Letter #1
James and Tom
Autumn, 1939
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Dear
Heavenly Father,
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As the time of harvest is complete with tonight’s sunset, and my babies is all snug in their beds with their
dreams for tomorrow’s delayed school start, I just wanted to take a moment to thank You proper kindly Father, for all
the good You brung this here Valley for another year.
Or the way Tom, he worked so hard but secretly at harvest, to pay back the mischief his practical joke caused Willis
Sannyonson of his short-polled bull. If only for the way it made James so angry to think that he wouldn’t,
when they both knew he ought. Powerful angry, for a fact!
He whupted James in a fair fight, though. It near to broke Mother’s heart to hear the boys’ grunts, the
sound of flesh on flesh each struck her own with more violence than it did the one who received it, for she felt their fists
and their pains in her heart as well! I made her and Penny Acres take the two youngest boys back into the
house until the dispute was settled once and for all.
James, he always used his being borned first to force his will on them three younger boys, but he ain’t a bad
boy at heart. They’ve grow’d too large for the protection this here farm has to offer them anymore.
A good thing
come of the fight, how some ever.
This evening, Tom, he asked Mother to sew back the buttons on his new shirt so he can still wear it to school’s
start tomorrow. And just a few minutes ago when I was on my way to the back porch to begin washing up for the night, I heard
James speak words of apology to his first youngest brother as I chanced to see them through the crack the doorway makes, as
I was stepping out to the wash basin on the back porch.
Mother, she don’t like us to track the mud from the fields back into the house so we take off our boots down
to the inner pair of socks and put on the cleaned boots what she keeps oiled and scraped for us to walk on indoors to he kitchen
floor. Now that we got genuine linoleum, it be to her heart’s content to see it all clean and shiny like when we come
in for the night.
Well, there stood them big, almost grow’d men embracing one another in apology, with tears rolling down their
cheeks, ‘cause they thought that there weren’t no one else near to overhear their sincere words of apology to
one another, man-to-man like.
James, he promised to help Tom with Civics and Geography, the areas where it shames Tom to fail in front of the younger
children, so that he was willing to give up his schooling rather than chance the shame of being laughed by children younger
and some be much shorter than him.
I had to sneak away quiet-like lest they think I was there to spy on them using their soft voices in speaking with
one another, a love that’s private between two brothers so close in age to one another but not to the children that
followed.
So I come out here, Lord.
Mama Cat, she come a’ rubbing around my ankles as much as her kitten promised belly would allow. Meowing that
scratchy ole meow, as if to ask how come I was out here in the cold long after the mosquitoes and the crickets have long since
gone to bed. And did I need the over-large mothering her stripped heart is so quick to give?
I held her close to me, her ribs hard with new life, and I thought about You, Sir, as I am now.
Will You watch over James for Maude Amy and me now that school ain’t there to command our oldest’ restless
energy? I fear our young man, James has out-grow’d the loving protection Mother and I have to offer him. So my oldest
boy, James? He be in Your hands now, Father.
As for me and my babies, and the beasts of Slumerbrook Farm, we wish you mightily a Good Night and Pleasant Dreams,
Sir.
Its too cold to stay out here any longer without alarming Mother, so…I’ll see You in the morning.
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Your loving son,
Amos Webb
§
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Letter #2
Ishmael’s Children
September 2nd, 1939
-Dear Heavenly Father,
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Just as though the world from the radio was from somewhere’s on the moon, Pauline Sannyonson and Heather Cox
they come by to visit Mother today. They sat out on the back porch with their heads close together, sharing stories of Children
‘n Church doings, and such things as women will.
Where as Willis Sannyonson
and I spoke of crops, the weather, the good and the bad of it, and the real love of his life, after their niece Diane who
lives with them of course, them pure bred Collie pups what him and Pauline raise ‘cause they ain’t got no children
of their own. Though Heather, she being a spinster because of her bold nature and high standards due to her family being the
first to settle the Valley? She loves children as much as Mother but it be comfortable for her and Pauline to remain the good
friends they were in their school days as they are about the only women what don’t have children of their own at this
age.
Mother now, she has to gently scold folks from time to time, in that quiet way of hers, because they will forget that
it don’t matter none to her that Pauline she up and married from outside our Valley; much less to a son of the Kaiser’s
homeland.
Willis Sannyonson, he’s been good to our Pauline these twenty-and-five years since we stood up for them to be
married. But between You and me, Father, I remain uncomfortable as I remember seeing Willis’ face as we shared his living
room last night as we listened to his MOTORLA to hear that Chamberlain fellow tell them Nazi’s to get out of Poland.
James and Tom, they was shockingly eager to get into the thick of that heathen war. I seen James’
face while that new Preacher man gave his sermon on Sunday about “the drums of war rolling across our mountains like
the sound of distant thunder”.I don’t like to speak against one of Your own, Father, but our children,
they’re at an impressionable age. Penny Acres, she and Diane Sannyonson, they were whispering together after Sunday
school as how they can save their pennies and nickels to pay their own way to “the dark shores
of Africa” as missionaries, their dimes being saved for movies and fistsful of penny candies.
Which is alright with me if the Calling it was to come from You, but I fear Your young preacher man has more enthusiasm
than this small valley can contain, for all his noble emotions. And it be HIM who’s firing up our boys to go overseas
and do their ‘Patriotic duty for Liberty and GOD’.
I said as how
they ought to stay home and not speak so harshly of things they have no personal knowledge, and the chill of it is still between
us this afternoon. Though Willis’ he is as fine and Christian a man as any born to our Valley.
Though he was uncomfortable to hear his homeland spoken of so harshly, he’s not the kind to hold no grudges, My Boys
ain’t so kindly fixed and I know they be disappointed in my ‘lack of patriotic fervor’. Then that’s
how it needs must be.
But am I being unkind toward Willis in this resentment I find buried in my heart? Can a man who spent his schoolboy
years with a private tutor at his wide in a walled estate full of rooms of servants relish standing near fresh cow droppings
discussing the cost of feeding and dressing out sheep for market? Yet he has a heart for farming, though
he calls it Agriculture, that can only be born in the heart, and the knowledge that goes with it can only be learned by the
doing of it patiently and seeing it through, good or loss.
Mother and Pauline, they sat
together on the back porch swing, matching swatches of cloth for a quilt, and talking the talk common to old and dear friends,
till it be time for the children to come home.
Mother’s hand lifted itself to shield her eyes. Through the shimmering heat of late afternoon, starkly accented
figures walked homeward on their own shadows. The six expected forms—and two strangers.
In the heavy stillness of late summer’s silence we could hear the rhythmical thump of the fishing pail at Ole
Mule’s plodding leg and the excited laughter of happy children. The two older boys walking gravely like stalwart pilgrims
leading Ishmael’s children homeward. Home to the promise of kisses, sunburn salve and praise.
Cool sheets waiting over hand strung beds to cradle a child’s body and hold a child’s dreams.
“
Poor Dears. “ says Mother.
Does she mean the children
or the crippled old man and the boy’s bent figure astride Ole Mule’s broad back?
“ Be careful Maude Amy! “ Pauline Sannyonson warns.
“ That fellow was at the Bradley House last week, and now several of the family heirlooms
have turned up missing! “
I couldn’t stop Mother
from taking them in.
Ole Charley Thomas, he took a liking to that boy Jessie right off. They say that animals has a way of knowing these
things in advance, but I am a’f eared Lord. I know that men have
entertained Angels Unawares after this fashion, but how man of THEM complain of a bad back then strait ways as soon
as the womenfolk are out of earshot ask where the corn squeezings are hid?
Forgive me, Lord, but I did
a joyful feeling somewhere’s in the part of me that longs for hell-fire at the look on Abe Fielder’s face when
I told him the Blackberry wine and the Elderberry wine was kept out in plain sight, on the cabinet next to Mother’s
elbow in the kitchen.
Ole Charley Thomas being the only living male what can enter the kitchen with impunity, and even he is careful to meow
a cautious hello from the doorway, first. If no broom descends he leaps to the top of Father Washburn’s chair and thence
to the top of the cupboard where there is a narrow hole he can squeeze through to chase the rats and mice from the attic rafters.
Father Washburn, he used to claim it was made by a Yankee cannonball, though I have my doubts. He did so love to see
the awe shining so sweetly in their eyes. For a man as old as he, he could not otherwise share in the joy of their childhood
fantasies.
While’st the children made friends with the boy Jesse as they shinned and cleaned the lake caught trout, I just
hope I haven’t done the wrong thing, father! I suspect the main reason Abe Fielder keeps Jesse around is the natural
sympathy people feel toward a half grow’d boy who works so hard, as this here boy does, but to whom he admits he aint
no blood ken.
No more’n Father Washburn to us. An old soldier, too old to work out in the fields no more, but close to us in
the genuine bonds of holy love. Do you know what I mean, Father?
There ain’t no quick and easy answer, Father. Ole Mule, he come wandering over here smelling
of warm hide and mule smells, nibbling at the carrot I stuck out of my pocket for him to find of a purpose. I be a bit shocked
to see them gray hairs crowding around his whisker’y muzzle what used to be so slender and black. His teeth get more-and-more slanted
out but he still pulls into the harness and he does a fair day’s share of the work.
But I worry
about his getting older, and I never used to worry about things like that! I look at father Washburn’s empty chair and
I hear the click of the years as they slip away past. I cain’t help but see that all my days are dust and only my dreams
will survive me as I have planted straightened, growing children. I fear what it must be like for young
Jessie not to even suspect that You exist, and I fear for my two oldest boys as their eyes harden with private dreams as the
eleven year old wanderer tells them of the places and the people he has seen.
A good boy but profane. A hard worker, yet he shares with no one since he earned it by the sweat of his brow. Since
he almost exemplifies the virtues I extol, will my babies be lead astray by almost rights?
Tell me Father. Have I presented such a pale example of right that they are willing to accept the deceit of outward
appearance?
Forgive me for that, Father.
It isn’t the children I’m afraid of. I just looked into my own mind and I know what it is.
Looking down that long and dusty road, watching them pitiful figures struggling made me remember, eight, nine years
ago, just before Alexander was born; when the world starved and the crops shriveled for lack of rain.
Leave it to me to see the worst just because Abe Fielder he made Mother smile tonight. Quoting her things as pretty
said as that Shakespeare Fellow, or one of her favorite sayings from the Bible.
I ain’t never been a handsome man, and Mother…she’s so good to us through all the years, be they
good or bad, And all I have to give her is hard work, babies to be birthed, and bills forever needing to be paid!
Help me, Father!
Well now, look’y here, will you! Here comes Maude Amy. Laying down her apron on the railing
and smiling to me as she walks near! What did I ever do that was so good You brought this country angel back to abandon her
youth on the Farm she struggled so hard to get away from?
After she’d made good her escape to the city!
Why should I alone, of all the men who loved her, have been chosen to receive the special warmth of her given love?
The sweet scent of her hair, the ache in my heart as I hold her near, wordless, in the shelter of my arms.
Angels unawares. We cloak them in aprons and take them for granted.
Now Father, if You was to keep the children busy in the house for a few minutes longer, I’d be much obliged.
Oh and Father, the money is due on the new corn Sheller, but I have better things to do with these few precious moments, so
I yield that worry up to You, too.
-
Your
loved and loving son,
Amos Webb
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§
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Letter #3
Between Sons
Thanksgiving, 1939
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Dear Heavenly Father,
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My babies is all in
the house with Mother, Heavenly Father. I pretended as how I needed to check on a sore spot on Ole Mule’s withers but
that only took the time to open a jar of purple salve and smear it over the harness sore where Jesse hurriedly carried through.
I wish I’d been more firm with the boys when they asked Abe Fielder and the boy Jessie to stay over and shared Christmas.
Now don’t mistake
me, Father! There are times when Mother is reading some few verses
from the family Bible when I can actually feel Jesse straining to be away from that kind, gentle voice!
All the four boys they follow Jesse around like chicks around a dancing red fox and I fear they might ultimately be
devoured in a like manner! So rather than shut them out Father, I’m going to pray ’m in…at least that way
I’m not working against my own peace of mind!
Abe Fielder, he tried to make everyone believe he was some kind of hero in Wilson’s War…but I ain’t
so sure…
There I go again!
Sorry, Father.
This ain’t going to be easy. I am for a fact glad that his stories of war glory. Which falsely lead my sons to
dreams of bloodied but unharmed war, cain’t come anywhere near Father Washburn’s fondly told stories what they
grew up with. I don’t think Abe Fielder is going to stay around much longer. Who can say but we have shown Jesse love
that one day might make him see the error of his ways? It is but youthful wayward-ness. We can but hope, father.
That’s not what I come out here
to say, and I admit to being a little embarrassed that I spilled all that on You, father. For I come to take this minute to
say Thank you very kindly and to rest amidst the laughter, and the turkey, and the mince and the pumpkin pies what Diane Sannyonson
and Penny Acres, they each made with their own two hands for the first time, this year.
I’m
glad that the idea of stopping and giving You thanks as a Nation was invented, Father. Sometimes its right down right easy
to go on with daily things and forget for a fact honest how lucky we are to be blessed in America, as we are, Sir! For Her,
for me and mine, and all those who be suffering under the cruel boot of war and hunger, I ask Your blessing on earth for every
one of Us, and for all the good harvest of love and crops that You brung us, I thank You kindly.
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You’re admiring son,
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Amos
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§
-Letter #4
Christmas of Innocence
1939
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Dear Heavenly Father,
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I am powerful glad that You ain’t cut out in the shape or the mid of mortal man! I could never have foreseen
that look of awe shining sweetly in Jesse’s eyes as Penny Acres, she laid that be-ribboned sheath of sweet smelling
Timothy Hay in the manger with Sadie the cow and ole Mule.
Or as how Jesse, he had to struggle to read even them few simple lines from Saint Matthew what tells the story of the
birth of the Baby Jesus in that there stable in far off Bethlehem,
almost to the knoll of the midnight church bells from the white frame church down in the vale.
Weren’t none of my babies showed the least impatience as Jesse he sounded out the unfamiliar words, although
seven year old Sandy, he whispered some of the words out loud when Jesse he couldn’t seem to make heads or tails out
of them.
I feel small and mean inside, Father dear. Can You find it in Your heart to forgive me?
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The wind is up. Guess it will snow in earnest now.
Thanks so much for everything, heavenly Father. Even the things too deep in my heart to speak. Happy Birthday to Your
Son, Jesus, too.- Your other son,
Me
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§
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End 1939
