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Letter #41
“ At Church on Sunday “
August 4th ,1946 -
SUNDAY Dear Sir, -
How do You take it when the children you love are so cold to You,
Lord? For a moment I thought James and the other youngin’s weren’t even going to sit with us
for the First Sunday of the Month Service! I was mortified! Pa grew still, but he ain’t much for speaking his thoughts
or emotions much anyhow; which drove me crazy as a young wife and fact I’ve come to rely on as an old one. But Molly
Bea, since she was at the head of the somber procession, she marched herself straight down to where we were sitting, pulling
her arm free of James’ grip before any of the other church members could notice it. I was so proud of her and so ashamed
of forcing her to make the choice, Lord, that the ache in my heart all but made me turn to my dear old man and ask him to
step out into the middle aisle so’s we could go home right then and there! It’s a small town; everybody knows
everybody else’s business even if they don’t listen in to every conversation on the party line like sister Mary
Beth Hammond does, and we all know it, although we pretend not too for pity. A spinster her age ain’t got much family
left around her to care about, you know what I mean, Lord? But she’s a weekly customer for my fresh eggs and I must
confess there are times when a slip of her tongue gave me a juicy bit of gossip I’m ashamed to admit I liked hearing
too. Just a reminder of how far off from perfect I am…sigh…. -
Anyway, James, he didn’t want to make a public display of anything but the holiness he dishes out to others for
their behavior, so he followed, slow like, leaving Richard and sandy no place else to go but to sit next to Molly Bea and
me, since James, he has to have a clear lunge at the aisle since he came home from War the second time. I spoke to Molly Bea
as she reached to give my hand a squeeze, then one of the older saints come up from behind us to congratulate her since its
clear now that she’s in the family way, and I looked over at my boys, keeping my face blank. Richard, he kept his eyes
front like he was expecting You to part the roof and waft down on the clouds with the angels at any minute, but my youngest,
feeling my stare, glanced at me sideways under his lashes, ashamed like, trying not to draw his two older brothers’
attention to him. It broke my heart and
filled my eyes with tears, but trying to baby them back won’t do nothing but to do harm to all of us. It’s in
Your Hands, now, sir! But, now I know how Mary felt when You told her you weren’t returning to the
home in Nazareth because your heavenly Father had plans for you. It’s just a different kind of ache. Caitlin felt it,
my mother Amanda felt it, and now its my turn.
There’s the organ music starting your worship, Sir. Please bear up my heart till I can breathe again!
- Respectfully,
Your daughter too, Maude Amy Webb
of Slumberbrook Farm . ◊
Letter #42
“ There’s a new family in Town “
August 4th, 1946
SUNDAY - Dear Sir, -
What a relief and a weight off my back, dear Lord. There’s
a new family in town, with a young wife near to Molly Bea’s age, but with two young children from the War years when
her husband, who was posted Stateside, came home on leave. She’s as big as a house with the third, and she seems as
hungry for a friend who understands what she’s been going through, as Molly Bea is to have a close friend on whom she
may depend! Though her father wasn’t rude to her when they chanced to meet in Church, he’s cold, not having forgiven
her ‘willfulness’ in returning to her ‘useless, selfish husband’ after her morally released her from
the responsibility, and her mother fears him too much to go against him. I don’t think her mother – or –
could really help in the circumstances she finds herself, never having lives with the challenges and demands placed on their
young shoulders, so I’m right grateful she will have a soul to understand, who’s willing to listen to the words that just
pour out of you when you feel you’ve found someone who understands and accepts you, just the way you are.
How odd that I should have found the same thing in a large, seldom spoken Indian woman exiled from the own people!
Most of the time she seems simple enough to simply accept the life she lives, like one of the barn animals, or an ox, then
she’ll open her heart in return and I am
shocked at the depth of her understanding of human nature, her capacity for forgiveness, and a sweetness of spirit that allows
her to see the minutes as they pass by, as being order by You, meant to be experienced in harmony with the Creator
as well as the created! Then we hear footsteps, or the sound of the men folk’s voices and she becomes as wooden and
mute as the brown log she resembles. There are so many mysteries around me of which I am unaware until I see her stop at a
task and look upwards to see the flight of a bird or truly listen to the call of the wild folk as though she comprehends their
conversations between themselves. Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep. As You know Lord, I come out here to the porch
just to watch the stars. Bess, she don’t leave out from the front yard any more when she’s alone, not since the
pack attacked them and killed her sons. We need to get new watchdogs for the beasts’ sake but I can’t quite bring
myself to admit Cilu and Sparky are gone. Richard and Sandy have threatened to drown the pups as soon as they are born, for
their rough father’s sake, but I can’t allow that either. She’s been hurt enough and there ain’t words
to explain a mother’s empty heart or what I fear it will do from the boys who are already distancing themselves so far
from Pa and me. It’s like they’re in a world away – far removed from anything we parents might see or understand.
We’ve lost our importance top them except as we provide food, a shelter over their heads, and Nervous Nelly filled up
with gas for a Friday and Saturday night spent in town ‘with James and Molly Bea’. Who are too stern
and too much like parental figures for me to believe that.
No wonder you picked a time to show up when You had to ride a donkey into town! If you tried now, none of them would
hear You over the din of the jukebox machines or the heated laughter of their unbridled lusts! But here I am, and here I choose
to stay. I have no regrets over my earlier years except, maybe, that it took me so long to get over my craving to return to
town, or to realize what a dear friend I had in the quiet spoken country boy I pretty much married just so I could keep the
farm intact…sigh….I hope You don’t hold none of my youthful foolishness again` me, Lord.
And I’ll truly do my best to offer my growing sons the same indulgence I hope of Thee.
You think Amos would mind if I coaxed Bess into the house for the night? It pains me to picture her shivering here
under the porch cold and alone night after night! I think I’ll just show her the open door and let her
decide. I got plenty of old rags I can pout in a crate by the stove for her to birth in when the times comes.
What a relief! Her poor little switch of a tail; wagged nervously as Laird pulled himself away from the fireplace long
enough to sniff noses with her and at the smell of the babies sealed inside her swollen belly. Maybe I can’t save the
whole world sir, but I can offer comfort to one little part of it I know about! … I wonder! Do You
ever feel that way when the children You love refuse your help, or let themselves finally receive only a fraction of what
you’re aching father’s heart would give to them?
It’s something to think about, isn’t it? Good night, Sir. - Respectfully,
Maude Amy Webb of Slumberbrook Farm
. ◊
Letter #43
“ In the Shadows Where I rest “
August 7th,1946
WEDNESDAY - Dear
Sir, -
I find my mind racing as I lay here in pain. I do something little
and I can’t find my feet under me it seems like! Faithful Mattalinga is here. With the field hands Pa hired till harvest
we spend our mornings cooking food to set out under the spreading Chestnut tree Woodrow Harkness planted on his first trip
out West. They grunt and poke one another, shoveling food into their open maw like a bulldozer! Then lay on their sides like
shoats in the sty for the hottest two hours of the day, then work as hard as they can, but needing Pa’s constant direction
until the dusk brings out the gnats and the stinging insects. They doff their hats and scrape their boots
before they come in the front door for a bowl of cooked, crimped oats in the morning, call me M’am politely if conversation
is completely unavoidable but they leer at one another and laugh under their breath as if with lewd undertones, but the idea
that our Queenie came from the same brood is almost unthinkable! She’s as slight and fair as they are squats and dull.
She has the slight build of her young mother Laura who had to quit school when she was in the family way, squashing one of
the few usable minds in the whole MacCafterty Clan, who pride themselves on their standoffishness and brute strength. Laura
had such a love for Tom, though he simply endured her because he understood, in a way Pa and I never did, that our house was
a magical realm to her. I think the same holds true for his six-year-old daughter, which is why Laura doesn’t forbid
her spending so much time here, nor do we. I
suppose they will continue to make their way in life even with all the changes awakening to mechanics and social skills left
to us by the passing of the War years. They are too stupid to get into real trouble without someone to lead them by the hand,
but they work hard and keep their heads down. Which is why, maybe, I’m so unkind to them. I don’t trust a man
who won’t let you see what’s in his eyes…or maybe, just being sick makes me intolerant? I don’t know,
Sir. They’re Your sons too, as I try to remind myself when dealing with them can’t be avoided. They only honor strength. And loud voices.
I guess I just feel angry about everything I lack ‘cause the ache on my insides simply won’t go away. It
only gets worse, or it dulls. It don’t stop! You ever had a day like that? Maybe that’s why You
pummeled Sodom and Gomorrah into ash? Some days everything just strikes you the wrong way and you lose patience!
I fond myself thinking about the curious thing Mattalinga said this morning as she had to bend in half to pull my legs up
on the bed. I didn’t have the strength to carry them that far on my own! I accused her of heathen worship , for believing in demons and seducing spirits in the forces of
Nature as if they were gods. In turn, she made sure I was warm and secure under the blanket, with the bell
beside me where I could reach it. No matter how often I try to stop her, she needs must ring the calamitous thing, as if the
clapper might have forgotten how to ring since she put it on my bed stand yesterday!
She took my hand between her two brown ones, warming it, as she stared at the throbbing vein. Her face twisted sharply,
the way it does when she goes from simpleton bland to intense concentration to speak her thoughts in an alien language.
“ I no worship spirit of the tree, of sun or wind, it is one with the Creator, like me. I
no worship the blood under my flesh, but if it leaves me, I die. Same altogether thing. “
She stayed with me as I cried, patting her cubby hand on my shoulders until the tears slowed and I was quiet. I hear
her behind me, sitting in the chair with the hypnotic click of the knitting needles lulling me into the first peace I’ve
known in days. I hope I never again mistake someone different from me as ‘soulless’, for I would be offending Thee who
made us all different and gave us reason to think, to question, to believe. If You leave me, I will die. And if I must die,
let it be here in the midst of things I cherish and people I love until it it’s my turn to share your night of sleep
as I dream in Your arms, dear Jesus! - Respectfully, Maude
Amy Webb of Slumberbrook Farm . ◊ Letter #44
“ The Root Cellar Door “
August 9th, 1946
FRIDAY - Dear
Sir, -
I’m minded of the Hoover years when we had to crimp the mule’s
grade oats for our morning porridge when I used some of the oats we stored up, thinking we would get another good Missouri
Blue, for to make a batch of oatmeal raisin cooks so’s there’d be enough of them so the younger children in the
family could get a taste. Our little Queenie come by for the day with her two older brothers and she is such a curious joy
to my soul! I’ve been thinking of asking Laura if the little mite could spend the rest of summer with us in exchange
for food and room since I know her ma depends on her to cook and clean for her older brothers and sisters and would never
agree for both mother and child to leave, the way I ache to ask. I see signs that little Queenie, she’s learning the
loose ways and swaying hips of her mother and grandmother, and I got no word to say to them that wouldn’t be
heard without giving insult, but I know the little one, she craves being near me and Pa even though James hasn’t come
to the homestead any longer since he moved into town and I know of her innocent dreams of growing up to marry him while being
best friends with Molly Bea. At the very least she could eat regular and not have to live on whatever made it past them big
boy’s gobbling with both hands! But she’s scared to death of Mattalinga, though I can’t figure why. I guess the stories of hanks and goblins
the older boys love to weave about someone who is considered
an ‘outsider’, even though she was born in our Valley and her people were here thousands of generations before
the White Man walked in and gobbled it all up like it already belonged to them!
Come to think of it, speaking of food gathering and storing, I’d better ask Amos Dear to lift up the root cellar
door a` fore he leaves to move the irrigation pipes. Excuse me for a minute, Lord! - Respectfully,
Maude Amy Webb of Slumberbrook Farm
. ◊
Letter #45 “ Angel Among The Myrtle Trees “
August 10th,1946
SATURDAY - Dear
Sir, -
Is that You I sense moving between the leaves? I almost
didn’t get the wash in off the line in time, but the sound of the rain off the tin roof of the tool shed is a comfort
in a way I don’t quite understand. I pulled out one of the kitchen chairs so I could sit here and fold the laundry as
I watch through the mesh screen. The smell of wet dog fur is quite pronounced for as shorthaired a hound as Bess is, and yet
I draw a comfort too from her desire to be near me and please me. Pa and the MacCafterty boys should be in soon as soon as
the rain stops, so I’m warming a dry pair of socks for him to leave when he strips off the used. His feet chafe and
swell so, poor dear, but he don’t never complain. Who would listen if’fn we did, you know Lord? You set the world
in motion in its proper order. Spring time, Summer and Winter, sunny days and the blessed, blessed rain; what You hope doesn’t wash too much of the soil away from the disked rows.
At least the weeds we haven’t been able to pull out as yet have their place, holding the earth in place at the roots
of the stalks. I just do part of a row and I’ve got to catch my breath and sit down on that broken milking stool. I’ve
been setting goals for myself, trying not to stop until I actually reach the legs of it, but gosh and oh my, Lord, sometimes
my head gets to spinning so bad when I bend over that I spend more time with my hand holding me upright than I ever get to
use to pull up the weeds by their roots! I knew this would arrive some day, but I always gloried in my strength because my
mother was always so frail and poorly after child-birthing just two babies, but this is humbling!
I will get better, won’t I Lord? You know – this sickness and racing in my heart will pass and I can get
back out and help Pa? Consider this a prayer, Dear Jesus. I hate feeling so helpless and poorly…
You know. As much as I cherish the rest implied by the rain showers, I think I miss the sounds of the birds around
us? I think this afternoon, when I’m done with my chores, I’ll walk up to the family plot and read from my Bible
instead of having to lay down on my mother’s bed feeling poorly! I’m feeling empty inside of me and the reading
the Psalms, being reminded that others who have loved and pleased you went through hard times too is such a comfort to a hurting
wretch like me. But you know the best part, Lord? Just sitting here, warm and safe, under my family’s roof. Watching
the rain mist down and collect on the leaves of the tree without having anywhere needful to get up and go. Just like Frances
did, and my grandmother Caitlin who went east to take her place, like my mother Amanda while she waited for Pa to come home
from his trapping, and guessing that one day indeed, he never would return. Now me, and one day Sandy’s wife. Most likely
Cathy Baker. And we will all share a privileged connection with this place, each in her own turn.
You know what> I’ve got nothing cooking on the stove or in the over…so with Your permission, I’ll
just put these clothes away and lie down to sleep in Your arms till Pa comes home and needs me, Lord.
Dear Amos, he don’t say nothing when he sees how tired I am at night, but I see the concern deepen in his eyes,
and don’t the rain imply a time of rest, even from the necessary duties?
“ Bess? Up, girl. We’re going in the other room for a little while. There’s a
good girl. “ Thank you,
Lord, for this respite from my fears! - Respectfully,
Maude Amy Webb
of Slumberbrook Farm ◊  Turn the page
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