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Bertha rolled over, hugged her pillow to her chest, and giggled. She was in love. In love with Sylvester Anderson. She flopped onto her back and threw her arms to the side, letting the joyous feelings flow through her. Never had she been this happy.
The past month had been a dream. Every chance they had, she, Sy, Les, and Becky went fishing, or riding, or on picnics. The Fourth of July festivities in Hastings had been both fun and somber. The reciting of the Declaration of Independence always choked her up thinking of those men who founded their country and went to war to fight for their freedom from England.
While Papaw hadn’t been born yet to fight in the War for Independence, he had memories of the stories his father and uncles told of fighting the Redcoats. It had to have been scary. But with their independence won, the country would never have to fight in another war, even though Papaw thought there might be some type of conflict to end slavery. Certainly, there couldn’t be a war, could there? The thought briefly took away her happiness, but since the chances were zero, she returned to Sy.
There hadn’t been another falling into the creek incident. Thankfully, Becky hadn’t acted like a ninny when fishing. In fact, they started a competition to see who could catch the biggest, the smallest, or the most fish. So far Becky was ahead in all categories.
What she was waiting for, though, was her first kiss. Many times she’d seen Sy giving her a sideways glance, then quickly look away when she caught him staring at her lips. What would it be like? Were his lips warm, like Papaw’s when he kissed her on the cheek? Should she close her eyes? Pucker her lips? What if it were awful? What if she giggled? What if she swooned? So far, Les hadn’t kissed Becky either, so all they could do was speculate—which they did whenever they had a chance.
A rooster outside her window crowed the rising of the sun. Too soon, it would be time to get up. While she never had to milk the cows in the morning, she did have to get up and help with breakfast and since today was Friday, they’d be baking enough bread and rolls to last the week.
If anything, Mamaw was organized. Besides the daily chores of gathering eggs, weeding the gardens, feeding the ducks, pigs, and chickens, each day held the same chores. Monday was laundry. Tuesday was ironing day. Wednesday, they baked pies and as summer came to an end would put up preserves, and vegetables as they ripened. In the fall, she’d come out on the weekends to help with the fall harvest. Thursdays were set aside for rug beating, dusting, and washing floors. They baked bread and rolls on Friday. Saturday was for their weekly baths and baking beans and roasts for Sunday dinner. And, of course, Sundays were for church, with the afternoons free to do whatever they wanted.
Her favorite, of course, were Sundays when she’d get see Sy, unless he was able to sneak away after evening chores, when they’d sit on the front porch, talk, and drink lemonade.
“Bertha Mae,” Mamaw’s voice came up the back stairs. “Time to get a move on.”
With a sigh, she threw back the sheet. July brought its own brand of heat and humidity. The kitchen would be sweltering, so she wore a simple short-sleeved blouse and skirt, minus petticoats. Knowing how her grandmother felt about having to wear shoes in the heat, she left hers behind. Bare feet were the order of the day.
When she entered the kitchen, Mamaw was pouring bacon grease into a container to be used for frying potatoes.
“Run out and gather the eggs, will you?”
Bertha tugged on a pair of boots. Going barefoot in the house was one thing. Going into the chicken coop without shoes was another. The hens were softly clucking in their nesting boxes. What were they thinking as she slid her hand beneath their soft feathers and retrieved their warm eggs? Did they dream of baby chicks? Only a few hens were allowed to nest their eggs for hatching.
The last hen, a mean Banty named Olga, opened one eye when Bertha tiptoed to her. Darn, why couldn’t she have stayed asleep? She had more than one scratch from the old hen’s attacks on her hands and arms when she tried to take her eggs. She reached out to sneak the eggs from beneath her. The hen squawked and flapped her wings. Bertha withdrew her hand and took three steps back. It didn’t pay to fight the biddy right now. She’d come back later when the chickens were let loose to hunt and peck for bugs outside.
As she entered the kitchen, the scent of cooking biscuits made her mouth water and stomach growl. Her appetite on the farm was twice what it was at home. But maybe she ate more here because her mother wasn’t here to chastise her if she ate one bite more than she thought necessary. A woman had to keep her figure to keep her husband, so her mother said. This had to be another of those things her mother was wrong about. Look at Mamaw. Her waist was thick, her cheeks round and plump, but Papaw loved her dearly. There were other couples where one or the other had gained a few pounds and seemed to be as happy as the day they were married.
“How many eggs this morning?”
“A dozen, but I didn’t get Olga’s.”
Mamaw took eight eggs from the basket and cracked the first one into a bowl. “She’s still ornery?”
“Uh-huh. Mean as ever.” Bertha rubbed a scratch from yesterday’s attempt. “Maybe we should let her hatch a batch of chicks. Maybe that’ll settle her down.”
“I doubt anything will settle her down, except maybe having her for Sunday dinner.”
Bertha shuddered. In all the years she’d been staying the summers on the farm, the one thing she refused to partake in was the butchering of any animal. Eating them was one thing, watching their throats get slit was another. She also refused to think about all the parts of the animals they ate—which was every single part that could be eaten.
Waste not, want not, was one of Mamaw’s favorite sayings. And since she was such a good cook, she even made the detested liver taste decent. Not like the dry, evil-tasting stuff their cook at home made. Just the thought made bile rise to her throat.
“Have you heard from your mother lately?”
Bertha transferred the remaining eggs from the bucket to a basket made by a local Indian woman. She’d take it out to the springhouse after breakfast. “No.” Which was a relief as her mother’s letters were usually filled with who they dined with, whose ball was the best, which men were squiring which women, and the latest fashions. Just to irritate the woman, Bertha filled her letters with calving, fishing, gardening, baking, and sewing. Things that really mattered.
The backs of Mamaw’s arms wobbled as she beat the eggs to an orange froth. She added milk and mixed some more before pouring the mixture into a hot skillet. She stirred it with a wooden spoon then tapped the spoon against the edge of the skillet, set it on the counter, and sighed.
“Mamaw, is something wrong?”
She reached into her apron pocket and handed Bertha a folded piece of paper. “I received this yesterday.”
Her stomach pitched. Was it bad news? Had something happened to her parents? One of her aunts and uncles and cousins? Worse yet, Letty? With shaking hands, she unfolded the paper.
Dear Ma, I hope this finds you well. The social season in St. Paul is in full swing, even in this heat. I am busy getting ready for my soiree. I would like Bertha Mae to return home at once to partake in this all-important time of her life. Eligible bachelors are being led down the aisle in rapid numbers. I fear my daughter’s future will take flight when there are no men left. I expect to see her back in St. Paul by next Wednesday at the latest. The Woods’ ball is set for Saturday, and I expect her to attend. Mr. Woods has been asking about her. Your daughter.
Bertha dropped the letter in her lap. She had to go back home? But she still had over a month. Tears pooled in her eyes. “She promised me this summer with you. What do you think I should do?”
The eggs sizzled in the bacon grease. “Who is this Mr. Woods?”
“Oh, just some man Mother thinks I should marry.” She set three plates on the table and added forks and knives to each one.
“What does he do?”
She placed honey for the biscuits and salt and pepper in the middle of the table. “He’s a banker like his father.”
“Is he handsome?”
“I guess he could be considered so.” A picture of Sy entered her mind, but she wasn’t about to tell her grandmother she thought Sy was much better looking. “He’s quite a bit older than me.”
Mamaw leaned out the back door and tugged on the rope for the dinner bell, its high tone filling the morning air. “So, you’ve met him?”
“Yes. At a ball just before I came here. I didn’t want to go, so I made Mother promise if I went, I could spend the summer with you and Papaw.” She tried not to whine. Whining was for children who didn’t get their way, but it crept into her voice anyway. “She promised.”
“Who promised what?” Papaw’s large frame filled the doorway as he entered the room. He tossed his hat at a hook with perfect precision and took his place at the head of the table.
“We’ll say grace first then discuss what our daughter wants.” After a quick prayer of thanks, Mamaw filled their plates with scrambled eggs, bacon, and biscuits, poured coffee for her and her husband, and sat left of him, while Bertha was on his right.
“So, what does our daughter want this time?” he asked between bites.
Bertha held back a sob. “She wants me to go back to St. Paul next week.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And why would she want you to do that?”
“You know our Frieda. She has some idea of Bertha Mae marrying some highfalutin man.”
“She’s staying here for the summer. Besides, she’s too young to marry.” He slammed his fork on the table. “I won’t allow it.”
If Papaw said she didn’t have to go, wouldn’t her mother have to listen to him? After all, he was her father.
“Oh, Elmer, you know it doesn’t work that way.” Mamaw took a sip of her coffee. “Bertha Mae isn’t our daughter and has to obey her own parents.”
He frowned into his plate. “Well, Frieda is my daughter, and she has to obey me.” He stabbed a finger at his chest. “I’m still her boss. Bertie is not going back to St. Paul until the summer is over. And that’s that.”
Mamaw shook her head. “I’m not saying she has to go back, but, Elmer, you lost all control over Frieda when she married Arthur.”
A tear rolled down her cheek. “Please don’t make me go back until September.” Losing all desire for breakfast, she pushed her plate away. “I hate the dances, and parties, and dressing up as someone I’m not. Why can’t Mother understand that I’m not like her.”
“Of all my children,” Mamaw patted Bertha’s hand, “your mother was the one I least understood. Have you tried explaining to her how you feel?”
Bertha sniffled. “Over and over again.” How could she give up the freedom she had on the farm and go back to the awful strictures of foolish society?
Papaw tossed his napkin on the table. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”
Hope filled her heart. If Papaw had a plan, it was probably a good one. She leaned her elbows on the table and gave him her undivided attention. “What, Papaw? I’ll do anything to stay here.”
“We’re not going to do anything.”
What? Not do anything? What was he talking about?
Mamaw folded her arms over her chest. “And just what do you mean by that?”
“I mean if we don’t do anything, Bertie stays here. I can say I never saw Frieda’s letter.”
“Why, Elmer Quincy Schaeffer.” Mamaw pointed her fork at him. “What are you teaching Bertie? That lying is all right?”
“Oh, woman. If Bertie doesn’t know the difference between right and wrong by now, she never will.” He bit into a biscuit and winked at her. “Besides, I wouldn’t be lying because I didn’t read her letter, did I? In fact, I didn’t even know you’d received a letter from her.”
“Well, that’s true. I didn’t want to show it to you because I knew you’d be angry and fret all night long.”
Bertha crossed her toes under the table. “Please, Mamaw. Papaw’s right. I do know the difference between right and wrong.” Another tear rolled down her face. If she had to go home, she wouldn’t get to see Sy again. Wouldn’t get a chance to receive her first ever kiss.
Mamaw leaned back in her chair and sighed. “I know when I’m defeated.” She pressed her palms on the table and stood. “We’ll pretend we never received the letter, but if Frieda ever finds out,” she pointed a finger at her husband, “you’ll be the one to explain and feel the wrath of our daughter.”
Bertha jumped from her seat, threw her arms around Papaw’s neck, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Papaw. I love you.” She rushed to Mamaw and did the same. “I love you, too. I’ll never forget this.” Appetite restored, she sat back in her chair and tucked into her meal. This was going to be the best summer ever.