A Voice of Her Own Read online

  For company—the Sun, the Sky—

  And Earth Forevermore!

  I spoke the poem to my Flower, feeling its pleasure and the breeze and the moon and the stillness of the night all around.

  Vinnie Snores Loudly

  My new house was white, friendly and made of wood. I was pleased with it almost immediately, it being far from what I had expected. I had seen the house from the outside and thought it small compared to Father’s House, but inside there was plenty of room, with lots of light. It was North of the Village Center, a short walk. Its back faced North, putting the house “side to the road”—not facing the street as I had come to expect from a house. Its position was irksome to me, but in time I came to take pleasure in the Circumstance, as it relaxed the approach to the front door. It gave my mind a sense of easy in and out. With Father’s House—or the Homestead, as it is most often referred to by others—once you are in, you are in. Once out, one questions the certainty of a safe return.

  Outside there was ample space for a garden, grapes and a wonderful orchard. Austin, who has always loved flora, had plans to plant a grove of white pine trees—not a large grove, but one to claim notice. Father said, “Such planting of trees is a large task for a boy of eleven,” but added, “Austin is no ordinary young man.” I have found this to be true. It was not long before the beautiful grove began to take shape—and each of us the better for it.

  Inside, one straightway noticed the floorboards. They were as wide as two footsteps if I put my feet toe to heel. I wasted no time in trying this. In the barn there were boards as wide as an elephant’s footprint! The wood must have come from an enormous tree that gave its life to shelter our oblivious cows.

  A disturbing fact about the house was that it bordered the cemetery, and not only that, but the selfsame cemetery where Grandfather Dickinson was buried. He had died two years before and I, then merely seven, could not get my mind around it. The event of his death claimed a lasting place in my brain—Father bent by the stairs in the hall—Mother kneeling at his side—me, watching, wondering. “Grandfather died,” says Mother, but does not look at me.

  The day after we moved into the new house, it rained. I stood at the window, looking out at Grandfather’s resting place, the molded grass dotted with gravestones, somber and reminding. The cemetery looked deserted—fog and the gentle rain upon the stones. I would see many dear to me carried to that place. I imagined them, pale and silent, within the darkness of their eternal chambers, protesting not the six-foot journey below the sod to Nowhere. Will I really be dead one day? Will I cease to be? And what of Heaven? Is it really all they say? It seems to me I shall never go there, shall never cease to tread New England’s soil, and yet I know I must. I think I shall never understand Death until my head be a dreaming laid—dead—and then I shall have no one to tell, as all about me will know. Little point in telling them!

  That first night Vinnie snored so loudly, I had a mind to sleep in the bushes. Had the weather been warmer I would have. April in New England is a frosty affair. I was exceedingly restless that night, shoving Vinnie several times with deliberate purpose and shaking the bed. To be fair about it, I don’t believe my sleeping difficulty was entirely due to Vinnie’s snoring. I missed Father’s House, the only house I knew. It seemed to me that I had no house but lay in a strange bed, in a strange room with double-step planks on the floor and a cemetery outside the window. I missed my Home, my Sanctuary, my place to belong. I was used to Life, my old room, three steps from my bed to the bureau, pitcher on the right, lamp on the left, twenty-one stairs to the downstairs hall, parlor just there, my tin box on the shelf beneath the window, my Treasures inside. I used to carry them to the kitchen and line them up on the kitchen table by the stove, window at my back. My circus animals liked to be placed high up on the whatnot in the corner by the hook for Mother’s apron. No hook now, no whatnot, no window at my back. And where was Mother’s apron? Nothing in its rightful place, most especially Me!

  When at last I fell asleep I had a dream. It was this.

  I am in Father’s House but he is not there. I am alone. His things are everywhere—his briefcase, his hat, his cane, his waistcoat, his watch, his newspaper—strewn about. I try to walk, but my legs are snagged by his belongings. My legs are numb. I can’t breathe. I feel I will faint. I want to sit down but there is no room. On the table is a half-finished bowl of Father’s favorite pudding. I feel hopeless and lonely. He is gone and there is no room for anyone else.

  I want to paint a picture of Amherst as it was that first summer in the new house. The very center of the Village was—is—the common. Cows graze here unaffected by worldly concerns. There is, however, much mud and far less grass than cows prefer. This I can state with utmost certainty as I have so often been witness to their far-off expressions of loss as they stand in the mud among the occasional white birch trees, accepting their fate.

  The common is a lengthy stretch of land that goes from its north end, not far from my house, all the way to the College, the main attraction of the Village and I daresay much of New England as well. Two three-story buildings, plain and made of brick, stand facing the west on College Hill, a steep affair with no trees. Adjacent to these structures and higher on the hill is the Chapel.

  West of the College stands our church. It is a Sunday walk of no short consequence when the church bell summons the God-fearing citizens of Amherst to worship. We had a new minister then, a Reverend Aaron M. Colton, who was likely to be preaching a sermon on such weighty topics as “Is There No Balm?” and “The Road to Forgiveness,” matters most certainly worth a Sunday thought. Our previous minister, Josiah Bent, had died in November. He had been looking tired for some time. It may have been from the degree of vigor with which he chased after the pitiable people of Amherst, trying to persuade them to become Christians. As one can be born into a family of Christians but not actually be a Christian until claiming Christ as one’s own portion, that very claiming is a matter of utmost importance. I have never understood this. I have always felt I was a Christian. Why the need to become one?

  In my opinion Reverend Bent had gone on to his reward as a result of having traipsed about the Village in all weathers with a committee of church members—presumably Christians themselves—conversing with other members of the church—presumably not yet Christians—on the subject of the need to give one’s life to Christ. The effect proved exhausting for all concerned, with Reverend Bent visibly worn down from the whole affair. I find spiritual matters to be of deep significance—far too deep to send committees of frozen Christians into the snow to discuss such things with whomever their fancy dictates. Matters of the Soul are too large for petty intrusions.

  Back to the common. A wooden fence encloses its grass and mud and the birch trees—and all around, the dirt roads and shops and various places of business to the north and west and then the houses, white and dignified about the town. The people of the Village must be described as dignified as well—me excluded! These do all manner of appropriate things with their time. All go to church, attending the various functions in addition to the services. The men are farmers, merchants and teachers mostly, with a few lawyers, doctors and politicians thrown in for good measure. The women stay at home and dust and do all things pertaining to a smoothly running house. All are “Ladies” in the strictest sense of the word. I shan’t ever be a “Lady.” I will not join that society of “culprit mice,” gossiping over endless cups of tea. I would rather rest within God’s deep brown earth than know such calamity! Oh, let me not forget. There are some women not of that stamp. These make hats at the factory—straw hats, no less. Many of these same get their lungs destroyed from breathing in the dust from the palms and die at a young age. It’s a shame and if you ask me, not worth the hats.

  Our Pleasant House looked finely that first summer. I was gaining a liking for it, which both surprised and delighted me very much. The yard was well suited for games. There was sun and space and welcome shade, a gift
from the Elm that stood near the front. One afternoon that first summer Vinnie and Abby and another friend, rough and ready Helen Fiske, set about making up a little play. We often put on shows involving many characters, our favorites being pirates, sailors and helpless maidens quite beflown. This day our drama depicted Nature, the Mother of us all. Our play contained every animal we could think of—no, not all, but most—our favorite animals, which reflected quite a list. And our audience?—A squirrel! He stationed himself on the trunk of the Elm, just level to our eyes, nose facing straightway to the ground, body long, tail to the sky. As we began, he arched his neck, lifting his head just a little, watching our most edifying drama in what appeared to be amazement, though I’m sure I don’t know what it was. You would have to ask him. He did look amazed, however—to me, at any rate—and if he was, who could blame him? Four upstanding young ladies leaping and crawling about the June grass, a deportment highly unsuitable for such respectable specimens of Amherst society!

  It was an impressive scene, with the cherries fast getting ripe, and behind us Mother’s garden—daisies, larkspur, orange pot marigolds and ageratum in small lavender clumps about the ground.

  Across the road grazed several friends who added no small manner of interest to that first uncertain summer in our new house. Two horses and three cows, all black and white. How starched they looked, how crisply outlined in the bold June light, as if painted by some fine and knowing hand, the mind behind the hand possessing a most intriguing sense of the joke. Or perhaps it was only the farmer’s whim. The two horses stayed together. I don’t believe I ever saw them apart, all the while eating their precious grass, heads down, half-moon necks and teeth straight, a flat row, locking the narrow green shoots, tearing them, swallowing them up into the darkness of the Great Beyond. I used to wonder if the grass went to Heaven. It was a childish fancy, yet who is to say?

  The horses would sometimes take it upon themselves to run a merry chase, with one first lifting its head. A moment—then the sudden shot across the field, the other tearing a hurried clump of grass before following her sister at a sprightly clip, then stopping, docile and omnipotent, at her side. The cows were philosophic at such times, being of a more sensible stamp. They ignored the reckless ways of their mirror comrades, chewing in endless, languid circles, their gentle ears falling to the sides in peaceful acceptance of Nature’s Paradise.

  Frying Doughnuts

  On July 2 there was to be a Church Fair, a festive event with baked goods and singing and colorful decorations. It was being organized by the ladies and would be held at Academy Hall. The chorus was busy practicing “Angel’s Call,” the high notes well within my range and Abby’s too. Father was away, I don’t know where. Boston is my guess. Father is most often somewhere other than here, attending important government meetings as representative of the General Court of Massachusetts and preparing his law briefs. I shall never cease to miss him—deep in my bones, where it matters most. I sometimes feel as if I don’t have a father and wish I had one, but when he returns he is well noticed to say the least, as the Household tunes to his every whim. I find this vexing and at the same time a comfort, as I know we are securely under his wing and no danger will come to us. That spring he had been to Baltimore. May was scarcely on when he went south to attend a Whig Convention. I fancied he had gone to meet with a group of gentlemen to discuss man-made hair. Mother set me right on that point. The Whigs are a political party, an odd name for such in my opinion, but I had not been consulted in the matter.

  That first summer on Pleasant Street, Father spent quite some time in Boston. He bought ink, but what else he was doing there I cannot say. Oh, yes, I can! He was sending us those horrid religious journals. Vinnie was the lucky one, as she, not reading yet, missed all the gory details of the gruesome occurences befalling those poor innocent children gone wrong. Father was also writing his Be Careful Letters. These same arrive like clockwork whenever Father is away. He leaves no stone unturned in the matter of our safety. Austin and I are always commenting as to the extent of his unfounded concern. Mother bears Father’s absence with a quiet persistence that is really quite remarkable, working round the clock to keep the House afloat. A Serious Housekeeper, she is busy with the garden, the orchard, the baking, the dusting—that ever-endless pursuit—rug beating, sewing, mending, the preparation of meals and all other manner of household duties, not to mention church functions and helping the poor. All this she carries off with quiet intention, while suffering neuralgia and various other debilitating complaints.

  “Be careful not to bother Mother,” Father tells us. “And help her in every way you can.”

  That summer, as a reward for our efforts, Father sent us a subscription to Parley’s Magazine, a periodical filled with stories to amuse and edify the minds of young readers throughout New England. I spent many summer afternoons in its gracious company, under the front-yard Elm. One issue had a particularly intriguing cover, picturing a young girl, dressed finely and standing by the stairs, holding a book. I wondered at what appeared to be a basket of laundry on the table to her left, seeing little reason for the artist’s decision to include it in the picture. The scene appealed to me nonetheless and so I kept it for several years in the tin box I shared with Vinnie.

  The day before the Fair, Mother agreed to teach me how to fry doughnuts. This day holds a strong place in my brain, as close times with Mother have always been scarce. A loving but anxious presence, Mother is either not well or too busy for “unnecessary” occasions of shared adventure. My heart touches that Doughnut Time for rest and peace, to remind my tender knowing that Mother really cares.

  That day we had both been ill, Mother with her usual assortment of maladies, and me with pain in my chest and a cough that had been with me for weeks. Abby was sick as well. We are both sick a great deal. This time as usual I had lost weight due to loss of appetite and had been enduring countless bird admonitions from Mother: “Finish your dinner, Emily,” “You eat like a bird” and so forth.

  This Doughnut Morning was dreary, as it rained, then stopped, in bouts of leaden grayness, the clouds full and waiting, only to let go another round of soak. Vinnie was in the yard, a fact Father would surely have brought into question had he been at home. A sudden chill could bring on a canker rash, or influenza, or some such unwanted visitor. He was more lenient with Austin, due to Austin’s being a boy and thereby more resistant to germs, a dubious deduction if you ask me. Austin was out seeing to his rooster, Albert, leaving Mother and yours truly inside with the cats, who disliked the rain as much as Father did.

  Mother stood by the cast-iron stove, a gift from her father, Grandfather Norcross, her hair done up in a pocket handkerchief. “Remember, Emily,” she said, reaching behind her waist to tie her apron, “I will teach you how to fry doughnuts on one condition.”

  “I must never fry them alone.”

  “Never.”

  “I could burn myself.”

  “Badly.”

  We began to gather the ingredients. Eggs, sugar, milk, shortening, flour, baking powder, cinnamon and salt. “Better not tell Father,” I said, retrieving a lemon, at Mother’s instruction, from the bowl on the shelf above the sink. “He’s sure to warn us of how our fingers will be scalded by the hot oil and melt and fall off into the batter.”

  Mother smiled ever so slightly. “That’s true,” she said, “but doughnuts are worth a bit of trouble, don’t you think?” Mother has a wit that often goes unnoticed. The reason is her own, as she buries herself beneath a cloak of obedience. One seldom sees her realest Self. God save me from such a Fate! Our realest Self is all we have to call our own.

  “I hope he didn’t lose the valise,” Mother said unexpectedly.

  I didn’t know of whom she was speaking, much less which valise she had in mind. “What valise?” I asked.

  “Father’s,” said Mother. She was weighing the flour. “The one he took to Boston.”

  “What makes you think he lost it?”
/>   Mother looked concerned. “He moved to a different hotel.”

  As that did nothing to clarify the matter, I questioned her further. “And?”

  “He had to take it with him to work.”

  It sounded as if Father had to take the hotel to work, but I knew she didn’t mean that. Anxiety had brought on vagueness.

  “Oh,” I said. Mother’s ongoing concern about the disappearance of luggage had lost its interest for me, even at the age of nine.

  “Someone may have taken it,” she said, sifting the flour.

  “Why would they do that?”

  “It has all his laundry in it.”

  “That’s no reason.”

  Mother got that distant look in her eye. There is no way of disputing her statements when she stops making sense. She gets afraid and her mind stops. I think one reason Mother doesn’t care for travel is her fear of losing her luggage. It is her most well-known trait, that and a dislike of writing. I understand she used to write Father when they were courting and expressed herself well. I myself rarely see her with pen in hand and am often privy to family jokes regarding her reluctance to sit at the desk. She reads little as well, unless you count The Frugal Housewife, which hardly accounts for Reading in my manner of the word.

  Mother passed me the eggs. “Beat these,” she said. “Then add the sugar and continue beating.”

  I followed her instruction. As the mixture began to thicken, I stopped to watch the way the sugar made the batter froth like an angry sea.

  “Don’t stop,” said Mother. “You must beat continuously.”

  I returned to my beating.

  “I will tell you the most important thing to know about frying doughnuts,” Mother continued. She scratched the end of her nose with the back of her hand. “They must be dried for fifteen minutes before they are fried. That way they absorb little fat. And remember, Emily, you are never to fry doughnuts alone.”