to learn how to talk the funny way you do? Willard asked.

At last, my tongue worked. I marched up to Willard and stood inches in front of him. I agree with Evelyn, Willard Comins. You can be mighty mean. Anyway, I like the way she talks, and for your information, her accent is called a brogue.

Aww, come on, Sophie. I was just playing with you.

It's not playing when you call people names. It hurts. Don't you ever pick on Evelyn again for how she talks.

Of course, you like the strange noise that comes out of her mouth, Chicken Legs. Willard rolled his eyes at me and shook his head. He started to turn away, and I was relieved, but a glance at Evelyn told me she wasn't finished with Willard yet. She was red-hot mad! I worried that if she didn't cool down, she would explode or, worse yet, charge at Willard. If there had been a hose, I would have used it on her. But she didn't explode or charge because the teacher heard the commotion and came over to set things right. She sent Willard off to join the other boys in a kickball game and suggested that Evelyn and I play jump rope with the other girls or start a game of hopscotch.

*****

Evelyn wasn't the only one on my mind that night in the dark. A scene from the day of the funeral tugged at my brain. After we left the church following Grandma's service, we went to the cemetery for the burial. I noticed a man there, someone I'd never seen before. He stood off by himself, holding a bouquet. The stranger was close enough that I could see the sadness on his face, but he didn't join us next to the grave. I nudged Mom and whispered, Look. Who is he?

Mom looked at me and shook her head just a bit, so I looked away from the unknown visitor and straight into the grave.

I kept my head looking forward during the reading of the twenty-third Psalm, but when the minister said, Our Father, and everyone bowed their heads and joined in reciting the Lord's Prayer, I rolled my eyes around to ensure no one else was peeking and turned again toward the stranger. His head was bowed, too, which gave me a chance to get a good look at him. At the word Amen, I quickly turned my attention back to the grave before Mom caught me gawking again.

The minister raised his right arm over the grave and said, Almighty God, in whose eternal care are all your children, we commit your servant, Abigail Elizabeth Glidden, to your care.

Mom used the corner of her handkerchief to dry her eyes, and Dad nudged me. I clutched Mom's hand, and we walked forward. Dad stood at my other side. I looked up at him, and he made a slight nod of his head, and Mom whispered to me, Take off a glove, Sophie. I looked away from Dad and up at Mom. My eyes filled with tears as I picked up a handful of dirt and tossed it onto Grandma's coffin.

From ashes to ashes and dust to dust, the minister said. Amen.

Grandma's body was in the ground, and all the prayers had been said. The committal was finished. We turned and walked back to our car. When we did, I looked over at the solitary figure. Through my blurry eyes, I caught him wiping a tear away.

I wasn't the only one who noticed the outsider. People looked at him and talked in hushed voices as they walked toward their cars. Some shook their heads. I heard Mrs. Weymouth's Tsk, tsk. Not one person greeted the man or offered to comfort him, except Mom. She walked toward the lone figure, and I knew she wanted to hug him and pat him on the shoulder because that was the kind of person she was.

Let it go, Dorothy, Dad said.

But Robert, Mom began.

Let's go. Dad held the car door for Mom. There is nothing to say, Dorothy. Others had stalled and were looking from Dad to Mom. Mrs. Weymouth shook her head and rolled her eyes, and her pickle-faced husband pursed his lips and glared over the top of his glasses at Mom. Mom looked at the man again and shrugged, then turned away and got into the car.

My eyes were stuck on Dad. After he closed Mom's door, he went around the front of the automobile to get into the driver's seat. Just before he got in, he glanced at the stranger and nodded slightly.

When the cars pulled away, I watched the unknown visitor walk over to the grave and put flowers on it. As we moved farther from Grandma's burial, I stuck my head out the window and craned my neck until we were out of the cemetery, and the solitary figure was lost from sight.

Mom's jaw was tight, and she kept glancing at Dad. He looked back at her. You know how I feel about it, Dorothy.

I have my feelings, too, Robert, Mom answered. A little civility wouldn't hurt. It's always best to give others your respect, even if you disagree with them.

Let bygones be bygones, Dorothy. It is best to leave the past in the past.

My head bobbed back and forth from Dad to Mom, like a ball on a ping-pong court. I hoped they would say more, but they didn't. Mom looked out the side window, Dad out the front window, and I sat in silence, looking at the backs of their heads.

*****

After I thought about all these things, I rolled over onto my side. Tired, I slipped the Rosary under my pillow, forgetting that tomorrow was Wednesday.

Wednesday

Istopped fast in my tracks when I saw sheets flapping in the breeze. Usually, my insides tingle with happiness at the sight. The fresh smell of linens hung outside is one of my favorite scents. At the end of laundry day, I snuggle deep down under the covers and breathe in the outdoor smell. I always hope the scent will get stuck in my nostrils so it is there every night but, of course, that doesn't happen. On Wednesday, though, my guts tied into knots, and cold prickles covered my body when I saw my bedding blowing in the wind. I hoped Mom left the Rosary on the nightstand and that she hadn't taken much notice of it, but the little voice in my head told me the prayer beads would not go unmentioned.

I stood outside the door, thinking about what to say. Then it came to me. If Mom asks me about the prayer beads, I'll tell her, simple and plain; it's a gift from Evelyn. It shouldn't be a problem; after all, Mom always tells me it's the thought that counts.

I crossed my fingers on my right hand and stepped into the kitchen. As soon as I did, I saw the Rosary on the counter, and all the confidence I had on the other side of the door vanished. Flames erupted inside my guts. I talked to myself and tried to squelch the fire. Don't jump to conclusions. This is Mom. She probably won't make it into a big deal.

Hi, Mom, I called.

Hello, Sophie. Stay there. I'll be right down.

Okay, I yelled back." I picked up the Rosary and dropped it into my pocket.

When Mom walked into the room, I began to jabber. I like it when you wash the sheets and hang them outside to dry. They will smell good when we crawl between the covers tonight. Don't you love that scent, Mom? Do you think bedding gets that fresh air fragrance when city people hang theirs outside? Or do their sheets get a city smell? I held my nose. Cities have odors. I continued with my barrage of questions. Can you imagine if it rained for forty days and forty nights like the story of Noah and the ark in the Bible, and you couldn't wash them? I guess our linens would get stinky, wouldn't they? Do you think that could ever happen?

Mom laid a hand on the counter and leaned against it slightly as if she needed it to hold her up. "Breathe, Sophie.