Steps Retraced
1923
Sarah Francelle Coleman Heywood
I was sitting near the window. The
evening sun shining through the evergreen trees made long shadows on the floor.
Birds were flitting and caroling among the vines that covered the porch. An
open letter lay in my lap. I had read it over and over to make sure it was
real.
“Dear Mother,” it said. “I am coming
to pick you up in a few days, so be ready for a long trip and a visit with your
scattered children. Margery, Little Jo and sister Ella will be with me. We are
going to travel the same road you and father did forty years ago.” etc.
Your loving boy,
Leland.
It
had been seven years last Thanksgiving since all my children were home. Seven
years added to fifty six had changed the suspicion of wrinkles around my mouth
and eyes to lines and curves that showed there had been a long conflict between
the stubborn practical issues of life on the one hand, and the spiritual,
emotional and ideal on the other.
The
golden brown of my hair was sprinkled with gray, my blue eyes had a dreamy
far-away look; I had not always had time to dream; mine had been a busy life.
The early part of it had been lived around the ragged edge of poverty. (The
sharp teeth of poverty had followed me up to date Feb 1932.) For me its chase
will soon cease.
We
had pioneered in three Western States. Eleven children had come to us, three
times we had stood by the open graves, had seen little coffins lowered into the
cold ground and had hear the sickening thud of damp earth as it fell on the
lids.
When
Yeates, the baby, could toddle around, father Heywood was called to go. THen
the daily struggle to educate the children and to supply the physical needs,
kept every nerve tense. Rebellion and despair, resignation and hope fought
constantly for supremacy.
Frontier
life among rugged mountains, on sandy deserts and contact with the unemotional
Red Man had taught me to repress any demonstration of love or sorrow. To me it
was an indication of weakness to be seen in tears. Among the neighbors I was
spoken of as “The Iron Mother”.
Each
time one of my children left home for school, to go into business or made homes
of their own, I would go with him or her to the little depot. outwardly as
unmoved as a marble statue, but inwardly a raging maelstrom that would burst
out at night in a violent torrent of tears. When the storm had subsided I would
go to each bed and lightly press my lips to cheek or brow. Beside the empty
beds a prayer would ascend in behalf of the absent ones.
Yeates
had been the last to go. When he left, I stood on the platform of the depot as
long as I could see a spiral of smoke, then turned mechanically down the path
toward home. A brisk autumn wind sent the yellow leaves scurrying under my
feet. The perfume of the honey-suckle on the porch and the depressing wail of a
mourning dove made me shiver.
When
I opened the door and went in, the house seemed to reverberate with mocking
emptiness. The piano, pictures on the walls that father had painted, curtains
fluttering in the wind, empty chairs, books, every nook and corner was filled
with memories of childish life.
I
dropped down on the stool by the piano and laid my head on its keys. Sharp,
resonant, vibratory tones filled the room. The lump in my throat was
suffocating. I felt weary, faint, then as if in sympathy, the clamorous strains
of music softened and came back with subdued soothing melody that whispered
hope and peace.
For
an instant my body shook with paroxysms of grief. Then with stoic determination
I sat up, brushed away the tears and opening the door to memory’s closet, saw
happy faces and childish pranks, heard joyous laughter and snatches of song.
On
one shelf I saw a little boy -Neal- climbing a barren clay hill; when almost on
top he looked down. To his little mind the hill was so tall and steep! Not a
bush or twig to cling to. He lay down and tried to keep from slipping by
putting his arms around as far as they would reach. That was so long ago.
Life’s hill is still steep and hard to climb.
On
another shelf was a twelve year old boy -Spence- busily hoeing weeds in the
garden. A cotton tail was nibbling the tender lettuce. How fat and plump it
was. The boy’s mouth began to water. He could almost smell the rich odor and
taste the juicy brown meat. Several times he threw at the rabbit but missed it,
then started a chase, in and out, up and down among the cabbage and lettuce and
between the apple and cherry trees. The bewildered rabbit dodged. It made a
break for the fence and went under with the boy in a close second. On and on it
ran until tired and panting it dropped into a little depression near a
neighboring house. Sure of his prize the boy stopped to puff. Just then the
neighbor stepped out, picked the rabbit up and walking back into the house,
closed the door. Many times since, he has almost plucked the prize.
Hanging
on a closet wall was a scene of bustle and hurry, Breakfast was over, there
were dishes to wash, floors to sweep, lunches to put up and children to get
ready for school. I had to leave early to open the school room and be ready to
greet the pupils as they came trooping in. As I went out of the door, I called
back, “Children, be quick and finish the work so you won’t be late for school.
Tassie (Robert) don’t spend too much time feeding the rabbits; Velma, is your bed
made? Ella, see that Yeates has a clean face and his hair combed. You larger
boys be sure to shut the gate so the cows won’t run away.”
When
part way down the path she heard a chorus of voices, “Mamma, do you know where
my book is?” “Mamma, I can’t find my hat.” “Mother, Leland is teasing Velma so
she can’t help me.” “Ma-m-m-a, it’s cold this morning, my coat is lost.”
That
evening when I came home I saw Yeates with a new vest on. “Where did you get
that new vest?” I asked.
“I
told you it was cold and my vest was lost, so I went up in the garret and got
big brother’s vest. It went way down to my feet and kept my legs warm.”
“The
one you have on is not a big one, where did you get that?”
“Going
to school my pencil lost, and my teacher sent me to the store to get one. See
this pretty blue one?”
“Where
did you get the vest?”
“When
the clerk gave me this pencil he asked me if I would trade my vest for another
one. He got this of’en a big pile an’ put it on me. He put the other in the
stove. It was all ragged down the back. He said my mother teached school ‘stead
of staying home with her kids.”
Under
my breath I murmured, “Yes, poor kids.”
On
the shelf labeled “Childish Sorrow,” I could see sensitive little David, with
face on the floor sobbing bitterly. I sat down by him.
“What
is the matter, David?”
“I
had nearly enough money in my little trunk to buy paint brushes and oil paints,
twenty-five cents is gone. I never will get to paint pictures.”
“Don’t
cry, I think we will find the money.”
“It’s
gone, it’s gone>”
“Have
any of you children seen David’s money?” An outcry of “No”.
“I
will see if I can find it”, Velma said in her smooth soothing voice. In a short
time she came back. “I’ve looked all over but didn’t find it.”
“I
knew you couldn’t, I had four dollars and fifty-cents. I needed fifty cents
more, now I have to get seventy-five. The asparagus along the fences won’t be
ready to sell for a long time,” sobbed David.
“I’m
so sorry, I’ll look again,” Velma volunteered.
“Hello!”
Leland said, sticking his head into the room. “What’s David crying for?”
“Twenty-five
cents of his is missing. Have you seen it?”
“No,
but what’s the use of bawling over a quarter?”
“I
was to take painting lessons, I never spend my money on gum or candy’” wailed
David.
Leland
gave a low whistle. “Mother, did you give Velma money to buy the candy I saw
her eating in town the other day?”
I
took seventy-five cents from my purse and gave to David. Had I erred by not
being more liberal with the little things that mean so much in the lives of
children?
The
shelf behind the door was marked “Excitements,” I took a roll down, brushed off
the dust and saw an agitated group of children running to meet me as I rounded
the corner into the lane. Some days pervious I had sent east for a fox-terrier
pup. Since skunks had been making inroads on the chickens, one was needed. The
bill-of-landing had been received. The pup would be in any day. As the children
came near enough to be heard, almost in one voice they cried. “Tassie has
swallowed a dog! Tassie has swallowed a dog!”
“He
almost choked!”
“Swallowed
a dog? Where is he?” I asked.
“In
the house.”
“Is
he alright?”
“Yes,
but he is scared. Will you give him a dose of castor oil?” “My how he will kick
if you do.”
I
had never seen a Scotch-terrier. Could it be so tiny? I knew Tassie had an
enormous mouth and throat for a little boy; his mouth reminded one of a young
black bird’s, always open and ready for any sized morsel.
Following
the children to the house with shaking knees, I had swift views of a sick boy,
pillaged hen roosts, ten dollars- cost of pup- the same thrown away.
“Who
brought the dog from the depot? How did it get out of the crate? Why didn’t you
children watch Tassie? You know he is always eating something he shouldn’t.”
“It
wasn’t in the crate, it just had a hole through it.”
“A
hole through it, what do you mean?”
“Oh,
don’t you remember that little tin dog Tassie found? Well, that was what he
swallowed.”
Their
eyes sparkled. “You thought he swallowed the pup you sent for?” Yeates said.
They wanted to laugh, but mother frowned. She never could enjoy a laugh at her
expense.
Another
scene showed Leland in a bath of warm water. He had evolved from the infant boy
period to that stage where he could bathe himself - except knuckles and ear
pockets. It was a cold day. “Ella,” he called, “Throw me a towel, I forgot it.”
“You
always forget something and expect me to wait on you,” she answered as she put
a pitcher of cold water on the table. Throwing a towel in to him she caught
sight of his bare back. Temptation was too much. She picked up the pitcher and
quickly dashed the cold water on him. He gasped, choked and jumped out of the
tub.
“I’ll
just drown you,” he yelled and started for her. She ran outside, around and
around the house they ran. Rage gave speed to his feet, he was gaining. One
more round and he would catch her; she made a dash for the neighbors. Nothing
daunted he kept after her, his anger was so intense he did not see the neighbor
girl until almost to her. He had reached his “Waterloo.” Swift, if humiliating,
retreat was in order.
Scattered
around on the unlabeled shelves were whooping cough, measles, chicken-pox,
mumps, blistered backs, stubbed toes, broken dolls etc.
The
dream had passed with quiet firmness I closed memory’s closet. I must repress
the past and anticipate the future.
The
years had seemed long since the children had gone from home. Now I was going to
see them. the letter in my lap said so. The shadows lengthened on the floor,
spring was in the air. In a few days Leland would call. I must be ready. would
my brown silk dress, two years old and a little out of date be good enough to
wear in the city? Velma lived there, she was dressy.
When
the car rolled up every thing was ready. What with bedding, cooking utensils,
grips, bundles, four grown-ups and a baby, the car was filled. When the last
thing was stowed away and the car pulled out on the highway, I leaned back
against the soft cushions and fairly reveled in the luxury of it all.
How
the car climbed the hills. No jumping out to block wheels while tired horses
strained every muscle to keep it from rolling back. No horses to harness, hitch
up, unhitch, grain, water, and at night hobble out with the fear they might
stray off. Smell of the camp fire, food flavored with smoke, beds spread on the
ground under the starry sky where one could lie and look up into the great blue
space for Job’s coffin, the Milky Way and Big Dipper. All gave me the same feeling
of youth and buoyancy I had known when we and out two little boys had traveled
the same road in a covered wagon forty-three years ago. Then the roads were
rough, sandy an steep; Indians were hostile; I remembered what a sensations of
security came over me when the moon was full. An Indian myth said the Apaches
would never make an attack in the light of the moon.
Now
travel goes unmolested over paved, asphalt, graded and graveled roads. At night
the whirr of a bird, the hoot of an owl or the prolonged howl of a coyote was
soothing; sleep was refreshing.
In
the dreamland of my sleeping I saw a beautiful home. Father in his easy chair,
discussing big events with his six grown boys --grown sturdy to manhood. Ella,
the unselfish home-loving girl was busy doing little acts of kindness for
father and the boys. Strains of sweet music came from Velma’s violin. The three
little girls who had been gone so long were skipping and dancing, their white
dresses sparkling in the soft light. It was so real; father, mother, eleven
children all home. The shadowy fantasy floated away. the tinkle of the horse
bell disturbed me. I moved, turned over. No, it was not mere fancy, I could not
mistake the jingling bell nor the strains of music. To make sure I rubbed my
eyes and opened them. The sun was flecking the sky with gold and purple. Margey
was stirring little Joe’s breakfast, the spoon tinkling against the sides of
the tin cup. A feathered songster was almost bursting its little throat calling
to its mate that spring time and nesting time have come.
At
times I felt as if I were floating in the air, but suddenly brought down as a
rounding curve on some tortuous dug-way came in view. It seemed that with one
leap the car would vault over the brink, down, down, -- it made me shudder. On
and on across hot stretches with scanty growth of cacti, palos verdes, mesquite
and iron wood, gay in spring robes of yellow, lavender and pink; over mountains
clothed with dense forests of spicy pines; past lone ranch houses and little
villages, through mining towns anchored to hills and mountains.
How
civilizations and industry had spread; the whole country so big and alive --
alive with people in tin Lizzies, Buicks, Chevrolets, and great vans like
houses on wheels.
Spence
and his large family were delighted with the short visit made them. I was
worried about the little black-eyed baby; she seemed hovering between life and
death.
Tassie,
the farmer, was visited on his farm. He was the same unpolished generous,
optimistic boy.
“Mither,
next year I’ll have thirty acres of alfalfa, besides corn, wheat and barley.
Fellers ‘ll come right to my door for it. Pay big prices. Then I’ll make off
pigs; forty now and more coming; most of my cows are pure breads. One little
chap looks like a cross between a bard wire fence and a coyote. I’ll beef him.
Mither, between you and I? I need a wife to raise chickens and turkeys, make
butter and keep the house fit to live in.”
“I
make some bucks strumming the banjo at hoe-downs. Just a few minutes notice and
I’m all ready. I wipe the milk off my shoes, brush last years dust off my lid,
polish my tusks with the horse brush and off I go to give ‘em jazz till they
can’t shake a leg.”
The
Doctor, Neal, and his family were happy and prosperous. David, the teacher, had
rented a cozy little nest of a house and would soon have a house-keeper all his
own.
The
pangs of loneliness that I felt after each good-bye were assuaged by Margey’s
bubbling joy, by Leland’s thoughtfulness, little Joe’s sunny face and impressible
Ella, who declared she was the “Jonah” because all car trouble was on the side
where she sat.
In
the city, Leland left Margey and Little Jo at the home of Margey’s mother, then
drove to the snug little house Yeates and Velma live in. It was a homey place
with a lawn and flowers in front and a vegetable garden at the back where
Yeates developed his muscles after office hours. Inside there was warmth,
brightness and cheer so restful after the long dusty trip.
Yeates
was the same quiet careless lad, heedless of his dress and manners. Velma had
acquired more city technique and style. She was a present-day girl with
perfectly manicured hands, marcelle wave, plucked eyebrows, roughed lips and
cheeks and low cut dress. She had a soft persuasive voice and a nonchalant
charm, that was alluring. Her cooking, house-keeping and music were as
painstakingly accurate as her person. Her devotion to modern conventionalities
kept me in a constant turmoil for she still resolutely clung to the etiquette
of her generation.
One
evening at dinner, a hurt pang corrugated the corners of Velma’s eyes when
Yeates violated table manners.
“Yeates,”
she demanded, “Why do you insist on using a spoon? One would think you hadn’t
passed the bib age. Use your fork.”
“A
spoon carries the food to my mouth without stringing down like stewed okra.
When there’s no one but home folks can’t a feller enjoy eating without thinking
about how to eat?” he asked.
“He
never cares how he humiliates me,” Velma continued. “Mother, did you notice how
that young man at Mrs. Gray’s stood up when we entered and remained standing
until we were seated? Yeates never does such a thing. The other day,” she raved
on, “we were getting off the street car, he just stood there like a dummy while
I went down the steps, never offering to assist me.”
“You are as able to get off the car as
I am without help. How would I look if some one were to rush ahead of me, jump
down the steps, bow, smile and “with you permission may I assist you to
alight?’”
“Yeates,
Yeates,” I said, “Always be a gentleman.” Velma knew by the twinkle in her eyes
that mother had made a mental reservation.
Margy
phoned for them to meet her down town at the corner of 7th and 1st streets. She
was waiting when they reached the corner. As the car stopped, I walked out
ahead and stepped on the ground just as Yeates started down the steps. I smiles
and bowed and “With your permission, may I assist you to alight?”, took his arm
and helped him down. He gave a sickly smile, looked confused and bewildered.
Bystanders tittered. The girls were convulsed with laughter. Margy stepped up
to him, “Are you sick?” she asked with anziety.
“No,
mother just put one over on me,” he answered.
My
visit was over. Leland Margery, Ella had decided to remain in the city so I
would go home on the train. It would leave early in the morning. It was
difficult to swallow the early breakfast. It choked and the flood gate that had
so securely locked the fountain of tears in the presence of others began to
leak. I would get up from the table ostensibly to get more coffee, leave the
table for something I had forgotten to put in the traveling bag, fumble with
the lock with one had while the other was surreptitiously using a handkerchief.
I
was thankful the wait at the depot was short. Only time to get a ticket, check
baggage and a hurried good-bye. As the engine began to pant and tug at the long
train, I sank into a back seat of the first coach. What a relief it would be to
open the safety valve to moist emotions and let off steam, shrill,
high-pitched, hissing screeching steam. The engine snorted, the wheels grated
and ground on the steel rails. Great black rolls of smoke trailing close to the
ground puffed in through the open windows. The train laboriously pulled out of
the depot, past tall buildings and factories, through suburbs, by foul smelling
swamps fringed with coarse grass and rushes.
Startled
ducks winged up from among nodding cat tails, and swooped down into pools
farther away. The wheels of black smoke wallowed in the hazy air, making the
murky desolation more desolate.
As
the train gained in momentum the miasma laden atmosphere gave way to balmy
invigorating air. In the distance, gulls, looking like feathery snow flakes
were skimming and gliding or hanging motionless above a calm and placid lake
that rivaled the cerulean beauty of its twin majesty. A wavering aureole of
gray mountains lay between. A burst of sunshine sent shimmering rays of light
on the laughing ripples, that ricochetted HOPE! TRUST! JOY!
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