The Diary Of Mattie Spenser (7 page)

August 8, 1865. Prairie Home.

The dreary sunbonnet that I once vowed never to wear is my constant companion, keeping not only sun but hot wind and its cargo of dust off my face. The only shade we have is the portal, where I sit now, grateful to take off the hateful bonnet, which traps the heat about my face. I never saw a place so hot or so dry or so brown—or a woman the same. My hands are walnut in color, and freckled from the sun, and my face is so dried up, I must look like a snake. I don’t know for sure, however. I did not put a looking glass into our wagon, and if I had, I think I would not know the woman staring from it. Still, I am a little curious to see if she has changed with marriage. The reflection in the dishpan is not a true likeness.

I wish I could love it here as Luke does; he believes homesteading to be a noble experiment. But each time I find something to like—the cool, dry evening air is quite refreshing—I wake up to a terrifying storm that splits the heavens asunder with jagg’d flashes of white, or to another cloudless sky, where there is not a moment’s relief from the yellow orb of day, as the poet calls it. Luke asked me once on the trail if I thought Colorado would be too near sunset. Not too near sunset, but it is too near the sun for my liking.

My plaints are only for this little book. I strive not to let Luke know my true feelings. Last evening, he asked what I would think of moving back to Fort Madison. My heart leapt up, but I was cautious and said that, like Ruth, I would follow wherever he led. Then I added, “Of course, I should miss our honeymoon cottage on the prairie, and this life in a new land.” Luke put his arm around me, drew me close, and said he was glad he had chosen a woman with courage and good humor. I felt aptly rewarded for my little falsehood.

The sun’s glare caused me another headache, making me feel as if a red-hot poker has been struck through my head. I am glad Luke is away today so that I can enjoy my misery in solitude. He has little sympathy for any weakness, so I must do my best to hide my pain. I enjoy these days alone when Luke goes into town, as it is a chance to spend time with my journal. I decided at the outset that this book would be mine alone, not to be shared with anyone. That means I do not record the weather and events of each day but, instead, wait until I have time to reflect upon my life. As I have not met a woman who could be my dearest friend (and will never meet one as true as Carrie), this book serves as a silent companion, a witness to my joys and sorrows and confessions. It helps to confide to my journal the things I can confide to no one.

Well, I will have to confide them another time, as I have a more important task. Luke’s birthday will be here shortly, and as there is no jewelry store where I can buy him a memento, as he did for me at St. Joe, I have put aside this day to make him a shirt out of a red-and-yellow-striped skirt that I scorched whilst cooking over a campfire. Fortunately, there is enough good material left, and as the skirt was new, the fabric will make up into a handsome garment.

Before I close this book, I must record that Husband took me with him on his last trip to “civilization,” and I have no desire to return to the town of Mingo, Colorado Territory, thank you. Of course, I did not expect fine stores or even a Christian house of worship. Nor did I even hold out much hope of meeting a refined class of people. Still, I believed it would be a town of some slight substance with a dry goods, where I might have social intercourse with a woman of my class. But no sir!

Mingo, which Missus described as an “awful, sinful place,” is just one shabby building, no more than a doggery inhabited by rascals. It serves as saloon and stage station, post office, lunchroom, and hospital. I saw a sign reading, “Haircuts 25 cents. Blisters removed 50 cents. Toes removed $5. Legs amputated $20.” I assume the leg was removed with the toes attached, and, therefore was a bargain. Provisions, however, are very dear, and I paid twenty-five cents for a spool of thread. Others may think me as cheap as a three-legged mule, but I save and reuse my basting thread.

The food in Mingo made me long for the cold biscuits of our Overland Trail days. Luke refused to subject me to those inside the saloon (though I admit I was longing to satisfy my curiosity). So I waited on the street whilst he inquired after the mail. Two drunken men were bold enough to look me over, but I ignored them. Then one thrust his face next to mine and said, “I’ll take you, Katy.” I screamed, and Luke bolted out the door, and he would have thrashed the pair except that they ran as fast as they could, falling in the dirt of the street, which made me laugh. Luke announced loudly that anyone who assaulted his wife would have him to deal with. I said he should not trouble himself with such rowdies. In my heart of hearts, however, I was much pleased at this public display from my gallant defender.

I saw only one woman in Mingo, a slattern in a saffron-colored dress. She came from the barroom to see the cause of the commotion. When I mentioned her to Mrs. Smith (whose first name, I have discovered, is Elode, reason enough to call her Missus), she replied that the woman had worked in a bagnio in one of the gold camps, then in a Denver resort, before marrying Burt Connor, who keeps the Mingo saloon. She was called “Red Legs” because of her fondness for red stockings, and she is as devoid of morals as they come. I informed Mrs. Smith I assumed as much, but I had not, and when I discovered she was a “soiled dove” (the term Missus used), I wished I’d studied her better. Missus says Mrs. Connor is Southern, like many of the unnatural women in this country. The war left them little of value apart from their “virtue,” and, of course, the Southern woman’s morals are different from ours, for it is well known they embrace the free-love movement.

We will have to make the best of the Smiths, who aren’t so bad, now we know them better. She admitted when we returned their visit, calling on her at her “poppety,” as she calls it, that she was in a state when she met me. “With that well Mr. Spenser dug before you come, we figured you for some high-toned lady who’d think us common,” she told me. I laughed that anybody would be afraid to meet me and assured her I’d never think her common. Well, what else would you call a woman who licks her plate when she is finished eating?

Missus lived on her place six months before she ever saw a tree, and when she did, she was so overcome at the sight that she hugged it. “Now, when you get to feeling like that—and mark my words, you will if you ain’t already—you come to me, and we’ll have us a good cry together. Men don’t understand what ’tis to give up the only home you ever knew and move to hell-in-Colorado.”

I hope Luke brings back letters from home. In Carrie’s last (which is in my trunk, since there is not room in this book to store all), she said her secret was no more, since Will has told all. She might as well be as big as a pumpkin. There was sad news in the last mail from Mother, as she, too, is enceinte, and has been in poor health. She knew of her situation before I left but did not want to be the cause of worry, so revealed nothing. She puts the best face on it, saying a little one will be a companion in her old age, but O, I worry, because she is not strong. She has such difficulty in the last months, and I will not be there to help her. Mother says God always knows what He is doing. Well, I may blaspheme, but God is a man. If He had been a woman, He would have made other plans for childbearing.

Darling Mother was married at fifteen, a mother before a year was out, and she has had the care of little ones ever since. I do not intend to follow her example, although I am not exactly sure how I shall prevent it. Onanism is wicked, and surely must be messy, and I would never dare suggest it to Luke. I think he would not care for “French cobwebs,” even if they were available at the all-purpose store in Mingo. Besides, with Luke’s demands, I would have to order a gross of them, as they cannot be washed out. I may employ a small sponge soaked in a little vinegar, or a piece of fine wool, inserted into the womb, a method I have been told is so cunning that, excepting for the small ribbon attached to the sponge to remove it, even a husband doesn’t know of it. Of course, I would prefer the only true method—continence.

I have spent too much time at my writing, and now I must commence the birthday shirt, ere Luke returns and finds me at work, thus spoiling the surprise.

August 23, 1865. Prairie Home.

My Darling Boy has given me a wonderful surprise.

“Would it suit you to go to church services?” he asked on Saturday before last, giving me a sly smile.

As there is no church nearby, and the sanctity of the Sabbath is disregarded by most in this region, I thought he was joking, and I replied in the same manner, “Which one should we select?”

“The one at home, in your own parlor,” Husband replied. He had let it be known last time he was in town that we would be pleased to host Sabbath services for any and all who were interested. He thought to surprise me, then worried, and rightly so, that I might prefer to be forewarned.

“You should have told me. There is no time to prepare,” I said.

“The other women will bring dinner. So you won’t be made to cook, but I expect you’ll have to sweep the floor and dust,” he said, which made us both laugh, as we are still living in the portal. Still, one cannot expect a husband to understand the many things that must be attended to before guests call.

I flew at the task, and our little “cottage” looked most festive when our fellow communicants arrived. I placed a white cloth on the table, and upon it, a bouquet of wildflowers, which tickled Missus, who called them weeds.

Nineteen were in attendance. Besides ourselves and the Smiths (who smoked and chewed throughout the day, except when eating), there were Hiram and Lucinda Osterwald, poorly dressed in faded bettermost, accompanied by the remaining member of what was once their brood of nine. The son’s name is Brownie, and he is a giant of a young man, with queer ways. The mother is sickly, and at first, I thought she suffered from female debility and was in need of a tonic. Then I was told that she had taken a fall, and I observed her badly bruised arms and face. When I inquired of the husband if I could be of assistance, he asked roughly that I not take notice, since ’twould embarrass her. Since I am clumsy myself, who am I to say a thing about it?

Emily Amidon, who came with husband, Elbert, and two babes, is nearest my age, and my favorite. It is obvious another little Amidon is due soon, but that state scarcely keeps a woman out of society in this country. She did not put on airs and tell me her name was Mrs. Amidon, but stated at the outset that it was Emily Louise and I was to call her Emmie Lou, because she hoped we would be friends. Emmie Lou, who is tiny, with ringlets the color of corn silk, is a cultured person, having studied the piano and other instruments for ten years in Philadelphia before she was persuaded to marry Mr. Amidon and journey west.

Sallie and Fayette Garfield are about our age, but Luke says they are Southern, so he warned me not to become too friendly. I think they are not as bad as other Rebels, for Missus said they were Whigs before the war and opposed withdrawal from the Union, although, when called, Mr. Garfield gladly served the Southern cause. They have a son, a pettish boy, who remained close by the parents. Also here was a fat and jolly German couple named Himmel, well advanced in years, who put me in mind of potato bugs. They barely speak our language but seemed refined, and grateful for a chance at Christian worship.

Our little group of pilgrims was complete with the addition of three single homesteaders. Two are brothers, Thompson and Moses Earley, from Jo Daviess County, Illinois, handsome men. They are the ones who lived in the wagon one winter. Both are tall, with hair that is almost black, and dark eyes, gray, I think. Moses has a mustache like a dandy, but Tom is clean-shaven. They, too, advised us to call them by their first names, to avoid confusion.

Moses says he is fed up with this country and wants to go to the gold fields to make his fortune. Thompson is satisfied to stay at farming, having already seen enough adventure; he fought for the Union under the glorious boy general, George Armstrong Custer. When I inquired if he believed General Custer would be President one day, as some at home have talked about, Tom replied that General Custer was brave, but too impetuous for his taste. Tom prefers another heroic general by the name of Grant, a man who is a personal favorite of mine, too. I think I shall enjoy discussing politics with the brothers Earley, if Luke approves, of course.

The other homesteader is between thirty and forty, I would judge, and as big as a barn, but that is not the curious thing. She is a woman! Her name is Miss Anna Figg, and Missus says she is stronger than either of the Earley boys. This member of the fairer sex, who weighs fifteen stone and rides a horse sidesaddle, sitting it as stiff as a churn dash, does her own plowing and built her house by herself. She plans to put in a well, with but little help. Her hard work has not unsexed her. Missus says her house is as neat as a pin, and she brought with her a “prairie cake.” I don’t like it so much as chocolate, but it was a light and dainty cake, nonetheless.

We opened our service with prayer. Then all enjoyed the singing of hymns, and I noticed many a wet eye when “The Old Rugged Cross” was finished. There were calls for old favorites, even “Silent Night.” Moses, who accompanied us on the dulcimer, suggested “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” with a glance at the Rebel couple, who stiffened. Luke replied that the selection, being a patriotic song, was not a proper Sabbath choice, thus avoiding a renewed conflict between North and South, which, due to sheer numbers, the North would have won again. Moses then proposed “Turkey in the Straw.” Luke gave him a stern look, although I thought ’twas funny and nearly laughed out loud. Moses is a cheerful boy, and I think I like him better than his brother, who is a very sober fellow.

As Luke was the host and he is a general favorite, he was asked to sermonize. When he began, the women took out knitting and mending (one brought a pair of drawers that needed repair), for hands are not idle here. I picked up my piecing and was glad for it, as Luke spoke for a very long time, not pausing until the little Garfield boy said, “The preach sure comes out of that man.” Even Luke had to smile at the remark, and he quickly ended his sermon.