Show me a man who suffers the monthly miseries, and I’ll show you a man bent on finding relief.
Women should show the same gumption when it comes to female complaints. And since April Truitt believed so strongly in her philosophy, she’d made up her mind to do something about it.
Anxiously fingering the printed envelope, she glanced around the general store. It was busy this morning. Faith Lawson was buying fruit jars to put up the remainder of her vegetable garden. Lilly Mason was counting out eggs, the amount to be credited to her account. Lilly had dark circles under her eyes this morning. Poor Lilly suffered unnecessarily.
If only the women of Dignity would listen to Lydia Pinkham, their woes would be over!
Mail the letter, April! Mail it!
Edging the envelope closer to the mail slot, April eyed Ellen Winters, the town postmistress. The silver-haired, robust sixty-year-old was busy sorting mail, glancing up occasionally with a smile.
“Nice morning, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful.”
“I’m always happy to see the heat of August give way to September.”
Nodding, April took a deep breath, shoving the letter into the slot. The missive disappeared into the empty receptacle with a soft whoosh.
Elly glanced up. “Sending off for another catalog, dear?”
Pretending she hadn’t heard her, April hurried out the front door, closing it firmly behind her. Exhaling a deep breath, she started down the walk at a fast pace.
Of course, once Elly saw who the letter was addressed to she would blab it all over town that Riley Ogden’s granddaughter was in cahoots with Lydia Pinkham. But April would deny it as long as she could. Grandpa’s heart was wearing out, and she didn’t want to upset him. She knew the townsfolk believed she was impulsive and didn’t think things through properly, but she liked to describe herself as spontaneous, impromptu—blazing a trail of new, exciting discoveries!
She believed in Lydia’s vegetable compound. Though no one outside the family knew the exact formula, it was said to contain unicorn root, life root, black cohosh, pleurisy root and fenugreek seed mashed up. The compound was touted to be the best thing that had ever happened to women, curing everything imaginable.
And she intended to help Lydia spread the good news about the wonder tonic. She wanted to encourage women to help themselves with their personal problems. She remembered her mother’s distress and tragic death because she’d listened to unsympathetic doctors.
Grandpa, along with most of the doctors, thought Mrs. Pinkham was a quack, but wasn’t that just like a man? Men didn’t suffer female problems, so they didn’t see what all the fuss was about. It was much easier to dismiss the subject with a shrewd wink and send the woman on her way.
Women had been getting short shrift for too long by men who had no understanding of their physical problems, showing little sympathy for complaints about backaches, nervousness and lack of energy. If a woman was happy, peppy and full of fun, a man would take her places, but if she was cross, lifeless and always tired out, well, he just wasn’t interested.
Doctors were too quick to offer surgery as a remedy for women’s functional disorders, invasive procedures that were inadequate, ill-advised, often too late, and usually creating even larger problems for the patient. Medical men thought that by removing the source, the problem would be alleviated.
When faced with irate women, physicians argued they were doing everything possible to find better, more acceptable alternatives, but April had her doubts. She was certain there had to be a better way to treat medical issues of mood problems, heart palpitations and hot flashes in the year of 1876. Some claimed that Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound provided relief for thousands!
April longed to inform Mrs. Pinkham in person about her decision, but Lynn, Texas, was nearly nineteen hundred miles from Houston, so a letter offering her assistance was more sensible.
It was done. Now all she had to do was wait to hear from Mrs. Pinkham.
Crossing the street, April nodded good-morning to John and Harriet Clausen, who were crossing from the opposite side. John tipped his hat pleasantly.
“Morning, Miss Truitt.”
April smiled. “Mr. Clausen. Mrs. Clausen.”
“How’s your grandfather?”
“Very good, Mr. Clausen. Thank you.”
“Give him our best.”
“I will.”
Wagon teams lined the streets of Dignity, Texas, this hot August morning. Truckmen loaded the long wagons, which were balanced on one axle and pulled by two horses harnessed in tandem. The carters wore long, loose frocks of heavy cloth or leather that were gathered on a string at the neck and fell to the calf, an outfit that dated back to the 1600s.
The men unloaded hogsheads of molasses, flour and brown sugar from the wagons they’d driven from Houston. They would haul back produce grown by the local farmers and wooden goods carved by artisans.
In the distance, sunlight glinted off sparkling blue waters in the port. The mercantile and livery were doing a thriving business this morning. The mouthwatering smells of cinnamon and apples drifted from Menson’s Bakery. Many a Dignity housewife would abandon her hot kitchen and buy one of Addy Menson’s apple pies for supper.
Striding past Ludwig’s Pharmacy, April paused long enough to tap on the front window. Beulah Ludwig glanced up, smiling when she saw April peering in at her.
Grinning, April mouthed, “I did it.”
Shaking her head, her friend made a face that clearly expressed her disapproval.
Dismissing the look with a cheerful wave of hand, April walked on. She didn’t care what anyone thought. When April Truitt believed in something as important to womankind, as exciting as Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound, then she had to support it.
Period.
She was committed.
Feeling surprisingly confident about the decision, she hurried toward Ogden’s Mortuary, sitting on the corner of Main and Fallow Streets. The funeral parlor had become her home when Delane Truitt, her mother, died seven years ago. Riley Ogden had taken his granddaughter in and raised her with stern, but loving, care.
At times he was prone to throw up his hands in despair, stating, “You, young lady, have too much of your father in you!”
But April didn’t take offense. She knew he thought the world of his son-in-law, Jack Truitt, and had grieved as hard as his daughter when Jack died in a train derailment at the age of thirty.
Someday April would marry Henry Long. Grandpa was finicky when it came to April’s suitors, however, which made telling him a difficult, and as yet unresolved problem.
Maybe Henry didn’t make her feel heady and breathless—not like that arrogant Gray Fuller did—but he was considered a good catch and they shared the same spiritual convictions—and the same philosophies about the Pinkham compound.
Right now, April planned to do what she could to improve women’s lot in modern society.
And the first step was to tell every woman she could about Mrs. Pinkham’s elixir.
Now. If only Mrs. Pinkham would accept her invitation and come to Texas and sell her marvelous product. April breathed a heartfelt prayer, then turned to go home.