My family’s home burned to the ground in a dramatic burst of terrible flame. Although the blaze caught us unaware, all three of us exited the house safely. I remember watching my parents standing close enough to be one person, my mother clutching the single china plate she managed to save. Everything else was lost—my few precious books, my dresses, wildflowers gathered that morning—with no never mind about importance to a lonely twelve-year-old girl. After the fire, we left the ranch in Cholame, among the warm rolling grasslands dotted with cattle, and moved to Santa Cruz, surrounding ourselves with family. My mother’s plate sits on our mantel in a place of honor.
I don’t mind our relocation to the city where my grandmother lives with Aunt Mary, who taught me how to whistle with a blade of grass when I was younger. Grandma Van loves to share wonderful stories, and I love listening, so we will get on just fine. She intimidates, though, with her hawk-beak nose, piercing eyes, and penchant for dressing head to toe in black. Father says she still mourns her first husband, dead in the gold fields some fifty years.
Today, Grandma Van’s stiff black skirts rustle as she walks along Union Street with a very businesslike stride. I hurry to match her pace, amusing myself by stepping in shadows, or dancing around them, or skipping over them. Anything to keep my mind off the next few hours. All summer the mornings have been dulled by fog. Now the sun shines and the dusky shadow of Grandma Van’s parasol tempts me. Resisting, I clutch the pail that holds my lunch and lift my chin, mimicking what I believe to be dignity.
Shortly after my family arrived in Santa Cruz and settled ourselves at 18 Union Street, next door to Grandma Van and Aunt Mary at number 16, my mother announced the planned arrival of a baby brother or sister for me. My parents profess to love me, but I often feel left out of their closeness. An only child has no one else, but at twelve years younger, a new sibling will never be a confidante. He or she will only be a distraction to my parents’ affections and an annoyance in mine.
My grandmother pauses before an imposing white building stretching three stories into the air. Impersonal windows seem to glare down at me, as if the building wonders why a simple country girl dares breach its doors. Grandma Van straightens my hat and reties the sash at the hip of my dress, pulling it so tight I can barely breathe. She thinks I am too fat, but Mama says I am just thickly built. Smoothing my wavy dark hair into a single fall to the middle of my back, she frowns at the dust collected on the toes of my black shoes. Thankfully, she does not attempt to wipe them clean before we climb the steps of Mission Hill School.
In Cholame, no school sat close enough to the ranch to make attendance a reality. My mother instructed me at home in reading, writing, and arithmetic, and I saw no other children except on very rare occasions when we went into town. Alone with my books and dreams I was happy, but now I am to be among children of my own age on a daily basis. The idea fills me with delighted terror.
“Go on then,” my grandmother says without smiling, giving me a gentle push toward the classroom door.
I nod and force my legs to carry my body inside the school that educated my father. Peals of the morning bell have long since died away, and rows of hooks near the door are filled with hats. I remove mine and twirl it in my hand before finding an empty hook, and put my lunch pail on a shelf with those of the other children. Rows and rows of children turn their heads to stare at me without blinking. Surely somewhere in that room awaits a knight in shining armor who will save me from disgrace.
“Children, this is Eva VanValkenburgh, our new student. Eva, I am Miss Cooper.”
The teacher pronounces my name Ay-va, as if I am the child of a Mexican laborer, instead of EE-va, the descendant of colonial founding fathers. She wears a plain gray dress, and her hair is rolled tight up on her head.
“It’s Eva,” I murmur as I sink into the vacant seat she indicates.
Next to me a mousy brown-haired girl winks, suffusing me with a welcome warmer than any shining knight could offer. A titter somewhere behind me chills the spark of welcome from my near neighbor. The boy in back of me shoves his book hard against the back of my chair, ensuring his place in the dungeon of my regard.
At some signal I miss entirely, four boys and a girl rise from their seats and join the teacher at the front of the room. They sit along a wooden bench, backs stiff and proper, holding small books. I lean into the aisle, just a bit, to see the title of their book. I fancy myself well read, and wonder if I have read this one. They take turns reading stiffly in voices too low for me to catch. I think again of three new books, sent by my Aunt Emily from San Jose, reduced to ashes in our home fire.
I shake my head in frustration. Miss Cooper looks up, her eye caught by the motion of my head. “Eva, you will recite with the next group. Please memorize the poem at the end of lesson six.”
A quick glance confirms that the mousy girl is indeed reading poetry. “Yes, ma’am,” I mumble, panicking for an instant. By sheer luck a student across the room opens his desk, and I realize the majority of the scarred wooden top lifts, leaving behind a flat solid space that holds a white china ink well and a pen. Inside, three books and a slate await me. I snatch the reader and close the lid too hard, accidentally creating a sound loud enough to draw a few giggles and gasps.
Opening the second McGuffey’s reader and leaning forward, I hide my reddening face and locate lesson six. Mama had been teaching me from the fourth reader, but that book perished in the fire. Now I regress to the second reader, boring in its simplicity. I silently read the little poem.
Beautiful faces are they that wear
The light of a pleasant spirit there;
Beautiful hands are they that do
Deeds that are noble, good, and true;
Beautiful feet are they that go
Swiftly to lighten another’s woe.
I wonder when a classmate will swiftly lighten my woe or show me the light of a pleasant spirit.
The bustle of students returning to their seats breaks my concentration. I gather the reader into my hands, swallow hard, and follow Mousy Girl, Book Shoving Boy, and one other girl to the recitation bench at the front of the room. They dutifully take turns reciting the poetry in tones of drudgery that banish all life from the words. When it comes my turn, I stand and speak the lines with passion, great self-pity rising within me.
The teacher closes her book on her lap and leans toward me. She tilts her head slightly, brow furrowed, as if I am some puzzle to be solved, then opens her mouth to speak. She closes it, as if reconsidering, then rushes on. “Eva, in this school we recite the poet’s words. You will not presume to interpret those words until you attain enough life experience to fully understand what the poet intends. Children, please return to your seats and write out the poem on your slates.”
At least she pronounces my name correctly.
Without another word, the other three students in my group follow her direction, and I hasten to do the same.
In Cholame, Mama and I played with poetry. We shouted it, laughed it, growled it, or cried it, as the words demanded. Our front room looked out over pastures dotted with cattle and wildflowers; a place designed for poetry. Here the crash of the ocean prevents even a moment of reflective silence, and the dampness in the salty air frizzes hair.
I write the first line of the poem, chalk gritching on my slate. An itch on my leg distracts me, and my left hand reaches for the half-healed scratch, just below the knee but above my stocking. I rub it, feeling the scab give way. Pushing the top of my stocking lower in case the scratch decides to bleed, I remember the nail on the fence that wounded me. This injury remains the last vestige of home, the last tangible reminder of my early childhood that is not trusted to memory. I scratch, and hope it forms a new scab so it will stay with me a bit longer.
After the longest two hours of my life, Miss Cooper leads the class outside to give our laboring minds a respite. The grounds of the school seem pleasant enough, with benches to rest on, a few trees and some shrubbery. We are near the sea, however, and the raucous call of gulls grates on gentle nerves.
“Welcome, Ayyy-va,” a girl sneers. She sticks her nose in the air and flips her long blond curls over her shoulder as she turns her back. Her friends laugh. Clearly, she does not intend to befriend me, so I do not answer.
“Don’t pay attention to her, Eva,” Mousy Girl tells me.
She pronounces my name correctly, so I smile.
“I’m Annie,” she says. “Annie Hollingsworth.”
“Eva,” I say. But of course she knows that.
“Could your grandmother be the Mrs. Ellen VanValkenburgh who lives in town?”
Annie’s awestruck tone is not new. Half of Santa Cruz admires my grandmother, and half disdain her. The latter seem to be mostly men. “Yes,” I answer her, and dare to lift my head with pride.
“Are you new to Santa Cruz?”
“Yes. We moved here from Cholame.” Annie’s information will no doubt be shared with others, but I do not begrudge her that. Her nose wrinkles. Apparently she is unfamiliar with rural San Luis Obispo County. I add, “My father took up government land south of here. He is a cattle rancher.”
“Oh.”
How can so much disapproval be thrust into one word? Annie pats my hand. “If I can help you with anything, just ask,” she says with a bright smile. Then she walks away.
Left alone, but without the need to impress anyone or excuse my origins, I am somewhat relieved.
Near me, three girls younger than I are playing catch with a ball made of string. On the far side of the yard, a mixed-age group of boys plays a rough game that involves shouting and lurching through clasped arms. Annie joins two other girls on a bench near the doorway, and Blond Curls and her friends stand aloof from everyone. I have never seen so many children all in one place. Before I can muster enough courage to approach anyone, the teacher comes out and rings a small handbell. We all shuffle inside.
On the blackboard, a different arithmetic problem has been written for each age group of students. I must concentrate to read the fifth-form problem since arithmetic confounds me. A farmer killed 3 pigs and 2 sheep, and had 9 pigs and 4 sheep left. How many of both had he at first? I rub the side of my chalk with my thumb. Next to me, Annie is writing. My mind blanks.
Miss Cooper calls another group. As they assemble, her eyes scan the class and settle on me, on my blank slate. She frowns. I drop my head. They will all think I am stupid, but I am not. If it weren’t for the newness of the whole situation, I am sure I could complete the problem. I look at it again and manage to scribble 26 before the teacher calls my group.
Of course, I am shamed by an incorrect answer. I erase it with my sleeve and endure a shocked gasp from Annie. My face reddens again, and I feel a tear trying to break loose and race down my cheek. I nod when Miss Cooper asks if I now understand, even though I don’t even glance at what she has written on the board. I return to my desk where the mysteries of the arithmetic textbook continue to degrade me.
Twenty to forty tons of alfalfa, squash, and corn are grown in San Luis Obispo County. The ranch in Cholame has 150 cattle that roam 1000 acres. One Holstein cow, milked twice a day, gives 17,720 pounds of milk in one year. One pound of butter can be made from 17.76 pounds of milk, and 8 3/8 pounds of milk can make one pound of good solid cheese from the press. I can do arithmetic. I am not stupid.
My stomach begins an unladylike rumble just about the time Miss Cooper stands up and dismisses us for lunch. In the yard, I find a bench and sit squarely in the middle, hoping to deter others from joining me. I am used to being alone, but I frankly fear the motives of classmates who might brave the displeasure of their peers to speak with me.
Opening the pail Mama packed for me, I select a ham and cheese sandwich and eat, enjoying it without worrying about who might see me drop a crumb. I focus my eyes on my food and my thoughts inward, where they are so often happy.
When Miss Cooper rings her bell to begin class once more, I am refreshed. I even manage to smile at Annie as we take our seats. She looks startled, but she returns the smile. Confidence builds within me, only to be dashed by Miss Cooper.
“Poor penmanship gives a poor impression of the writer to whomever reads your work,” she says in a tone that tells me she often repeats these words. “Write neatly. Be proud of your penmanship and proud of your work.”
I quail, gripping the chalk tightly, hearing Mama’s words echo behind my teacher’s. “Eva, you must slow down. Form the letters more carefully so I can read what you are attempting to write.”
I’ve never possessed patience, especially since my ideas come far too rapidly for my hands to manage. Words and phrases tumble over themselves in their dash to exit my fingertips. I often smear or scribble words, afraid they will vanish from my mind before I can capture them with my quill or chalk.
Annie, however, begins to copy the day’s spelling words in a precise hand, three times each, on her slate. There are too many words, the slate too small. The fat chalk fills in the centers of my a’s and e’s. I slump my shoulders and a frustrated sigh pushes its way out of my mouth. The younger boy in front of me looks back and laughs. Miss Cooper frowns.
“Ernie, is there a problem?” she asks.
He shakes his head from side to side and answers in a sing song voice of innocence. “No, Miss Cooper.”
I want to scream.
The teacher sets us to copying a passage from McGuffey’s reader. We use the inkwell and a fountain pen for this because it challenges our ability to maintain cleanliness while scribing letters. It makes a difficult task near impossible. My words straggle across the page punctuated with inkblots and frustration. The teacher walks around the classroom. She pauses by me, murmurs, “Oh, dear,” and continues up the row as I smear another carefully crafted capital.
The teacher calls me to the front of the room and attempts to make my hand flow across the page leaving behind beautifully looped letters. My hand cramps, and she gives up. I start back to my seat and a younger classmate giggles. I refuse to blush again. Surely the quality of the composition outweighs the occasional smudge! I lift my chin and stomp toward my desk.
With my nose in that position, I can’t tell if Ernie’s foot juts into the aisle on purpose to trip me. Nonetheless, I stumble over it and grasp at my desk to keep from falling flat on my face. The class erupts in laughter and once again I blush with shame and embarrassment.
Would this day never end?
Then Annie speaks, her voice timid but sure. “Miss Cooper, Ernie did that on purpose.”
My eyes fasten on Annie and I smile. I don’t hear what Miss Cooper says to Ernie, and I don’t even glance his way. Just maybe I have made a friend. She smiles back.
The afternoon passes swiftly. I am a strong speller, and I have a tenuous friendship. Miss Cooper does not allow me to participate in the day’s spelling bee since I have not had the opportunity to study the words. Even so, I know them all, and I bask in that knowledge. Tomorrow I will win the top award.
Finally, the school day ends. I force myself to use the ladylike walk Grandma Van will approve of, instead of the undignified gait of a cattle rancher’s daughter. It takes all my concentration to manage it, then my grandmother is there. She greets the teacher and asks after my day. Miss Cooper responds with more pleasantries, but I am overwhelmed with desire to be gone.
We exit the school and descend the steps in placid companionship. I think of Annie’s welcoming smile, but dislike and failure shadows the memory. My lip starts to quiver. I bite it. “Public school isn’t so bad,” I tell my grandmother. I have never lied to her before.
As we leave Mission Hill School behind us, the salty tang of Santa Cruz’s sea air tickles my nose. We’ve hardly exited the grounds when a bustling woman, rounded by thick skirts and short stature, hails my grandmother. Annie, my almost-friend, hovers almost hidden behind her. I offer a smile, but she lowers her eyes.
“Mrs. VanValkenburgh! Delighted to run into you, just delighted.” Round Woman clasps her hands together and leans forward to punctuate her delight.
“Mrs. Hollingsworth.” My grandmother nods, acknowledging her.
It must be Annie’s mother. My heart skips a beat. Has Annie already told some tale of a horrible indiscretion on my part?
“Will you be attending the Union meeting tomorrow evening?” Annie’s mother sounds anxious.
“Of course. Plans are coming along for the Convention next year, but we have a lot of work to do yet. I will be there.” Grandma Van actually smiles at Annie’s mother.
I remember my grandmother talking with my mother this morning about the meeting of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. Mama showed very little interest. While Mrs. Hollingsworth seems a trifle overeager, I suspect Grandma Van might like to see some of her enthusiasm in my mother.
“Excellent! I will see you then,” Mrs. Hollingsworth beams. “Say goodbye, Annie.”
Annie blushes as she looks up. “Bye, Eva.”
“Goodbye, Annie. It was a pleasure to meet you,” I say, secretly hoping my formal manners will impress my grandmother.
They head off down Mission Street while we continue in the opposite direction toward Union. I ponder telling my mother about Annie. The hard-packed dirt road is easier walking than the grassy verge, but we must be vigilant and watch for carriages.
Sure enough, before we reach our corner a black carriage drawn by matched bays clatters up. I scamper for the edge of the road, but Grandma Van stands firm. The carriage swerves to miss her, and the driver pulls up the horses to shout at her, “Stay out of the road, lady!”
My grandmother pulls herself up straighter, seeming to grow taller with rage. Her eyes fasten like hooks on the driver and she stares. He shakes his head and stifles a chuckle, but backs down.
“Pardon me, Mrs. VanValkenburgh. I thought I was dealing with a lady.”
He drives off at full speed before she actually speaks. I rejoin her on the road.
“Why is he so rude, Grandma Van?”
She shakes her head. “Some men are very foolish, Eva. That man, and others like him, think I am determined to give their wives and daughters the wrong ideas about how to live their lives. Listening to what a woman says, allowing her to speak her mind, remains a foreign idea to men like those. But mark my words, someday women will vote.”
“Yes, Grandmother.” If Grandma Van feels that strongly, I must agree. At home we don’t discuss votes for women unless Papa is telling Mama something about what Grandma Van has done.
During the remainder of the walk, I plan the words I will use to tell Mama about Miss Cooper, and even Ernie.
Upon reaching home, I open the white picket gate and hold it for my grandmother.
“Look, Eva, the almond tree is full of green nuts. In another month or so I will show you how to pick them.”
But I have noticed a carriage tied outside, and I am curious to see our visitor. On the porch that runs the length of the house my mother sits in one of the large wicker chairs. In the other her sister Emily, my favorite aunt, waves. I run to greet her.
“Aunt Emily! When did you get here?”
“Hello, Eva! I came to visit you and Nina before I left.”
“Left?” I look at my mother, then back to my aunt.
My mother asks if we would like some iced tea, and the three adults exchange a few polite grown-up words while I sit carefully on the top porch step to await an answer. Finally, Aunt Emily turns to me.
“I am moving to San Francisco, Eva. I’ve been offered a place at Wheeler and Wilson Manufacturing Company. I’ll be teaching clients to use their sewing machines. It’s not the work I am anticipating, though, but the nearness to the California School for Mechanical Arts. If I’m practically on their doorstep, I am sure to be admitted.”
I know she loves to draw, and her enthusiasm echoes within me, but traveling from San Francisco will be harder than traveling from San Jose, so I shall not see her as often as I hoped when we moved to this town.
“Really, Emily, I don’t know why you insist on that school,” my mother says, gently reproving, as she returns with the iced tea.
“Ah, Nina, I must get away.” She shares a long glance with Mama that I fail to comprehend. “With Father gone, the house became Fannie’s. Waldo remains there so she can look after him, and Paul stays in school.”
Mama reaches over to pat her hand, no doubt thinking of my grandfather, who died last year. I think of my Uncle Paul, six years older than I but closer to my age than any of my cousins. The adults share more pointless chatter as they sip. Mama has brought me a lemonade, and I sip properly like a lady, wondering if maybe Aunt Emily would like to hear about my day.
Mama tries again. “You aren’t living at home anyway, right? You’ve moved in with the Palmers. If you leave San Jose, Fannie will most certainly miss you. ”
“I know, I know. But Fannie is not Mama. She keeps poking me to find a husband and start a family like you. I just want to design things.”
“You have your asthma to consider,” my mother points out. “Will San Francisco’s dampness help or hinder it?”
“You have the same problem,” my aunt says. “Does Santa Cruz bother you?”
Mama frowns. “Emily,” she begins.
“Emily will do as she sees best,” my grandmother declares, “whether it’s marriage or school.” She nods to my aunt. “Good luck to you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. VanValkenburgh, your good wishes mean a lot.”
I am more proud of my grandmother’s grace than I am of my mother’s whining. “Write and tell me about your school,” I tell my aunt, striving for the grown-up tone my grandmother used.
“Of course I will, my precious darling!” She hugs me, enveloping me in a scent more spicy than floral. I hug her back and scrunch my eyes to hold back tears. It has been a long day.
The late afternoon begins to cool as fog drifts in from the Pacific Ocean. The ladies stand up and make their farewells. Aunt Emily prepares to depart, taking the carriage to the depot to catch the train home to San Jose. Grandma Van walks next door. I can see, over the hedge separating the houses, that Aunt Mary has already lit the lamp in the front room. The sun drops low enough in the sky so that the orange clouds peek through the windswept branches of the cypress trees. Mama goes inside to light our lamps, draw the curtains, and begin supper. I stand on the porch and watch Aunt Emily’s carriage take her away. After the day’s discouragement, it seems as if I will never see her again.
And no one has asked about
my day. I vow to tell Father about it at supper whether he asks or
not.
Ellen VanValkenburgh, Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, circa 1901