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Bertha sat on the bank of Walla Walla Creek, closed her eyes, and tipped her head back. The sun peeking through the willows over hanging the small tributary of the St. Croix River warmed her skin. Her mother would have a fit if she knew she hadn’t worn a bonnet, had her bare feet dangling in the cool water, and held a bamboo fishing pole trying to entice some trout to her hook.
She brushed away a mosquito buzzing around her ears. With her skirt tucked into her waistband exposing her bare legs and curly hair flung over her shoulder in a braid, she probably resembled one of those girls her mother called hoydens. Who cared? No one was around to see her, and her grandparents didn’t care. In fact, Mamaw had sent her out to catch some fish for supper.
Thank goodness the past week was over. While she had nothing bad to say about Mr. Woods, he hadn’t put a spark in her heart, either. He was . . . well, pleasant. Even his kiss was pleasant, but nothing like those she’d read about in the books her mother detested. No heart palpitations, no flipping stomach, no weak knees, no need for smelling salts. Simply nice. But through all the social events, there was something in his eyes that sent shivers down her back, and not ones to make a girl swoon.
Betha jerked her pole, hoping a fish would be encouraged by the plump, wiggling worm on the hook. Where were those darn trout today? Her mouth watered over the thought of fish dipped in milk and Mamaw’s special flour mixture, then fried in bacon grease, something they never had at home.
Something rustled in the brush behind her making her jump. Please don’t let it be a bear. Goosebumps rose on her skin. If she held still, maybe whatever it was would go away. Not daring to turn around, she held her breath. Go away, whatever or whoever you are.
The sound grew louder, then stopped. Except for the wind whispering through the pine trees and water babbling in the creek, the air was quiet. No heavy breathing, no snorting, no squeaking. Taking a chance, she eased her head to the left and let out a sigh of relief. Not a four-legged stalker, but a man.
“What are you doing in my fishing spot?” His deep voice was filled with irritation.
Bertha lay her pole on the ground beside her and twisted her body to face him. “Your fishing spot? I’ll have you know I’ve been fishing in this spot since I was old enough to put a worm on a hook. Besides, you’re trespassing on my grandparents’ land.”
He took a step closer. Starting at his bare feet, she eyed him, tipping her head back until her neck protested. From her position on the ground, he seemed tall. His mass of curly, red hair stood on end as if it had been combed with a potato masher. She couldn’t help comparing him to Mr. Woods. This man was slim. Slim hips, slim waist, narrow shoulders. Freckles dotted his face, and instead of sardonic eyes the color of chocolate, his were sky blue and warm.
The man nodded with his chin toward the water. “I think you have a bite.”
“Darn.” She was so distracted by him she’d forgotten about the fish. She jumped up and yanked the tip of the pole upward. Was she in time or had it taken her worm for a ride? The tip of the pole bent toward the water. Every time she caught a fish, the excitement of landing it filled her. It seemed no matter how big or small, fish fought like the dickens. She supposed if she had a hook in her mouth, she might fight back, too. But this was supper.
“Need help?”
While fighting the fish, she didn’t dare chance a glance at him. “No. I’m fine. I’ve done this dozens of times.” As hard as she tugged the line and pulled it closer to shore, the fish dragged it back out. Back and forth until her arms were ready to fall off. This one had to be gigantic.
Sweat poured down the side of her face and back. “C’mon, quit fighting me.” She gasped and nearly dropped the pole when a pair of arms came from behind her. Now wasn’t the time to chastise the man for his impropriety. She needed to land the fish. Mamaw was counting on her.
“Let me help you.” He placed his hands over hers and together they yanked on the fishing line.
“Okay.”
After a few minutes, it was less difficult to hold the pole. Whether from the man’s help or the fish tiring, she didn’t know or care.
His breath was hot against her cheek.
“I think he’s getting tired. Let’s pull the line in.”
Hand-over-hand they tugged and yanked until the clear water exposed the largest trout she’d ever seen. Her skin quivered in excitement. They nearly had it. Without thinking, she took her eyes from the fish, letting her grip on the line loosen. As if the trout sensed her lack of attention, it jerked on the line.
The man pressed against her and yelled in her ear. “Dammit. Hold onto the line. We’re going to lose—”
Before he had a chance to finish his sentence, the line went tight, jerking her feet from beneath her. She landed on her backside. The fish pulled her down the muddy bank. The man, holding tight to her waist, went down with her. Her body hit the cool water.
“Don’t let go of the line,” he shouted as he slid past her into the creek.
The line cut into her hands as the fish fought under the water, making her lose sight of the man. Finally, unable to control the fish any longer, she let go. Lungs full of water, she surfaced, coughing and spitting. She stood. Where had the fish gone? Had she lost it and her precious pole?
Bertha searched up and down the creek. More importantly, where was the man? Panic took her breath away. Had he drowned? She didn’t even know his name. Salty tears mixed with the creek water turned muddy from her thrashing.
A loud splash came a few feet behind her. Was the fish still fighting? She swiped her wet hair from her face. What an idiot to be worrying about the silly fish when she needed to search for the man. If found she him in time, would she be able to haul him up the bank?
A head popped to the surface, followed by the smiling, laughing man. “I got it,” he hollered.
What? He hadn’t drowned? In one hand was her pole. In his other, he held the fish. A large, silver trout.
“Can you believe the size of this thing?” As he trudged through the water toward her, his laugh filled the air. “Wow, that was fun.”
Bertha slapped her hands at her waist. “Fun? You call that fun? Why, I thought you’d drowned.”
The man frowned and looked her up and down. “Well, you look like a drowned rat.”
A drowned rat? He’d called her a drowned rat?
“I knew a girl couldn’t land a fish.” He pitched the pole onto the bank and climbed up behind it.
“I was doing just fine until you pushed me.”
He scowled and tossed the fish on the ground where it flopped back and forth. “I didn’t push you. I slipped.”
Bertha gritted her teeth. “Well, my feet slipped, too.”
The man paused, shook his wet body like a dog, and laughed. “This is probably the most fun I’ve had in ages. If I hadn’t been so concerned about losing the fish, I’d have enjoyed watching you sliding down the bank on your backside.”
Now that the trout was safely on the ground, the humor of the situation struck her. “Oh, my goodness.” She dropped to the ground and laughed. “Mamaw is never going to believe how I brought this fish in.”
He stopped laughing. “You brought the fish in? I believe I’m the one who pulled it from the water.”
Bertha narrowed her eyes and clenched her teeth. The audacity of the man. “I’m the one who held the line for so long, I have cuts in my hands.” She held out her stinging palms. “It was my pole. My line. My fishing hole. My fish.”
The man leaned down and scooped up the fish. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.” He wiggled the hook from the trout’s mouth then spun on his heel.
Bertha jumped to her feet. “Wait.” She couldn’t let him take her fish. She was too exhausted to catch another. “It’s a big fish, maybe we can share.” She took a step closer. Surprise jolted her. Why, he wasn’t a man. Maybe a boy a few years older than her. Something in her stomach tugged like the fish fighting the line. A cute boy.
“I don’t share.” He tucked the fish beneath his armpit.
“Come on. You have to admit we both worked hard for that thing.” She blew at a chunk of hair flopping in her eyes. “I have to take something to the farm for supper.”
He squinted. “And what farm would that be? You don’t talk like no farm girl.”
What was a farm girl supposed to talk like? She just talked the way she talked. “My grandparents own Pine Acres.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re the Schaeffer’s granddaughter? You must be Bertie. Well, I’ll be.”
How did he know her nickname? She wasn’t going tell him her name was really Bertha Mae. It was who she was in St. Paul. Here, she was plain old Bertie. “How do you know them?”
“About six months ago, my family bought the farm nearest to theirs.” He switched the fish from one arm to the other. “They’re great people.”
Huh. Was he lying? But why would he lie? “What’s your name and how come I’ve never met you before?”
“My name is Sy Anderson. I’ve been busy helping my folks on the farm, and whenever I’ve been to see them, you’ve been in St. Paul. But I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Why hadn’t Mamaw ever mentioned him or their new neighbors before? Then again, because of school, she hadn’t been here for a while.
Heavens, where were her manners? She wiped her muddy hand on her equally muddy skirt and reached out to him. “Hi, Sy. I’m pleased to meet you.”
The touch of his hand sent sparks through her. She released his hand and wiped it down her skirt again. His wide grin, showing double dimples, had her stomach flipping. What was going on with her? Heat rose to her cheeks and no words came to mind. They stared at each other for a few minutes. Heavens, he was going to think she was a ninny if she didn’t say anything soon. “I’ll say it again, why don’t we share the fish?”
Sy bit his bottom lip and shook his head. “How do you plan on sharing a fish?”
Good question. It was easy to say, but not so easy to put into action. She snapped her fingers. “I know. I’ll take the fish home and after you change clothes, you can come over for supper.”
“I don’t know.” He rubbed his chin. “I’ll have to see if I can get one of my brothers to do my chores.”
“Excellent. Now hand over the fish and I’ll take it home.” She reached for the trout.
Sy moved back a step. “How do I know you’re not pulling a fast one on me?”
Another good question. “Because I don’t lie. I always keep my word, and I give you my word I’m not pulling a fast one on you.” She wigged her fingers at him. “Come on, hand it over.”
Sighing, he put the trout into her hands. “I’ve never seen a girl fish before, let alone hold one without squirming or screaming.”
“And you know what, Sy?”
“What?”
“A girl can even put a worm on a hook without a boy’s help. What do you think of that?” She wasn’t about to tell him that, thanks to Papaw’s tutelage, she was a crack shot with a rifle, too. Whatever would he think of her then? Being a boy, he probably wouldn’t believe her.
****
Huh. He didn’t know what to think about worms and fish and girls. Heck, he grew up with only brothers, so girls were an unknown entity to him. But when he was in school, all a fella had to do was bring in a frog or worm and flash it before a girl, and she’d scream and run away. Now here was one who not only knew how to bait a hook and bring a fish in, but probably how to clean it, too. In all his nineteen years, he’d never seen or heard about a female who wanted to or could do those things.
He had to admit, even dripping wet, she was a pretty thing. Her hair seemed to be dark, and her brown eyes twinkled as if life was nothing but pure joy. Her lips weren’t full, nor did she have a curvy figure. Her breasts, obvious through her wet blouse, were on the small side. He had several inches on her, which was the way it should be. He’d never seen a woman’s bare legs before, but he had a feeling hers were perfect.
He guessed her to be a few years younger than him, maybe seventeen. Evidently, her family didn’t care if she fished and looked like a tomboy. Shouldn’t girls her age be dressed in fancy clothes and looking to get married?
“Where did you learn to fish?”
“Papaw taught me.”
Sy shook his head. “Can you clean one, too?”
Bertie wrinkled her nose. “Yes, but I don’t like to.”
Thank goodness. Cleaning fish was a man’s job. While his mother did the cooking, his father always did the butchering, saying women didn’t need to see the more gruesome part of life. Truth be told, he wasn’t exactly thrilled when he had to help decapitate chickens or pull out the insides of pigs and cattle, but in front of this girl, he’d clean the fish and not get squeamish.
He pointed to the fish. “It would be best if I cleaned it for you so it’s ready for cooking. Don’t you think?”
“Um, yeah. Does that mean you’ll join us for dinner tonight?”
“Only if your grandmother says it’s all right.”
Bertie gasped and tugged her skirt from its waistband and brushed it down her legs. “Why didn’t you tell me my legs were exposed?”
And give up the opportunity to see them? Not a chance. “Sorry. I thought you knew.” He drew his eyes from her legs.
Sticking her nose in the air as if she were a princess, not a bedraggled imp dripping water in the Minnesota woods, she picked up the fishing pole and, without another word, stomped down a well-worn path.
He scurried to catch up. “Hey, wait.” Alongside her, he matched his steps to hers. “Does this mean I’m not invited to dinner anymore?” He grinned and held out the fish to her. “Don’t forget, half of this is yours. We can gut it here, and you can take your half home.”
Bertie lowered her nose. Her smile hit him in the solar plexus like when one of his brothers punched him for teasing them him. His breath caught and for a second, he saw spots before his eyes. What was wrong with him? Was he getting sick? The creek water had been clear, but maybe there was something in the mouthful he’d swallowed and was playing havoc to his system? He stopped.
“What’s wrong?” Bertie halted a few steps and glanced over her shoulder at him. “Are you all right? You look flushed.”
“Uh. I’m fine.” Irritation rushed through him. No way was he going to tell a girl he was getting sick. “Here.” He handed the trout to her. “Take this to your grandma.”
“But . . .”
“I don’t want it.” He trotted past her. “I need to get home.”
****
Before she had a chance to say anything, Sy disappeared around the curve of the path. What in heaven’s name happened? One second he was smiling and seemingly interested in having dinner at the farm, the next he was scowling and racing away as if she had lice or something. Boys. A vision of Mr. Woods and his confidence in talking with her, which may be the difference between men and boys. Men were sure of themselves, and boys were fickle.
Holding the fish by its gills, she waltzed down the path toward the farm, whistling a tune from last week’s ball. Life was too short to contemplate males and their strange ways. Maybe Mamaw could shed some light.
With the day heating up, she took the trip back to the farm at a brisk walk. Fish didn’t last long in the heat and, with what she’d gone through to catch it, having it rot would be a complete waste.
Her grandfather set down a scythe he was using to cut hay in the field behind the barn and walked toward her. “Whatcha got there, Bertie?”
She raised the fish in the air. “Isn’t she a beaut, Papaw?”
“I’ll say.” He removed his hat and wiped his forearm across his forehead. “I doubt I’ve ever seen a trout that big.”
“Think it’s large enough for a meal for the three of us?”
“You betcha.” He took the fish from her. “I know how much you hate cleaning fish, so I’ll take care of it.”
Glad she didn’t have to do the gutting, she headed for the farmhouse, then stopped at her grandfather’s voice.
“Hey, why are you all wet?”
She grinned. “He was quite a fighter.” His laughter followed her past the cow pasture, chicken coop, and the whitewashed barn. White, sheer curtains flapped from the windows of the white, two story, farmhouse. She had no memory of her grandparents and her mother living in the small soddy now used as a chicken coop. It was hard to imagine so many people living in the small abode with its dirt floor and shingled roof. Chickens now used the fireplace to lay their eggs.
She skirted the front porch stretching across the front of the house and entered through the open back door leading to the kitchen. A fly landed on her nose. Bertha crossed her eyes to watch it rubbing its legs before swatting it away. It was too hot to close the doors and windows, but leaving them open was an invitation for flies, mosquitos, and an occasional bird to join the family in the house.
Bertha breathed deeply, taking in the aroma of baked pies, spices, and Mamaw’s special scent. One of her favorite things to do when she was young was hold her grandmother’s work-worn hands and take in her scent of onions, earth, and special lavender lotion she used to soften her hands. To Bertha it meant safety, security, and most of all love.
Mamaw stood at the long, wooden table centered in the bright, clean kitchen, rolling out some type of dough. Betha leaned her elbows on the table and propped her chin in her hands. “Hi, Mamaw. Watcha doin’?” Her mother would have a fit if she heard her speaking like a backwoodsman.
Mrs. Schaeffer set down the rolling pin. “My goodness, Bertha Mae Jorgenson.” Her grandmother wiped flour from her hands and stared at Bertha. “What on God’s green Earth happened to you?” She took her by the shoulders, pushed her toward the stairs leading from the kitchen to the upper rooms, and swatted her on the backside. “Never mind. You can tell me once you’ve changed. Just go upstairs and get out of those wet clothes.” She picked a leaf from Bertha’s hair. “Why, your mother would have an absolute fit if she saw you like this.”
Bertha’s heart dropped. “Is Mother coming here?”
Her grandmother shook her head and sighed. “Don’t worry, Bertie. It’s just you and me and Papaw for supper. You know how your mother hates being on the farm. You’re safe.”
Bertha hiked up her skirts and ran up the stairs. Leave it to Mamaw to understand how things would change if her mother showed up. No fishing. No riding her horse. No being herself. Only her mother picking at everything she said or did.
Her corner bedroom had one window facing the front yard and another the woods. She pulled back the curtain. Her heart swelled with love as Papaw walked across the yard carrying a pan probably containing the clean fish. Why couldn’t her own father be like Papaw? Warm, funny, loving. Even working the farm, he made time for her.
She dropped the curtain, removed her dress and undergarments, and retrieved clean clothes from her chest of drawers. The room had been hers from the day she was old enough to visit the farm on her own. With its bright, clean, white walls, sparse furnishings with only the single bed, dresser, a table and chair, and a small mirror over the dresser, it was a far cry from her room in St. Paul.
There, her four-poster bed was covered with a frilly, pink canopy and matching curtains, wallpaper, and bedspread. Sometimes all the pink made her stomach turn, but, having had no choice in the decorations she was stuck with it.
It took a bit to change into a clean, dry dress and hang her wet clothes on the clothesline in the back yard. Tomorrow was wash day, but if she didn’t hang them to dry today, by tomorrow they’d be musty.
“Would you please peel and slice up some potatoes into the skillet, Bertie? Papaw just brought me that wonderful trout you caught, but the potatoes need to cook before I can start frying it up.”
Bertha went into the basement and brought back three large potatoes and an onion. Her mouth watered in anticipation of tonight’s supper. Fried fish, along with potatoes cooked with onions, was one of her favorite meals. With a paring knife, she scraped off the brown peels and cut the potatoes into thin slices.
“Are you going to tell me why you came back wet?” Mamaw glanced over her shoulder. “I’ve never known you to fall into the creek when fishing.”
“Well, it’s like this . . .”
Mamaw laughed at the tale. “So, who was this boy who helped you?”
“He said his name was Sy.”
“Oh, you must mean one of the Anderson boys. I believe one of them is called Sy, short for Sylvester.” Mamaw scooped flour into a bowl and added salt and pepper. “They’re a nice family and the boys are a big help to their father. They haven’t lived in the area long, but we’ve gotten to know them quite well.”
“That’s what Sy said.”
Mamaw raised an eyebrow at her. “Sy, is it?”
Heat rose to her face. “Well, it was the name he gave me.”
“Not that they seem like the type, but he didn’t hurt you, did he?”
Bertha shook her head and dropped a spoonful of bacon grease into the skillet. “No. In fact, after we were pulled into the water, he was the one who captured the fish.”
“Well, why didn’t you offer him half?”
“I did, Mamaw.” She moved the ball of grease around the heating skillet making sure the entire bottom was covered. “I even invited him to take supper with us. At first, he said yes, then he suddenly changed his mind and took off.” She shrugged. “I’m not sure what happened.”
Mamaw took the bowl of sliced potatoes and transferred them into the hot skillet. “Did you say anything to embarrass him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Hmmm.”
“What does that mean?”
Mamaw handed her a wooden spoon. “Make sure to keep moving the potatoes around so they don’t stick to the bottom of the pan. So, how was the ball?”
Why did Mamaw change the subject? Was there something wrong with Sy? He seemed fine. Actually, quite fine. Bertha moved the spoon beneath the potatoes and brought the bottom ones to the top. She pulled back her hand when the grease popped and nearly landed on her skin. Well, if Mamaw wanted to change the subject, she must have a good reason.
“You know how I hate to dress up, but I guess I had fun. It was good seeing Letty. I met a man Mother has in mind for me. A Mr. Woods.”
“Mr. Woods, you said?”
Why did her grandmother sound irritated? “Yes. I didn’t even want to go to the ball, but Mother insisted I meet him.”
Mamaw set another heavy skillet on the stove and added bacon grease. “So, what did you think of him?”
“He was all right, I guess. He was a good dancer. Liked to talk about himself.” Bertha used the side of a fork to cut into a piece of potato to test for doneness. “In fact, all he did was talk about himself. Never asked one question about me. Is that the way it’s supposed to be between men and women?”
“It’s hard to say. Every couple is different.”
“I never hear Father ask Mother about her day, but Papaw always asks about you and your opinions. At home I never get to talk at the dinner table. When I’m here, I feel like I’m important, like what I have to say is important.”
The grease in the fish pan popped and sizzled when Mamaw added the first piece. “That’s because what you have to say is important. I guess your grandfather is different from other men in that he considers me his equal, not just someone to cook and clean for him.”
Which type of man was Mr. Woods? For that matter, Sy? Now, why would she wonder about Sy? He probably wasn’t even old enough to know how to treat a woman.
“Mamaw, can I ask you a question?”
“You know you can ask me anything, Bertie.” She added another piece of fish to the pan. “I’ll answer the best I can.”
“Why does Mother act the way she does?” Bertha moved the skillet of done potatoes to the side of the stove to keep warm. “I mean she was raised here on the farm. Why does she always act like she’s better than everyone else?”
Mamaw shook her head. “I really don’t know. I think she came out of the hatch looking for something different. Something better than eking out a living on a farm. She was always dreaming of a rich man coming to take her away from chores, animals, and what she thought was demeaning work. I’m not sure what we did wrong.” She sniffled. “None of my other children are like that.”
Bertha rushed to her side and gave her a hug. “Oh, Mamaw, I’m sure you didn’t do anything wrong. Like you said, she was probably born that way. Just like I was born hating all the society stuff.”
“Well, I guess you’ll never know unless you ask her.” A shadow filled the back door. “Scrape your boots and wash your hands, Elmer.”
Bertha grinned when Papaw kissed her grandmother on the cheek. “Already did, my sweet girl.”
Even with only her and her grandparents, dinner at the farm was always lively and interesting. Even living ‘out in the boonies’ as her mother called it, her grandparents seemed to always know what was going on in the world. Each night after supper dishes were done and Papaw closed the barn and made sure the chickens were securely locked up, they sat in the living room or on the front porch where he read from the paper he received from St. Paul. He read every article from economics, to entertainment, to national news, to the deaths of local and national people. The next night at supper they discussed what he’d read the previous evening—even the controversy over slavery in the south.
Her stomach happy from the fish and potatoes, Bertha joined her grandparents on the front porch and sat on one of the many white high-backed rockers. Mamaw handed her a ball of pale-yellow yarn and two knitting needles. While she hated embroidering a picture, she enjoyed creating something useful. She learned more at the farm in the summer months than she did the rest of the year at home. Her cooking skills were improving, and she could fashion clothes for herself.
Before reading the paper, Papaw turned his attention to her. “Mamaw says you met Sy Anderson today.”
“Sure did.” She used her toe to set her chair rocking, then held up a finger for to him to pause in order to count the stitches she’d casted on for a scarf for Letty for Christmas. She wasn’t a fast knitter, so she might have it done by the end of the summer.
Papaw tapped his upside-down pipe on the edge of his chair before refilling it with tobacco. “What did you think of him?”
“Other than him rescuing our supper, I didn’t spend much time with him, so I couldn’t say what I think.”
“Oh.” Without another word, he lit his pipe, snapped the paper open, and began reading.
What did he mean by ‘oh’? His reaction was as strange as Mamaw’s. With her thoughts on the young man, for the first time, she didn’t pay attention to what her grandfather was reading. Her impression had been he was tall and rather cute. Letty probably would have drooled over him. Although a bit irritating with his thinking she needed help, he’d done so without making her feel like she was just a dumb girl.
She dropped a stitch, picked it up, counted to make sure she still had the correct number, and continued knitting, something she could do while thinking of other things. Would she see him again while she was at the farm? What would she say if she met him again? Would he laugh at her for being a girl who liked to fish? Would he tease her for falling in the creek?
“Bertie, are you listening?”
Mamaw’s voice brought her back from her thoughts. “I’m sorry. I was woolgathering. What did you say?”
“I said there is a picnic and dance at the schoolhouse Saturday and wondered if you wanted to go with us.”
“I’d love to. I’m looking forward to seeing Becky again.” Becky was a neighbor girl whose family lived several miles away. They’d met three years ago at a Fourth of July picnic held at the schoolhouse grounds. Had she changed since last summer? Had she turned boy crazy like Letty? Did she still ride horses like a boy, catch frogs to hide in her brothers’ beds, or chase lightning bugs to put in jars?
Bertha’s stomach fluttered with excitement and a bit of dread. Please let Becky be the same old Becky. I’m not ready to grow up yet.
Mamaw set aside her knitting. “Good. We have a few days to make some pies and cookies to take with us. There’s also a basket social. You’re old enough this year to have your own basket to raffle off.”
Her own basket? Good heavens. What man would want to buy her basket and eat with her? In past years, men had bought their wives’ baskets, and men—both young and old—had purchased their sweethearts’ or those they hope to make their sweethearts. A picture of Sy’s face popped into her head. Would he buy hers?
She rolled up her yarn and placed it and the few inches of scarf she’d managed to make into Mamaw’s knitting basket. “What is the money being used for this year?”
“We want to put up some swings for the children.” Mamaw stood and rolled her shoulders. “Any money left over will be used for new hymnals.”
Bertha loved the one-room schoolhouse with its rows of desks going from the smallest in the front of room to larger ones toward the back. Then on Sundays the desks were moved to the side, chairs put in their place, and the building used for church services. Her mother always commented on how country children weren’t as smart or educated as city ones, but Bertha hadn’t seen any differences. In fact, at times she thought the children she’d met in the summer were every bit as educated as her friends in St. Paul.
Mamaw picked up the knitting basket. “I’m heading to bed. Ready to join me, Elmer?”
Papaw tucked the folded newspaper under his arm and winked at his wife. “Sure am, sweet girl.” Arm-in-arm they went into the house. “Blow out lamps when you go upstairs, Bertie.”