It was a good thing I had a long walk before I arrived at the McCarthys. So much emotion needed to vent. For now, I decided to focus on my immediate needs: clean clothes and time to clear my head. I looked at my pocket watch: three o’clock. “Mrs. McCarthy, where may I wash my clothes?”
“There’s a bench wringer out back in the courtyard. I’ll show you. You’ll need hot water. Fill up this tall pan about halfway with water and set it on the stove.”
I did this and then we walked out the kitchen door. “Oh, this is lovely!” This was the first I’d seen of the courtyard between the residences. Stone walkways outlined the courtyard center, which was grassy and green with small gardens and large trees. Children were playing on two, no three, swing sets and a seesaw. “What are those women doing?”
“Playing croquet. A ball is struck with a mallet with a long handle and it must go through the wire wickets. The goal is to go from one side to the other, hit the post, and return again to the original post.”
“I see. And what game are those people playing?”
“Tennis. Two or four players volley a light, soft-covered ball with a racquet back and forth until it drops to the ground more than once or goes out of bounds. A server starts the volley and keeps the serve until they fail to return it or win the game. If they fail to return it, the serve goes to the other player or team. The game has only four points, but the winner must win by two, so sometimes the games can last a long time.”
“What fun! Mallory and I should come out here after dinner.”
“She would love that. There could be some other young friends outside that she could introduce you to as well. Here’s the wash area. This bench holds a wringer between two washtubs. This washtub holds the washboard for washing with soap. The soap is in the kitchen under the sink. Then you send your clean clothes through the wringer and it will go into the rinse tub. After a second time through the wringer, you can hang them on the clothesline to dry. The clothespins are in a bag, which is hanging on the line. Is this how you’ve washed clothes before?”
“Basically, yes. Thank you, Mrs. McCarthy. I’ll go change into one of my riding outfits and wash my underpinnings and dresses. It’s a nice, warm day. If I wash now, they should be dry before bedtime.”
“I’ll leave you to it.”
After hanging my wash, I had a little time before dinner. There was one more place I wanted to visit: the livery stable. I strolled down the sidewalk to the end of the block. The doors were open to the livery stable. Outside, a man in a leather apron hammered on horseshoes next to a blazing fire pit.
I approached him and said, “Hello.”
His face, blackened by the smoke, turned toward me. The contrast between his light blue eyes and smoky face was startling. “Hey there, young lady. May I help you?”
“I am staying at the McCarthys and just wanted to see where Penny lives.”
“Penny? Sure, come on in.” He trudged over the dirt floor. “My name’s Mr. Zuckerman. And yours is?”
“Emeline O’Connor.” I followed him into the huge barn. There must have been twenty large horse stalls. The smell of fresh straw, hay, and horses was heavy, but delightful to me. A young man was distributing feed: oats and barley. Buckets of fresh water hung in each stall, along with that horse’s tack.
“James, come and meet Miss Emeline O’Connor.” Mr. Zuckerman led us down to the end of the long barn. In the last stall, the biggest of all stalls, was Penny. Mr. Zuckerman left us to return to his blacksmithing.
“Oh, isn’t she beautiful?” I said.
James said, “Are you used to being around horses? Would you like to fill her grain bin?”
“Yes, I am. Could I?”
James’ dark brown hair was short and swept up in front for a clear view of his amber eyes and dark brows. He had the beginning of a mustache too and looked a little older than I, maybe about the same age as Jonathan. He handed me the bucket, opened the stall door, and approached Penny, letting her know he was there by touching her rump and gliding it over her side. I stayed to the side until I reached her bin. “How much?”
“Two scoops will do,” he said. “I just filled her hay rack and water too, so she’ll be happy with that. Would you like to brush her?”
“Will she allow it?”
“Yaw, she’s a sweet mare. Very patient and gentle. Here.” He handed me the currycomb.
Gently, at first, I brushed her neck and shoulders. “I’d need a step to reach her back. She’s so tall!”
“Here.” He handed me a stepstool, stepped back and leaned against the stall wall to watch me. “She’s a Clydesdale.”
More aggressively, I brushed her back from her withers down her spine and over her rump. Then I brushed her dark mane, tail, and finally, the long white hair near her feet. I sighed deeply. There was something relaxing for me about being with a horse.
“You’re different from most Boston girls. Where are you from?”
“Kearney, Missouri: nine states away! I have a Morgan horse named Dakota that I had to leave in Indianapolis on my way. I sure do miss him.”
“Understandable. I get attached to certain horses we take care of. Penny’s one of them,” he said.
“Well, you certainly take good care of them. Does she get exercised? I’d love to ride her sometime.”
“You’d have to talk to the owner, Mr. McCarthy. That would be up to him. But yaw, he usually takes Penny out for a ride or to a nearby pasture to let her run at least once or twice a week, in addition to her carriage duties.”
“Where are the carriages?”
“They’re in a carriage house around the corner.”
“I see. Well, thank you for letting me visit. I should be getting back now.”
“It was my pleasure. Enjoy your stay and come by anytime.”
Back at the McCarthys I checked my laundry on the line. It was still damp but the breeze would dry it quickly. I would need to eat dinner in my riding outfit. In my room, I brushed my hair and washed my hands. The dinner bell would ring soon.
Ding, ding. Ding, ding. There it is. I’m hungry too. I scurried downstairs and took my place at the long table. Tonight we ate seafood: cod filets. And something they called chips, which were thin sliced potatoes fried in oil. I can tell you this would be a delicacy in Kearney, but in Boston, it was very common. Delicious.
Afterward, in the parlor, I asked, “Mallory, could we visit the seaside sometime?”
She turned to her parents. “Could we?” she asked them.
“Absolutely, we’ll all go this weekend if the weather’s nice,” said Mr. McCarthy. “I don’t have any work at the YMCA this Saturday. How did your visit go today, Emeline?”
I explained I would have to return in the morning and the reasons why. “I’m not hopeful this trip will end the way Pa wanted it to.”
“I’m sorry about that. Maybe it’s for the best,” he said. Thankfully, he didn’t ask any more questions.
“Mallory, let’s go out to the courtyard. I’d love to swing for awhile, and I need to bring in my laundry too.”
“Alright.”
We swung up high, chattering, laughing, and having a grand time. It was good to be outside where it was green and open, even if it was in a limited space. “Want to see our garden?” Mallory asked.
“Yes.”
We strode over to the little garden near where my laundry hung. In it grew string beans, peas, lettuce, and carrots. Bordering the garden were marigolds, which had a strong odor, but were bright orange and yellow. “It’s probably nothing like where you’re from, but I love to come out and pick the vegetables and clear the rows of weeds. The flowers are pretty, and their smell keeps animals from eating our plants and produce.”
“It’s very nice, and you’re correct. Our farm is one hundred and sixty acres of the blackest dirt you ever saw. It takes a lot of work to plant, maintain, and harvest that much.” My mind drifted into memories of Ma and Pa.
“It isn’t much, but it’s enough for us. It’s a special treat to have fresh vegetables. We don’t enjoy them all year. In the winter, mostly we have potatoes, turnips, onions, carrots, apples, beets, and rutabagas. Sometimes we have cabbage. Mama has a good friend who has a large garden and cans her fruits and vegetables. She goes there and helps her harvest and preserve in exchange for lots of jars of the food. By October, our pantry is chock full.”
“I’m glad she has that friend. Thank you for coming out tonight.” I unpinned my clothes from the line and draped them over my arm. “I think I’ll get ready for bed now and turn in early.”
“It was fun. We’ll do it again. Good night, Emeline.”
In my room, I hung up the dresses and folded the underpinnings. I slipped out of my riding clothes and hung them up too, and pulled on the nightgown Mrs. McCarthy had loaned me. Since night had fallen, I lit the oil lamp on the nightstand.
The quiet of the night enveloped me. I watched the flicker of the flame in the glass chimney and played with the knob on the side of the lamp. The flame grew tall if I turned it up, or very small if I turned it down. I didn’t want to waste the oil or wick, so I turned it just high enough so that I could read and write. I opened the Bible to Matthew 6:25-27.
25 Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment?
26 Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?
27 Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature?
Monday evening, May 12, 1890
Dear Lord, thank you for this day and for the excellent family you have led me to. Please be with me tomorrow when I meet Grandfather Silas. May I be a blessing to him in some way. Amen.
I set the Bible and my journal down for a moment and pondered these verses. I can’t add measure to my life, but my heavenly Father can - and does. He places me in situations and around certain people to add to my growth.
I always thought that other people made my life secure. Ma, Pa, Harriet, Miss Ambrose, the Witherspoons, now the McCarthys, and more. And some other people made my life insecure, like that horrible man, Jeb and Mr. Phillips. Now, as I thought about it further, I realized that my security doesn’t come from people at all. It comes from Jesus! So, that means my fear of insecurity has no foundation at all. I wanted to read more of Matthew 6.
28 And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:
29 And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
30 Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?
I looked at my clothes: one dress was mine, two were given to me, and the robe and nightgown were loaned. I kept reading.
31 Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? Or, What shall we drink? Or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed?
32 (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.
33 But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.
34 Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient until the day is the evil thereof.
That means I need not worry about the future either! I need only take one day at a time, and know, really believe, that Jesus will take care of me. I placed the Good Book and my journal back on the nightstand and turned off the lantern. In the darkness, I said to Jesus, “I never understood before, but I do now. I will keep reading to get to know you even better. Thank you for your Word and for giving me peace inside. Amen.” Tomorrow will be a good day, no matter what.
In the morning, I put on my favorite dress, the one with the pink rosebuds. I ate a quick breakfast and headed to O’Connor Lithography. I arrived early: eight o’clock by my watch.
I stood inside the door and waited. The room was large with a high ceiling and full of equipment, supplies, and a few people working. One man was at a sort of easel desk. Another was drawing on what looked like a stone with some kind of marking tool. Others were setting up what I imagined were printing presses, carefully aligning the paper as they put it on the press. Still others milled about. From the midst I saw my Uncle Trevor. He gazed in my direction; I waved. After giving a few more directions, he came over. “Good morning, Emeline. I hope you had a nice evening.”
“Yes, thank you. How’s Grandfather Silas this morning? Is he awake?”
“He is awake, but he’s being tended to now by Miss Perkins who helps me with him. She’s getting him ready for your visit. He’s eating breakfast at the moment. While you wait, would you like a tour?”
“I’d love to learn about the family business. Thank you.”
“I thought you might. We’ll start at the beginning. An artist draws a picture and colors it. It might be for an advertisement, or a label, or perhaps a large poster. The most important thing is to note the number of colors in the artwork. The fewer the colors, the easier it is to print. You see, each color is printed separately. And some colors are printed on top of each other to make a new color, like green, for example. It’s blue printed over yellow.”
“Oh, that’s fascinating. So, some colors are printed side by side, some overlap, and some areas have no color and stay white.”
“Exactly. And, sometimes, we stipple the colors, which means we just print tiny dots of one color near tiny dots of another. Close up, you can see them separately, but from a distance, they look like a third color such as red and yellow dots looking somewhat orange or flesh-tone.”
“I never noticed that before.”
“That’s the idea. Unless you look closely, your eye mixes the two colors. Stippling is a tedious job and is usually given to an apprentice.”
“Another consideration is the order of the colors to be printed. You can’t print them all willy-nilly. There must be a plan.”
I listened attentively. It was quite an art.
“Now, this gentleman is a lithographic designer who takes the work of art, analyzes the number of colors, and the order for printing, and creates plates: one for each color. The plates are really stones, and this grease pencil is the tool he uses to draw with. The ink will adhere to the grease, and later we will wet the stone, which will prevent the ink from going anywhere else. But I’m getting ahead of myself.”
“It sounds complicated.”
“It is technical. I’ll try to keep it simple. This worker is the proofer. He double-checks the work of the designer by doing a test on one sheet of paper with all the stones. The key is to get the registration pinpointed. If one color doesn’t line up where it’s supposed to, the print is worthless. He makes tiny marks on the stones so later at the press, all the colors will register correctly on the paper.”
“I would imagine that if only three or four colors were used, that would be a less expensive print than one of, say, eight colors, right?”
“Yaw, that’s right. You understand business. Most of our customers are advertisers and use just the primary colors, but there are a few that will pay the extra amount.”
“Let’s move on to the the press. We have five of the newest ones. They are capable of handling larger stones, and larger sheets of paper. And, they use rollers instead of scrapers, which is an improvement.”
“This is an enormous machine. Look at all the knobs and intricate moving parts!”
“It’s the pressman’s job to get the paper lined up exactly right. The paper goes at this end and is held by small pins. The first color stone is on the other end. It is wetted down and then inked with the first color. The ink is oil-based so only sticks to the greased parts. As you probably know, oil and water don’t mix.”
“Yes.”
“Then the paper, secured in a frame, is slid over and just above the wet stone. Finally, these rollers roll from one end of the press to the other, and push the stone and paper together. Wherever the ink touches the paper, it sticks. Then it is removed and set aside to dry. We can make many of this one color print before we have to re-ink the stone.”
“How long does it take to dry?”
“Well, it depends a lot on the humidity in the air. On a hot day, it doesn’t take long. On a rainy day, it does take awhile. The most difficult part is that the paper actually swells with each pass. So, sometimes, we have to wait days for the paper to shrink back down before we can do the next colors. It just depends on the air. As I say, if it’s not exactly registered, it’s worthless.”
“There’s a lot more to it than I imagined. Thank you, Uncle Trevor.”
“I’ll check to see if Grandfather Silas is ready. Stay right here and watch the pressman. I’ll be back shortly.”
I watched the others work while I waited. They all seemed to take pride in their work.
“He’s ready. Come with me,” Uncle Trevor said. I was nervous at this first meeting, finally imminent. I climbed the wooden staircase following Uncle Trevor closely. The third floor was separated into several rooms. “This is Miss Perkins. Miss Perkins, this is Emeline O’Connor. I will come back later.” He returned to work.
“Nice to meet you. I’m here to visit Grandfather Silas,” I said.
“Yaw, please come in,” she said. “I’ll be nearby if you need me. Remember, his memory isn’t good.”
Seated in a wheelchair was Grandfather Silas. He stared at me with uncertainty. “Who are you?”
“Hello. I’m Emeline, your son Tavis’ girl, your granddaughter.”
He cleared his throat and said, “Who?”
“My name is Emeline. Do you remember your son, Tavis?”
“Tavis, Tavis. You mean Trevor? Aye, he’s me son. Handles the business now. Are you his daughter?”
“No. Do you remember your older son, Tavis, who moved west to Missouri to farm?”
“What was your name? Elizabeth?”
“No, sir. It’s Emeline. Emeline.”
“Emeline. That’s a pretty name. Do you want to set down and visit? I don’t get many visitors anymore.” He pulled himself up straight in the wheelchair and spread a quilt over his lap.
“Yes, thank you.” I sat in a wooden chair with an upholstered seat cushion across from Grandfather Silas. Maybe I could help him remember if we talked about him, I thought. With a strong Irish accent, Grandfather’s speech was very different, so I had to pay close attention to understand him. “You have quite a good business downstairs. When did you start it?”
“Ahh, me. Well, that was a long time ago now. Let’s see. Hmm. I don’t recollect the year, but my wife and I started it just after we were married. Me father was a lithographer in Ireland and I started it here to Boston.”
“Do you like America better than Ireland?”
“Ahh, I miss the old country sometimes. Business is better here in Boston. There are so many more opportunities. I used to get out all the time and visit other businesses.” His eyes wandered to the pictures on the wall.
“Tell me about your family. Did you and your wife have children?”
“Aye, we had two sons. The one that brought you up here, that’s Trevor.”
“And the other?”
“The other was our first born. He left us when he was just seventeen. Said he didn’t want to live in Boston anymore. Too crowded. Wanted to farm someplace out west.” He rubbed his chin. “Never understood that boy.”
“Missouri?”
“Maybe. I don’t remember. I haven’t heard from him in years.”
“What was his name?”
“Tavis.”
“Tavis! That’s right. What do you remember about him?”
“Well, let’s see. I remember his boyhood games and such; such a strapping, good-looking boy. He met a girl, what was her name? Well, no matter. They fell in love, I guess, got married and moved west.”
“Do you remember giving him anything to take with him?”
“She was beautiful, that girl, much like you are.” He chuckled. “I think her name was Kate, but I’m not sure.”
“Yes, that’s right. Tavis and Kate. Did he take anything to remember you by? Something he might have treasured that you shared?”
“Aye, let’s see. I gave him me Bible. That was mostly to remember his mother though. We used to hunt rabbits in the country when he was a boy. There was a gun that we had both initialed, and a knife, I think.” He stared at the floor. “Ahh, and me father’s pocket watch. That was extra special to me. I hope he takes good care of it.”
A pocket watch? “Does it look like this?” I unpinned it from my pocket and handed it to him.
“Why aye, aye, this is it!” He turned the watch over and opened the back. Inside there was an inscription.
To Silas with love from William O’Connor ~ 1840
“How did you come by it?” He handed it back to me.
I never knew about that back inscription. I pinned it back in my pocket. “I’m your granddaughter, Emeline, daughter of your son Tavis and his wife Kate.” His eyes caught mine and started to fill with joyful tears.
“Come here and let me hold your hands. I never thought I would see you. Tavis wrote about you, though it’s been a long time ago now. Ahh, how are they; Tavis and Kate?”
“I’m sorry, Grandfather. Ma, Kate, died during childbirth along with the baby two years ago. And Pa died only two months ago of heart problems. Before he passed he asked me to come to see you. He said I should have courage and that family is important.”
“Oh, no.” He paused for a moment. “Emeline, is it? Such a lovely name for a lovely granddaughter. I’m sorry to hear about your parents’ passing. Poor Tavis. Poor Kate. You must have had quite a long journey. Were you alone?”
“Yes, mostly. If you’d like to hear it, I can tell you the story. I kept a journal and could read that to you too.”
“There’s nothing I’d like better than to have regular visits from me granddaughter. You can read anything you like to me. Me years have caught up with me and I can’t read much anymore.”
“I’d love to hear your stories about our family, especially about you and Pa.”
Toward the door, Grandfather Silas called out, “Miss Perkins! Come meet me granddaughter, Emeline O’Connor.”