death

Andrew and Molly Part 27

Late in the afternoon, Aggie walked to Bartles’ grave. Molly offered to go with her, but she wanted time alone.

Not ready to leave yet, the reverend lingered over tea. Having been raised Catholic, Molly had not attended the services of the Anglican Church. Though she’d met Reverend Bennett through her close association with the Bartles she’d never considered him her spiritual advisor, nor felt any particular need of an advisor. Aggie, in particular, was devout, and made it no secret that Molly should be attending services, especially for the sake of the children’s tender souls.

While Molly packed her things to hurry home to her children, Reverend Bennett asked to speak to her on a church matter. “Reverend Bennett, I am Catholic. My children were baptized in the Anglican faith because at their father’s request.”

“I know, but am concerned about the soul of the little one in your house brought back from the Indians. He needs baptizing.” Reverend Bennett pronounced.

“I suppose he does,” Molly agreed. “But he’s only been here a few days. I’m hoping someone comes forward once word gets around. Most assuredly his family will want him baptized in their faith.”

“I know a bit of your background.” said Reverend Bennett. Molly bristled at his tone. “ I understand Andrew brought this child with him when he escaped. Did he know who the child’s family might be?”

Turning to leave, Molly replied curtly. “I have no idea. You’d best speak to Andrew.”

Andrew and Molly Part 26

Rosemarie tiptoed in at dawn bringing the women boiled eggs, corn porridge and tea. She found them nodding at Bartles’s bedside. His noisy breathing had stopped. He was dead. Rosemarie sat her basket on the table, gently touched Molly’s shoulder, and tiptoed out.

Molly took Aggie’s hand, waking her to her loss. “He’s gone to God.”

Aggie sighed stoically. “What will I do without him?”

Molly returned. “What will we do without him? He knows everything about our places.”

As the women prepared the body for burial, they heard hammering as the men built a coffin. Soon the minister arrived to offer comfort and prepare for the funeral. The neighbors brought a funeral meal that included stewed squirrel, baked chicken, ham and roast beef. The table groaned under baked yams, beans, potatoes, squash, and tomatoes. Pies and cakes were too numerous to count.

Will and Aggie Bartles were good neighbors, held in high regard. There was not a family who was not a beneficiary of their kindness. Women bustled about the kitchen tending the table and tidying up. Men spoke in hushed tones, doing whatever chores they could, including chopping wood, harness repair, and replacing shingles.

The service was simple, scripture and a eulogy. The mourners ringed around the grave on the Bartles small acreage in view of the back door of the small, neat cabin. Aggie stood stoic and unweeping as they lowered the body into the grave.

Andrew and Molly Part 23

Jamie was back in minutes. He was followed by a sweaty, ruddy-faced Andrew, clearly anxious at being called from his work. He couldn’t imagine what would be important enough to call him from timbering.

Molly took a seat on a stump between the two men, clearly interested in what business Joseph James had with him. Rosemarie, dawdling at serving milk and cookies to the children lingered on the sidelines. She had no intention of missing out on anything to do with Andrew. Curtly, Molly dismissed her. “Rosemarie, be about your own business.”

“Andrew, Mr. Joseph James would have a word with you.” Molly explained.

“I heard you’ve just escaped from a long time with the Indians. Me an’ Marthy wanted to know if you’d heard anything of our girl Sarah. She was out berrying an’ was took by the Indians about a year ago. She was a little yellow-haired girl not as big as Marthy. She’d be turning sixteen tomorrow. She’s been gone a long time, but we been trying to hold out hope for her. Did you see her?” Joseph gave Andrew a pitiful look.

Andrew looked stricken and struggled for words. “Mr. James, I did see a girl named Sarah. She was in the camp where I was for a while. I’m sorry to tell you she died along with most of the Indians when the sickness came through. That’s when I escaped.”

Marthy gasped and looked faint. Molly moved to support the pitiful woman. “Let’s get you in to lie down.” She offered, kindly.

Joseph put his arm around his wife. “No Missus. We’ll be better off getting home. We weren’t expecting good news. Thank you.” The sad little family and shuffled down the dusty road toward home.

Grandpa’s Dead!

My cousin Barbara was an only child wise enough to be born to older parents continuously thrilled at their creation. They indulged her in everything, the way my parents should have done me, understanding she was precious and needed protection from life’s hard edges. They all lived the house with Grandma and Grandpa so it was going to be a challenge to Continue reading →

The Sad Saga of the Beakless, Tailless, Gizzard-bobbing, One-leg Hopping chicken

Being a farm kid is not for sissies and cowards. The dark side of the chicken experience is slaughtering, plucking, cleaning, and preparing chickens for the pot.  I watched as Mother transformed into a slobbering beast as she towered over the caged chickens, snagging her victim by the leg with a twisted coat-hanger, ringing its neck and releasing it for its last run.  We crowded by, horribly thrilled by what we knew was coming.  It was scarier than ”The Night of the Living Dead”,  as the chicken, flapping its wings, running with its head hanging crazily to one side, chased us in ever larger circles until it finally greeted Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates.  It looked horribly cruel, but done properly, a quick snap of the wrist breaks the chicken’s neck instantly, giving a quick death. Of course, this is my assessment, not the unfortunate chicken. The chickens always looked extremely disturbed.

Afterward, my mother grabbed the dead chicken, plunged it into a pot of boiling water, plucked the feathers, slit its pimply white belly, removed its entrails, cut off its feet and head, and prepared it for dinner.  I was repulsed  when Mother found  unlaid eggs in the egg cavity and used them in cooking.  That just didn’t seem right.  I was happy to eat the chicken, but future eggs….disgusting.  It kind of seemed like genocide, or chickenocide, to coin a new term.

Mother looked out one day and saw one of her chickens eating corn, oblivious to the fact that her gizzard was hanging out, bobbing up and down merrily as she pecked corn with all her lady friends.  Apparently she had suffered injury from a varmint of some kind.  Clearly, she wouldn’t survive with this injury, so Mother and I set about catching her.  At least she could be salvaged for the table.  Well, she could still run just fine.  We chased her all over the yard with no luck.

Finally, Mother decided to put her out of her misery by shooting her.  She missed.  She fired again and shot the hen’s foot off.  I knew I could do better.  I shot her beak off, then hit her in the tail.  By this time, we both felt horrible and had to get her out of her misery.  Her injuries had slowed the poor beakless, tailless, gizzard-bobbing, one-leg hopping chicken down enough so we could catch her and wring her neck.

All chickens didn’t end life as happily.  The LaFay girls, Cheryl, Terry, and Cammie raised chickens to show at the fair for 4-H, with a plan to fill their freezer with the rest.  Late one Thursday evening while their widowed mother was at work, they realized tomorrow was the day for the big barbecue chicken competition.  Mama wouldn’t be in until way too late to be helping with slaughtering and dressing the chickens.  After all the time and effort they had put in on their project, they had no choice but to press forward without Mama’s help.  They’d helped Mama with the dirty business of putting up chickens lots of times.  They’d just have to do manage on their own.

Cheryl, the eldest, drew the short straw, winning the honor of wringing the chicken’s neck.  She’d seen Mama do it lots of times, but didn’t quite understand the theory of breaking the neck with a quick snap.  She held the chicken by the neck,  swung it around a few times in a wide arc,  giving it a fine ride, and released it to flee drunkenly with a sore neck.   The girls chased and recaptured the chicken a couple of times, giving it another ride or two before the tortured chicken managed to fly up in a tree, saving its life.

Acknowledging her sister’s failure, Terry stepped up to do her duty.  She pulled her chicken from the pen, taking it straight to the chopping block, just like she’d seen Mama do so many times.  Maybe she should have watched a little closer.  Instead of holding the chicken by the head  and chopping just below with the hatchet, Terry held it by the feet.  The panicked chicken raised its head, flopped around on the block, and lost a few feathers.  On the next attempt, Cammie tried to help by holding the chicken’s head, but wisely jumped when Terry chopped, leaving the poor chicken a close shave on its neck.

indian-dress-and-henBy now, all three girls were squalling.  Cheryl tied a string on the poor chicken’s neck, Cammie held its feet and they stretched the chicken across the block.  By now, Terry was crying so hard so really she couldn’t see.  She took aim, and chopped Henny Penny in half, ending her suffering.   Guilt-stricken, they buried the chicken.  Defeated, they finally called their Aunt Millie, who came over and helped them kill and dress their chickens for the competition, which they won.  All’s well that ends well.

The Saddest Christmas Ever

The December after I turned six years old, I hatched a plot. I’d leave a note for Santa asking to accompany him on his rounds. I felt sure if I asked nicely, he’d wake me up and take me along. though Mother assured me it wouldn’t happen. I laboriously wrote this note.

Dear Santa,

I have been good. Can I go with you ? I hate dolls. I want a BB gun and a blue bicycle. I love you.

Linda

About bedtime, Mother said she heard the jingle bells on Santa’s sleigh. I flew to the door to try to catch Santa but didn’t catch him. Mother sent me to bed since he wouldn’t come until I went to sleep. It took me forever to go to sleep. I was disappointed to wake up in the morning and find I’d been left at home.

We knew not to go in to see if Santa had come before waking our parents. Mother dragged out the anticipation by making coffee before we went to see what Santa had brought. When we were finally allowed in, Mother pointed out a note taped to TV screen, “Linda, did you think you could catch me?”

My parents laughed but I was devastated. Not only did Santa ditch me, he thought it was funny.

When I opened my presents, I got a life-sized baby doll that could pee its diaper. I threw it down and stomped my foot, “I hate dolls. I wanted a BB gun.” I got a spat and a warning to behave myself. Mother pointed out the biggest package under the tree with my name on it. I tore into it only to find a tin tea set with a Dutch boy and girl on it. I wanted to throw a fit but knew what that would get me.

Seeing my disappointment, Mother tried to distract me. “Here open this present from Grandma.” It was the twin of the doll that had already gotten me in trouble. My sister got a blue bicycle. I found out later that day my two boy cousins my age got BB guns.

The only thing that saved my Christmas was finding a big red rocking horse behind the tree. I loved it.

The only time I ever played with those accursed dolls was when my cousin Sue and I treated them to a funeral the next summer. My mother was a slow learner. I got a doll the next two Christmases as well.

Surviving Hardship: Cousin Kat’s Life Lessons from Virginia

Cousin Kat was born the eldest of seven in 1916 in the mountains of Western, Virginia. Her father died of a cerebral aneurysm when she was only twelve. Her father and my grandmother were siblings. Sadly, Cousin Kat and her brother, only one year younger, had to leave school. They went to work immediately upon their father’s death. Neither of them ever got to live at home again after that. They took whatever jobs they could get. She did housework and canning. She helped with the sick or the elderly. She assisted with children and helped with gardening. She took on whatever tasks she could find. Her brother did whatever work he managed to find, usually on a farm.

Her widowed mother was left with five small children, the youngest on three. A kind-hearted neighbor allowed her and the children to harvest his bean field. Other neighbors helped harvest their fields, saving them from starvation. Another neighbor gave them a pig to fatten. These kindnesses saved them from starvation. Her father-in-law allowed them to move in a laborer’s house on his farm so they wouldn’t have to pay rent.

As the other children were old enough, they went to work for a dollar or two a week and their board, just as the older children had. Their happiest times were when they got to come home and be together on weekends.

Things got better for the family during Roosevelt’s New Deal. The oldest boy went into the CCC and was able to more money home. Kat got work with NYC and was able to get a earn some cash and get a little schooling. Eventually, there were benefits for women and orphans, easing the pressure. One after the other, the children joined the military or moved away to get better jobs. Cousin Kat married at eighteen. She and her husband moved to Maryland for five years to work and save every penny. They came back home and bought a small farm next to her mother. Her husband farmed and Kat took a job in a garment factory.

Cousin Kat was frugal her whole life, never spenting a penny she if she could avoid it, influenced by her hard early years.

Remembering the Care: A Nurse’s Reflection

Dear Patient,

You probably don’t remember me,but I was your nurse.  I took care of you when you had your baby, took care of your sick child, comforted you when you were in pain.  I worked extra shifts on holidays and weekends because you needed me.  I rejoiced when you got better.  Cried with you when you needed a friend and tried to help you find the answers.  I visited with yoy when no visitors came. I sang and talked to you when you seemed unresponsive because I knew you were in there.  I brought Easter baskets for your children so they wouldn’t be disappointed when they came to see you on Easter.  I hugged you and your family. I inderstood and didn’t get mad when you were angry or mean when you were in pain. I talked to you about things outside the hospital to give you something else to think about, trying to bring you a story that would interest you everyday, unless you just needed me to be quiet with you.  I was there for your miracle and to hold your hand when you died talking to Mama.  I never corrected you, knowing it was her hand you were holding. I talked about death with you if you wanted to.

Nursing was my job, but taking care of you was my privilege.  Thank you for letting me be a part of your life.

Hard Time Marrying

This is a series I wrote in 2015. Not many of my current followers have seen it. I hope you enjoy it.


Their union had a bleak start.  Meeting at the train in the freezing rain, she clutched his letter.  They married minutes later at the preacher’s house, barely speaking as they shivered the two hours home in his open wagon.  In her letter, she’d not mentioned the two little ones, though with all fairness, the marriage was only one of need on both parts. They were proof she could bear the children he hoped for.  Burning with fever by the time they got to his homestead; dead by the next sundown, she left him with two little ones he had no taste for.  Barely reaching his knee, they toddled mutely in perpetual ,soggy diapers dragging to their knees, uttering gibberish only they understood.  As soon as he could get her wrapped in a quilt, he buried this stranger wife and headed back to dusty Talphus, Texas with the sad burden of her orphaned little ones.  The church or the town would have to do for them.  Loading them in a snug in a bed of hay, wrapped in a ragged quilt, hay heaped over them.  he pitied and grieved for them on the long trip back to town, knowing the hard life they faced.  Stopping several times to make sure they were warmly covered, he was relieved to find them pink and warm.
He hardened his heart against them, knowing only too well the life they were facing.  He’d never known family, just been passed from hand to hand.