The Diary Of Mattie Spenser (16 page)

Mr. Garfield has returned to his soddy, but Luke says he pays no attention to the crops. He is drunk from morning to night, then night to morning from the liquor that Mr. Bondurant makes. I did not know until now that John Barleycorn is the principal source of that old sinner’s income and the reason he farms but little. If at home, I would not approve. Here, I do not consider it such a serious stain on the old scapegrace’s character, but instead, I hope that he will offer me a dram or two for my Christmas cakes.

September 24, 1866. Prairie Home.

Our little group pretends now that Sallie was never one of us, so seldom do we make reference to her. I do not speak of her either, but she is always in my thoughts. I asked Luke if he thinks life is of less value on the frontier. After giving the matter thought, he replied it is sentiment that is less precious. Our own lives have value, so we must live them as best we can, not wasting time on mourning and other niceties. I do not disagree, though I find the conventions he dismisses are what make us civilized.

Still, I have changed, too, and now find humorous many actions that I would not have laughed at even a year ago. Among them is the deportment of a woman in Kansas, whose husband was attacked and killed by Indians. When the tragedy was related to her along with the news that the Indians were nearby and she must flee, she bid her rescuers wait whilst she changed into black mourning dress, black silk cap, and jet earrings.

Mr. Garfield hangs about the saloon in Mingo now, leaving his farm in ruins. He lost everything in the war, excepting Sallie and little Freddie, and now they, too, are gone. I think Sallie must be dead by now, because a woman of her sensitivity could not live indefinitely with brutes. Still, Mr. Garfield told Mr. Bondurant that after what she had put up with from the “Yankee pigs,” she would be able to tolerate savages.

We remain safe but endure troubles of our own. What the hail did not kill, the insects ate, and Luke is again in ill humor. He is the best of farmers, but he does not have the farmer’s forbearance or belief that Providence brings both good years and bad.

Because we had so little left of our crops, Luke hired out to Mr. Amidon, not as a bindle stiff, but to oversee the construction of a large barn, as Mr. Amidon is still troubled by the shakes and needed a trustworthy lieutenant. I helped Emmie Lou with the cooking, which I enjoyed enormously, despite my physical state, which fatigues me. It was almost like home when Mother, sisters, and I cooked for the threshing crews—hard work, of course, but what did that matter when we women could be together in the kitchen? I have not seen so many pies in one place since I left home. But there is the difference: Here, they were all dried apple pies!

Mr. Amidon is the only one of us with money (perhaps I should say the only one whose wife has money), and he hired five men for three days’ work. Emmie Lou said Mr. Osterwald showed up with Brownie, whom Mr. Amidon refused to employ. When Mr. Osterwald said he would not work without his son, there were ugly words, and Mr. Amidon ordered both off his land.

On our first night, one man begged Emmie Lou to play the piano, requesting “Tenting Tonight on the Old Camp Ground.” Emmie Lou, who takes great pleasure in the instrument sent to her by her parents as a housewarming present, did not need to be asked twice. We sang many old favorites until the men retired to their blankets, which were spread upon the ground. Instead of going to bed herself, Emmie Lou sat at the piano and continued her performance. I had retired, but I crept back into the room, listening quietly in a dark corner. Emmie Lou was transfixed until startled by a sound at the window. Turning, she beheld the hired men, tears upon their faces. Emmie Lou shed a few tears herself while continuing to play, and before long, there came upon her face a look of rapture. I had never before seen her so happy.

Of a sudden, Mr. Amidon came down from the bedroom above and ordered her to stop, for fear of waking the little ones. Emmie Lou protested that if the girls could sleep through the noise of barn building, the sounds of music would not awaken them. But Mr. Amidon said harshly, “I won’t have bummers paying attention to my wife.”

“It’s the music. They’re only homesick boys. It doesn’t mean anything,” Emmie Lou protested.

Mr. Amidon was not to be moved. “You will never do this again. Do you hear?”

As neither of them knew I was in the room, I sat silently until they had gone upstairs. Then rising, I saw the men, still at the window. They, too, had heard, and they did not ask for a repeat performance the next evening.

The second babe I carry is not as content as Johnnie was at this stage, which is between two and three months, and I suffer from ill health.

October 2, 1866. Prairie Home.

We have long known that Moses Earley was not of a farming nature. He is charming and fun-loving but leaves the toil to his brother and would rather find a gold mine than work for a living. Now, he has gone off to discover one, and taken Jessie with him! In this place where all prize freedom so highly, there is still room for scandal! Of course, that is because it involves a woman. I am not altogether surprised, for I had observed Jessie and Moses enjoyed sparking.

All blame Jessie, of course, and express sympathy for her husband that was. I am told he is heartbroken, and why not, as Jessie ran store, saloon, and post office, and now he must work to make his way. Mr. Connor disappeared for a few days, and all thought he had gone after the two miscreants, but he returned with another woman, whom he introduced as Mrs. Connor. Without her, he was in danger of losing the post office, since he cannot read. Missus declared she recognized Jessie’s replacement as a prostitute from one of the houses in Denver, which prompted Emmie Lou to ask Missus if she was acquainted with every woman in Colorado of shipwrecked virtue.

I remember the kindness of both Jessie and Moses when Johnnie was born, and I cannot help but wish them well in the gold fields.

Now that it is cooler, Johnnie no longer has the croup. He grows every day and already has a tooth, which I discovered when he bit my breast. Luke said last evening that he is glad we are to have a second child in the spring, as he hopes for a large family, perhaps ten—the first I knew of it, as I had not thought it proper to discuss the number of our children before we were wed. Luke’s is not the last word on the subject, however.

October 8, 1866. Prairie Home.

I came near to losing the babe and have spent two days in bed, something I never did before in my life. I think the Lord, suspecting I was tentative about the arrival of this child, sent me this trial so I would know how precious the little one is to me. If it is a girl, I hope to name her Sallie, and Luke agrees that would be a satisfactory name. Sallie still occupies my thoughts.

October 18, 1866. Prairie Home.

Just before Luke rode off to Mingo this morning, he called out, “What would you think if I brought some guests for supper?”

“Mr. Bondurant or Tom? Or both?” I inquired.

He merely smiled, and ’twas then I noticed that he was in the wagon instead of on horseback, and I recalled that he had swept it out yesterday. What’s more, he had taken greater care than usual with his toilette. “I’ll bring back a surprise,” he called.

O, Carrie! Dare I hope it is she? Was that feminine hand on the letter to Luke really Carrie’s, disguised to fool me? She and my dear husband have cooked this up between them, and her visit was to be a secret. How like her not to let me know ahead of time so that I would not wear myself out with preparations. I have the best friend and dearest husband in the world. O, I shall act surprised, but here is a note for you, Carrie: I shall let you read this page so that you will know you were not as sly as you thought!

There are a million things to be done before you arrive. I shall even make you one of our famous dried apple pies. I take the time to write this brief entry only so that I can show it to you upon your arrival, and you will know how welcome you are. O, my friend, you bring me such pleasure.

October 22, 1866. Prairie Home.

I flew about my chores, wishing for at least two pairs of hands so that all would be in readiness for Carrie’s visit. There was much to do. Still, the hours dragged by until I saw the cloud of dust on the horizon that meant Luke was returning. I quickly changed my dress and surveyed my little home with much pride, knowing my little improvements, such as the linen tablecloth, which is folded in half to fit our humble table, and the bitters bottle filled with pretty weeds would both please and amuse Carrie.

I was not disappointed when I made out a parasol and a member of my own sex, dressed in traveling attire, sitting beside Luke on the wagon seat. I took up Johnnie from his cradle and said, “See, Baby, it is your aunt Carrie come to admire you.” I fancied he was as anxious as I to meet his playmate Wee Willie, who I thought must be sleeping in the wagon bed.

The wagon drew near, and when I made out the faces, I could scarcely believe my eyes. There, clinging to Luke’s arm, was not my darling Carrie, but Persia Chalmers, now Mrs. Talmadge! Behind her sat the banker, his face red and wet from sun and perspiration and looking more than ever like a prune. My heart sank, and Johnnie felt the disappointment so keenly that he let out a loud wail. I would have joined him, but social responsibility required that I hide my true feelings.

’Twas a cruel joke on Luke’s part, I thought, then realized that in deference to his past affection for her, I had never told Luke my lack of regard for Persia. For all Luke knew, she was my dearest friend but one. He truly believed he had brought me a pleasurable surprise. So I vowed he would not know my disappointment.

I was determined to be pleased with any visitors from home, even the new Mrs. Talmadge, and, for a moment, I surmised she felt the same way, because she put her hands (she wore the first mitts ever seen here!) on her breastbone and proclaimed with great drama that she had missed me dreadfully. She pronounced our little place “charming,” although I saw on her face a look of disgust when she entered our soddy and surveyed its single room. She inquired where Luke and I would sleep during their stay.

“Right here, unless you want to get up in the night and nurse the baby. Do you?” I replied, as sweet as I could be.

“Nurse the baby? Do you expect me to nurse the baby?” Persia was confused, but Luke and Mr. Talmadge laughed at my little sally. Then Persia understood and put her nose into the air, saying, “Do you expect us to sleep in the barn with the animals?”

I was tempted to retort that Mr. Talmadge must be used to sleeping with an ass by now, but, fortunately, Luke spoke up and said the two men would make use of the wagon, leaving the bed to Persia and me. It was not the best arrangement, but at least Luke did not offer to let Mr. Talmadge share my bed with me! (Persia is not much more desirable as a bedfellow, however, for she thrashes around terribly. She complains she is used to goose down, and the “prairie feathers,” which is what we call the grass used to stuff the tick, cause her to itch. Never again will I complain about sleeping on a grass mattress.)

One sees vain girls like Persia in every town along the Mississippi, but they are not to be found in such quantity here, as they cannot make the grade. I shall not here relate all Persia had to say. I know Miss Persia right well and was not surprised by her immodesty, her high opinion of herself, her smart remarks. Suffice it to say, she was not above finding fault with me at every turn. I have studied her, and I conclude it is because Persia is a flatterer that each man believes himself to be her protector. Such deportment is beyond my ability, and I think, should I act in that fashion, a man would think me a donkey.

Persia found many ways to show her superiority to me, stroking her long ringlets while viewing my untidy braid and placing her milk white hand next to my sunburned one. She said she could not bear to have common calico next to her skin, that only silk would do. I need not put down here what each of us was wearing. I am a true member of my sex and wish that I, too, had lotions and fine clothes, but I would not take all the gold of the Queen of Sheba to trade my husband for Persia’s. That was a comparison Persia did not make.

Mr. Talmadge has come west to investigate the gold fields, where he hopes to place his money, of which he has a good deal, according to Mrs. Banker Talmadge. She persuaded him to look over the “Great American Desert,” as they call our part of the country, for investment, but Luke says that while capital is in short supply here, a man must farm his own land to make it pay. This is no place for an aristocrat.

Luke is out now, as Mr. Talmadge wanted to survey the country, and Luke wished to invite the neighbors for a reception honoring our guests. Mr. Talmadge is not such a bad man, though too grim and humorless for my taste. He dotes on Persia, always addressing her as “Persia, dear,” but “the light of his household” shows him not the least affection, removing her hand from his if he should be so bold as to take it.

I am glad that Persia accompanies the men, since it gives me a few minutes with my journal. I do not believe she would be much help to me in preparing for the party.

October 27, 1866. Prairie Home.

Here is a funny thing that happened when Luke, Persia, and Mr. Talmadge stopped at the Smiths’. Those neighbors have taken to raising pigs, and as the three callers entered the door, Missus was pelting a piglet with her broomstick. The poor creature had wandered into the house and caught fast his head in a cream can, then gave way to panic and ran about the room, upsetting the food safe and spilling crockery, making a terrible racket. At last, Missus chased the pig outside, where it ran off, the bucket on its head like a bonnet. Missus was not the least bit ruffled when caught thus, and she took both cake and plate from the floor and offered refreshments. Persia calls the Smith place “Dirty Woman Ranche.”

We have had our reception. The neighbors, excepting Missus, treated Persia as if she were a bisque dolly, all staring at her in frank admiration, the men vying among themselves to do Persia’s bidding. I found it unseemly that they do not care if their wives carry heavy buckets of water or till the fields in the fierce heat, even when in the family way, but they could not let Persia so much as fetch a piece of pie, and insisted she sit at table whilst they held her parasol to protect her from the sun. Among the admirers she had caught in her web, I am ashamed to admit, was Luke. It is said that women are deceivers ever. Well, I think men are fools ever—most of them, anyway.