Althea crossed a shallow stream and stopped before a hollow that an ancient glacier had carved out between two mountains. “Let’s rest the animals here and have some lunch. We’re at the farm owned by the Fugates. Mona and I will go ahead and visit Mrs. Fugate. When we come back, we’ll start again.”
“How long will you be?” Rupert asked.
“Shouldn’t be more than two hours at the most. Probably sooner.”
“I’m starting a fire,” Chester announced. “I’m chilly.”
“I’ll heat some canned soup,” Rupert said.
“Sounds good. I could do with something hot inside me,” Farley said. “Ladies, have a good visit. I’ll take care of the animals.”
“Stay, Freddy. Stay,” Althea ordered her dog who whimpered.
“Bye,” Mona said, glancing at Farley.
“Chin chin, everyone.” Turning his back to Rupert and Chester, he mouthed, “Be careful.”
Mona gave a bright smile before turning her horse to follow Althea, who was making headway up the hollow called a “holler” by the locals. She trotted to catch up with Althea. As they rode closer to the house, several scrawny-looking hounds ran to greet them, barking furiously.
Althea jumped down from her horse and held Shaggy’s reins while Mona dismounted. “Don’t stare, whatever you do. Mrs. Fugate is one of the ‘blue Fugates.’ Seeing them at first is startling.”
“What do you mean?”
“This entire family is tinged blue. Now, don’t act surprised.”
“I promise,” Mona said, excited to see her first Fugate.
“And don’t talk fancy. These people speak very similar to their pioneer forebears—a sort of Elizabethan English. Try to blend in.” Althea grabbed her saddlebags and handed them to Mona. “I’m putting the horses in the barn. Go to the porch. They know you’re here. I’ll be in as soon as I get the horses settled.”
Mona slung the heavy saddlebags over her shoulders and ventured onto the porch. “Mrs. Fugate,” she called. “My name is Mona. Miss Althea, from the Frontier Nursing Service, is here. May I enter?”
The front door opened and a small pregnant woman with a toddler on her hip opened the door. The skins of both mother and child were blue. “Come in. Come in. Get out of this cold,” Mrs. Fugate said, cheerfully.
Mona gratefully stepped into the house, escaping the wind, and put the saddlebags on a chair.
“Please sit yourself right down in front of the far,” Mrs. Fugate encouraged, pulling a rocking chair closer to the fireplace.
It took Mona a second to realize Mrs. Fugate was referring to the fire. Thinking the rocker was Mrs. Fugate’s chair, Mona took a caned upright chair from a corner. “This will do fine. Thank you.”
Mrs. Fugate put the child down on an oval, braided rag rug and encouraged her to play with wooden blocks with alphabet letters burned on the sides.
Having a strong appreciation for beautiful things, Mona asked, “Mrs. Fugate, did you braid this rug?”
Mrs. Fugate, sitting in her rocker, seemed pleased Mona had noticed her rug. “I did. Took me three months.”
“The colors are so muted. Gives a very soft appearance to the room along with the dried flowers hanging from the rafters.”
“I made it from rags I had saved over the years. I like working with my hands. You know—making something purty. I did those blocks, too. My husband made the blocks, but I carved the letters and then rubbed dead charcoals from the far into the grooves to make ’em dark.”
“And that you have done.” Glimpsing at Mrs. Fugate without appearing to stare, Mona noticed Mrs. Fugate had dark hair and lively eyes that spoke of a keen intelligence.
“Are you a nurse, too, Miss Mona?”
“No, I’m on an expedition from the University of Kentucky. We are collecting plant and rock specimens.”
Mrs. Fugate leaned forward. “So, you’re a book-red woman.” She started rocking. “I always yearned for book learning. You know—so I could speak good. I can read right easy enough and do my sums, but other than that, I’m dumb.”
“I beg to differ with you, Mrs. Fugate. Anyone who can make a beautiful rug like this out of rags and these children’s blocks is very talented.”
Before Mrs. Fugate could answer, Althea stomped into the cabin. “Hello, Rose.”
Rose jumped up and offered Althea her chair, which Althea refused.
“Sit down, Rose. I’m fine. Just let me warm up a little bit.”
Mrs. Fugate turned to Mona. “May I call you Mona?”
“Yes.”
“My Christian name is Rosamond but folks call me Rose. My full name is Rosamond Flora Fugate.”
“That’s a lovely name.”
Smiling, Rose offered, “I have a tea brewing. Would you like some?”
Althea said, “I would love some.”
“Me, too,” Mona said.
“What’s it made from?” Althea asked, pulling out a pencil and paper from her bag.
“Dandelion and violet bits with some mint thrown in. It’s good for what ails a body. My stomach’s been tearing me up past nights.”
Althea wrote down the tea ingredients. “I’m trying to notate all the local plant usage for medicine in the mountains. I think there is something to the plants they use. Much of it comes from Indian plant knowledge the pioneers gleaned and have passed down through generations. I’d like to write a book about it someday.”
Rose carefully pulled out three china cups with saucers from a box and poured steaming liquid into them from a kettle in the fireplace. “These are from my great-grandmother when she first came through the Cumberland Gap. Used to have an entire set, but these here is all that’s left.”
Mona and Althea took the teacups and sipped quietly enjoying the fire crackling and dancing in its hearth.
Rose poured the tea into her saucer and drank it.
Mona followed suit and did likewise.
Althea asked, “How you been feeling, Rose?”
“A bit puny. I get plum worn out sometimes. Wasn’t like this with the first babe. Sometimes I have spells.”
Althea put her teacup and saucer on a side table before gathering her saddlebags.
“Let’s see what’s ailing you then. Mona will keep an eye out for your young’un.”
“Of course, I will,” Mona said, setting down her teacup and standing.
Althea went to the bedroom and waited for Rose to enter the room. “Be a moment, Mona.”
“I’ll keep watch,” Mona replied.
Althea shut the bedroom door.
Mona stirred the open fire and threw on some more logs. She noticed the wood box was low, so she gathered wood stacked on the porch and filled the box. Feeling the child was too close to the fire, Mona moved her back admonishing her not to get too close to the hearth. Near the cupboard was a hand pump. Although the water was frigid, Mona washed the cups. Feeling she had done all she could, Mona sat in the rocker and perused the room.
In a corner were a loom and spinning wheel. On the far wall hung several shelves where a collection of well-thumbed books, including a Bible, and a dulcimer lay. Rose’s sewing basket lay beside the rocker. She had been darning socks. Clusters of flowers and plants hung the entire breadth of the ceiling upside down, giving the room a wondrous aroma. They had wax paper or rags tied around their heads. Mona assumed this was done to catch seeds. The harvest table, side tables, and chairs, including the rocker looked handmade but were handsome, and many of the chairs had delicate carvings on the top rails. Yet, yellowing newspapers filled in the cracks between the logs, and Mona felt a draft coming from the windows.
Seeing Mona rocking, Rose’s towheaded child climbed into her lap with a handmade Raggedy Ann doll and proceeded to suck her thumb while playing with Mona’s hair, which was sticking out from her scarf. The warmth of the fire and the rocking caused Mona to drift off until the child pulled Mona’s hair. “Ouch.” Annoyed, Mona put the child down. “Play with your blocks, honey. Can you point out the letters A, B, C for me?”
Twenty minutes later, Rose and Althea departed from the bedroom with Rose buttoning up her dress.
“I almost forgot. I’ve got some books for you, Rose. One’s a real potboiler. Got all sorts of naughty stuff in it.”
Rose’s eyes lit up. “Full of fast women with beautiful clothes?”
“You bet,” Althea joked. “The other one’s a mystery. Ever read Dorothy L. Sayers?”
Rose shook her head.
Althea put the books on the table. “I think you’ll like her.”
“Here are the books I borrowed before,” Rose said, gathering books from the shelf. Her fingers lingered lovingly over the covers before handing them over. “The traveling library program stopped months ago. It’s so good of you to bring me these here books. I’m much obliged.”
“I hear rumors the government will start the program up again.” Althea took them and stuffed them in a saddlebag. “Well, Rose, we’ve got men waiting on us, so we best be going.”
Rose looked stricken. “Might could you stay? I’ve made dinner. It’s near the noon hour. I never see anyone, let alone females. Look, I’ve already got the table set. Ain’t no time to put on another plate. Oh, please.”
“We’d be delighted to stay for lunch,” Mona said, shooting Althea a pleading look.
“All right, Rose, but as soon as lunch is over, we’ve got to skedaddle,” Althea stated.
Rose hurriedly set an extra plate at the table. She handed Mona a handwoven napkin embroidered with a red Cardinal before dishing pinto beans into bowls and pouring batter into a greased skillet. “These hoe cakes take only a minute, but you can’t have beans without hoe cakes. Just not right.”
Althea diced an onion and put it on the table along with salt.
Mona watched Rose expertly flip the cakes until they were a golden brown on both sides. “Rose, you need a stove. You don’t even have a screen for the fireplace.”
“I know but I’m careful with the far. We had a stove picked out of a Sears Roebuck catalog but the Depression hit, so it will have to wait a spell. Metal is expensive.” She put the cakes into a handwoven reed basket and laid it on the table before picking up her toddler and resting the child on her knee. “I dream of electricity and indoor plumbing like folks in the flat lands. Life would be so much easier. Change will come to the hollers, though. It will come. When the government builds US 421 through here, it will be different for us in the mountains. I’ve just got to be patient like Job in the Bible.” Rose looked at the table. “Eat up, now. Don’t be shy. Sorry I ain’t got no butter for these cakes.”
“Explain to me what the difference is between a hoe cake and a pancake,” Althea said.
“A hoe cake is made from corn meal and is cornbread. A pancake is made from flour,” Rose explained, dipping a round flat cake in the pinto bean juice and feeding it to her child.
“Do you raise your own corn, Rose?” Mona asked.
“And mill it too. Everything on this table I grew. No help from the husband.
He has his own corn patch for the still. My corn is table corn. His’s field corn.”
“Where is the husband?” Althea asked, worried that he might have deserted Rose.
“In the hills making shine. He needs to sell it before Prohibition goes belly up locally. That’s our only wages at the moment. Once likker stores opens again, won’t be no need for shine.” Rose turned to Mona. “I hope I don’t offend you, Mona. Shine is the only way we can make money. No one is hiring. Not even the coal mines.”
“There will be jobs once more,” Mona assured. “I hear Roosevelt is going to make government jobs available in Kentucky.”
Rose put the child down and handed her a hoe cake. “Go play now, baby girl.”
As soon as the child was absorbed with her blocks, Rose said, “Maybe fer some folks, but not us Fugates. We never leave the valley. Nothing but ridicule when we go amongst normal folks. My husband is like me—blue. I don’t mind so much fer myself but I hate to see my baby abused. She has such tender feelings.”
Althea explained, “She and her husband are second cousins.”
“Nobody else will marry a Fugate but Fugate,” Rose said.
Althea said, “We think the blue skin color may have to do with genetics, but we’re not sure. Except for the blue tinge, all Fugates are born healthy. It’s a mystery.” She stood and looked out the window. “Rose, we’ve gotta go. Can we buy some eggs?”
“Get what you need from the hen house. Might look around the house as well. I let the hens out early today.” Rose handed Althea some capped mason jars and a pie plate. “Take these in payment of today’s visit. I’ll put them in a poke fer ya.”
Althea put thirty cents on the table. “Let me pay for the eggs, Rose. I know it’s a sacrifice to give them up. Thanks for lunch. I’ll check on you in a couple of weeks.”
Mona said, “Yes, thank you, Rose.”
Rose looked crestfallen though trying to put on a brave front. “Thank you most kindly for the conversation. Mona, you come again when you’re in these parts, ya hear.”
Mona grabbed Rose’s hand and shook it warmly. “I most assuredly will. You’ve been most kind, Rose. A wonderful hostess.” Mona turned to the little toddler. “Goodbye, little girl. I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Iris,” Rose replied.
“Ah, a fitting name because of your love for flowers, Rose.”
“She’s my pride and joy.”
“Let’s go, Mona,” Althea said, heading out the door.
Mona hastily put on her hat and coat, waved goodbye to Rose, and followed Althea to the barn.
Rose ran after them, yelling, “Y’all be careful. Some skunk’s been going up and down the mountain stealing. Taking people’s chickens and hogs. Even pinching horses. Leaving folks in a terrible fright. Everyone is skittish.”
“We’ll keep a look out,” Althea shouted back, waving.
Rose rushed inside and grabbed her dulcimer. With a light soprano voice, Rose serenaded Althea and Mona with the song Barbara Allen until they were out of sight.
O mother, mother make my bed!
O make it saft and narrow!
Sweet William died for love of me
And I will die of sorrow.
Father, oh father, go dig my grave
O make it saft and narrow!
Sweet William died on yesterday
And I will die the morrow.
Barbara Allen was buried in the old churchyard
Sweet William was placed beside her,
Out of sweet William’s heart, there grew a rose
Out of Barbara Allen’s a briar.
They grew and grew in the old churchyard
Till they could grow no higher
At the end they formed a true lover’s knot
And the rose grew round the briar.
She stood on the porch with a shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders and played until her fingers ached. Rose’s singing floated down the holler as Mona and Althea made their way to the stream. As the last note died away, so did Rose’s happiness.
“Rose singing to us is a tribute,” Althea said. “A great honor.”
Mona said, “It’s very haunting to hear her voice reverberate off these hills. Rose needs to move away from here. She wants more from life than making babies, growing corn, and darning socks. That woman has talent in her hands.”
“That woman is in the first stage of TB.”
“Oh, no!”
“How old do you think Rose is?”
Mona pondered. “Thirty, perhaps. About my age.”
“She’s nineteen. Life is hard up here.”
Mona gasped. “Is there anything that can be done?”
“She can move to a drier climate, which would be only a temporary stopgap. The truth is Rose will be dead in five years.”
“Are we in any danger of contracting it?”
“No, but once Rose starts coughing in earnest, everyone will have to take precautions.”
“Does she know?”
“I haven’t told her. I want to tell her when her husband is home. I need to check him, too. Sadly, arrangements will have to be made to place the child elsewhere when Rose becomes very ill.”
“Will she carry her new baby to full term?”
“I don’t know, Mona.”
“This is awful.”
“One of many horrible stories in the mountains. Besides TB, there is syphilis, alcoholism, fevers, polio, measles, parasites of all kinds—ringworms, tapeworms, pinworms. Want to help? Come back and visit Rose or write letters. Send her books. Her main enemy right now is loneliness.”
Mona remained quiet as the horses plodded toward the stream where the men waited.
“What took you so long? The day’s getting away,” Rupert complained.
Althea twisted in her saddle and said, “Shut up, Rupert, if you know what’s good for you.”
Rupert’s mouth dropped open. “What’s gotten into her?”
Mona didn’t respond, following Althea down a path which paralleled the stream.
Confused, Rupert and Chester looked at each other while Farley got on his horse.
“Come on. The day’s a wasting,” Farley said, kicking his horse to catch up with Mona. From Mona’s expression, he knew something was wrong. Besides, didn’t those dumb clucks know a man should never criticize a woman for taking too long?
Even Farley knew that.