The year 1886, in this little village of Waretown on Barnegat Bay, wasn't much different
than any other year in that era, except that Grandmom Ara had just turned twelve and was
growing up with a bittersweet awareness of life around her...

by Lillian Arnold Lopez

Chapter One

    One way us young folks could tell Spring was here was by sniffin' the air.  If the odor of burning charcoal was there it meant the men had lit the pits and they was pretty sure warm weather was here to stay.  It hit my nose when I went outdoors that morning in mid April to gather kindlin' wood for Mama to cook breakfus' with.  As I broke up small branches and picked up chips 'cross the railroad tracks where they'd been cuttin' down trees, I hoped Mama would let me walk the half mile or so, where the charcoal pits was, to watch after school.  Half the young folks in town would be there, just to stand around while the men fixed the pits and see if we could find any maypinks.
    The sun on my back felt good for a change.  Spring was awful late comin' this year; Old Man Winter had held on for dear life.  He'd dumped a white blanket over the town 'fore Thanksgivin' and there was still dirty patches of snow in sheltered places.  Time after time, snow had fell all night and day, and even tho' the men and boys cleared the roads, school was closed a lot 'cause many younguns didn't have boots to wade thru' the drifts.
The days was long when there wasn't no school.  I read whatever I could find, mostly the Mount Holly Herald the trainmen threw in the yard.  I helped Mama sew rug rags together, patch and make over clothes, and piece bed kiver tops.  The menfolk repaired their nets and gear for when the bay opened up ag'in.  They carved duck stools, 'specially Jake; my brother was good at that.  We couldn't have got thru' the Winter if Jake hadn't tracked.  The wild fowl and game helped stretch our supply of canned and dried vegetables and fruits we'd set by for winter in jars and the root cellar.  There wasn't much left of our hogs 'cept salt pork.  How I hated it when Mama made me plunge my arm down in that crock of cold brine to grab on to a chunk of slippr'y salt pork for Mama to cook in a pot of stew or dried beans. 
    Work was scarce every Winter; Jake took whatever jobs he could get cleanin' out and fillin' folks' ice houses.  They cut the ice from the bay and bog and packed it with sawdust from the saw mill.  Jake heard talk that the Tuckerton Railroad was lookin' for men to help extend the railroad so he went to see about it, but they was waitin' for warmer weather for that, too.  Papa's misery kept him from goin' out much in the bad weather, but when it got warmer, they could get back in the bay.  Any seafood they shipped on the train to the city brought good money.  Tho' the menfolk thought right smart of oysters and clams, me 'n Mama relished a crispy brown fried fish with boiled 'taters and stewed tamatas.
    When I got back, Mama was growin' out of patience.  The day bein' so nice, and me bein' a "wool gatherer," I guess I took too long.  Anyway, she said she shoulda' made me git the kindlin' in the night before 'cause Papa and Jake would be back directly from their walk to the bay and 'spect to find breakfus' ready.  Mama was stirrin' flapjack batter and Jenny was slicin' salt pork to fry.  Her little boy, Petey, was lyin' on a pallet, his big blue eyes open wide.  Jenny kept one eye on him in case he took a notion to git into somethin'.  At ten months, he couldn't walk, but even tho' he looked like an angel, he sure could find mischief to git into.  Jenny was really my half sister; she was livin' to home 'til her husband Pete got home from sea. 

He'd left on a cargo of lumber out of New York last September spectin' to be back within a month, but now it was six months since anybody'd had a word from him. Jake was my half brother, too. He was keepin' steady company with Clarissa Bedloes, and we 'spected weddin' bells before the year was over. They was talkin' 'bout startin' a house on the land Jake was clearin' off that he bought off Uncle Dan'l.
I went to catch my five year old brother Toddy to put some britches on him; he was still runnin' aroun' in his drawers, but he held on to his little white puppy dog, Snowball, and wouldn't hold still to get dressed.
Jake and Papa come home whistlin' and with a spring in their steps. This was our family, and we all sure was glad for the promise of Spring.
       

It was still kind of dark when I opened my eyes and I thought it must be too early to git up, so I pulled the kivers up and tried to go back to sleep while I listened to the rain beatin' on my winda. Toddy's little tussled flaxen head was on the piller beside me. Something, maybe there'd been a thunderstorm, must of wakened him, 'cause he'd climbed from his trundle bed in beside me. I was wonderin' if it was time to get up, when Mama tapped on my door and opened it softly. Pointing to my bedfeller, she put her finger to her lips and beckoned me downstairs. I dressed quietly and gathered up my shoes, and tiptoed out of the room. Mama had the fire goin' and fresh ground coffee cookin'; it sure smelled good.
"Jakes' outdoors takin' care of the critters. Figured I might's well let the rest stay abed; it sech a miser'ble day."
Mama and I chatted and we ate bread and beach plum preserves, with a cup of coffee. I stood by the winda 'til five minutes to nine, but it was still comin' down, so I took my shawl from the nail on the wall, and hurried out into the dark, wet morning, past the station house, 'cross the field, 'round the blacksmith's barn. I jumped over the ditch and got to the steps, just as the boys was ringin' the last bell. Thru' the vestibule and into the cloakroom, I spread my wet shawl over its hook, and into the classroom. I found my place on the girls' bench, just as the teacher started to call the roll. Only about a dozen of us was present; some had too far to walk in the rain.  Miss Paige had built a fire to take off the chill.  Across the stove from the girls was the boys' bench.
    "We have to have drinkin' water," the teacher said, takin' down the bucket.  Nobody put their hand up like when it was nice; everybody would want to go and play around the mill for awhile.  She gave John the bucket and, like always, said, "come right back."
    Some of the grades studied their words and some of us read.  I was in fourth reader and the teacher gave me a turn to read out loud.  Then we had a spelldown.  I spelled right smart, but I never could seem to remember them silent "t's" and missed on "often."  We all liked to sing rounds, so for mornin' recess, we sang some loud rounds of "Three Blind Mice" and "Scotland's Burning."  Then we pushed the benches back and the girls played "Mother May I?" and the boys played "Run, Sheep, Run," but not as rough as outdoors.  Still, it was awful noisy, so Miss Paige rang her desk bell.  When we all got quiet, she asked if we thought we could settle down if she took us over to Mr. Bronson's shop.  There was an echo of "ayes."  That was the best we could hope for; get out of sums and hear a good yarn.  She threw her wrap over her head to check with Mr. Bronson, if it was alright.  Soon's she got out of earshot, three or four boys pulled out and started blowin' their new made willa whistles.  Us girls clapped our hands over our ears to keep from goin' deef.  When she got back, we passed the water dipper around, put on our wraps, and lined up.
    Across the schoolyard, we marched as quickly as possible to the shop.  We found places to settle, while the smith went right on working on a wagon wheel and whistling that mysterious tune none of us could figure out.  The only other noise was the "ping-ping-ping" of the rain on a metal sign outside the winda.  We could see he was thinkin' on what yarn to tell.  He knew lots of them, and all about the sea.  Travellin' seamen stopped by his shop while their ships were docked and they exchanged stories, so he knew tales about seventy mile an hour hurricanes in the North, to pirateering, rescues and storms off Barnegat Bay.
It was easy to believe, listening to him, what folks said about "his heart bein' at sea."  Seems when he was a lad, his pa had been a smith, the only one for miles around, and he wanted his son to foller in his footsteps.  From the time Mr. Bronson was a small lad, he helped in the shop and learned a lot.  Then suddenly, all his friends was goin' to sea, and that's all he talked about, too.  So his folks finally gave in, and for 'bout seven years he was in his glory.  Then one day he came into port and his mother took him aside to tell him how worried she was for his pa's health.  He was tryin' to do more 'n he could keep up with.  He looked at his pa and saw how his health had failed, so bein' the only son, he stayed where he was needed.  Before long, his father passed on, and his mother needed him.  Now the shop was his life; he liked the work, even tho' it was second choice, but it seemed he was happiest when reliving those early experiences.  Like today, he told a long drawn out tale of a storm and a harbor hard to reach.
    "Lady luck.  It was only lady luck that got us to that shore safe," he finished.  He pulled out his watch and squinted at it.  "By cracky, past twelve o'clock.  Bet you're all ready to make a bee line to your dinner pails."  Opening the door, he turned to Miss Paige.  "Sun's tryin' to show its face; you can dismiss your class now."
    I was one of the last ones out and he handed me a turnip to nibble on.  By the time I got home, it was half gone, but when Mama saw it, she said I should have saved it for the stew, 'cause ours were all gone.
         
    Oft'times on an evenin' when the weather was fit, after the supper things was put away, I'd walk with Jenny down to the bay.  A few of the houses near the bay had widow's walks or towers to watch for returning ships, but whenever she could, Jenny walked the bay shore.  She toted little Petey on her hip and talked about her hopes and dreams for "when Pete gets back."  That last letter had said to expect him soon, but that had been months before.  Jenny knew what people said behind her back, that like so many before him, he might never be heard from again.
Jenny couldn't and wouldn't believe Pete was lost at sea, altho' I know she worried.  I felt close to Jenny on these walks.

As we trodded along, we talked about when Pete was home, and that time he hired a wagon and took us all to Toms River to see the circus train.  It was so exciting; about forty railroad cars full of animals I'd only seen in picture books and never thought I would see for real.  We watched 'em parading up and down the Toms River streets until it got so dark we couldn't see.  Pete had promised to take us back when the circus train came again, and little Petey was big enough.
    "Well, little Petey's gettin' big enough; his Papa sure will be surprised when he sees how tall he's growed -- here, put him on my back; I'll piggyback him," I offered.  So Jenny made sure I had his hands around my neck, and I galloped and he laughed so hard, he had to catch his breath when I dropped him on the soft sand of the beach, to play with shells. 
    "Sis," I asked, "how do you play hide 'n hoot?"  Jenny looked like a hornet had stung her.
    "Ara, you better not let Mama hear you say that.  Where'd you hear that kind of talk, anyhow?"
    "Oh, nobody said it to me.  I heard Nettie talkin' low to Daisy in class today.  She said now that warm weathers' here, they can go maypinkin' and play hide 'n hoot.  Why, is it bad, Jenny?"
    "It ain't mayflowers they're lookin' for, or Whippoorwill's shoes either; heaven knows what goes on.  Stay away from them girls; the whole bunch is trashy."
    "Don't worry, they don't even talk to me.  I think it's 'cause I'm only in fourth reader.  'Taint my fault Mama kept me to home 'til I was eight years old.  I don't like it neither, bein' in with those little girls."
    "Well," Jenny answered, "do your best; if they're the 'big girls' you're better off without 'sociatin' with their likes."
    Out across the bay the lighthouse was shining.  From where we was, it looked like it was blinkin' thru' the gathering dusk, so we picked up Petey.  We heard the whippoorwills begin their mournful song out in the pinewoods, and Petey's little head drooped before we got halfway home. Jake wasn't there yet, and Mama was worried.  He'd rushed in 'fore suppertime, and said somethin' about a wagon waitin' over by the store for all the fellers they could round up to help fight a big fire down in 'hawkin.  We all waited up 'til he come home; it was late and he was black with soot.  Said 'bout two hundred acres of swamp cedar had burned 'fore they got the fire out.
    "Burnin' a long time 'fore we got there," he said, "they say a wood burnin' locomotive set it."
    "That's what worries me, livin' here by the tracks," Papa said.  "Nate claims it was a spark from the train ketched his place afire; lucky Liza and the boys was to home and had a rain barrel full of water.  Why, it ain't been a year since that freight car load of hay burned up rollin' into Barnegat; only black twisted metal left when I saw it."
    "Yeah," Jake added.  "Railroad sure has had its share of bad luck lately.  Only last Winter, that storm washed all that road bed out at North Branch and Gunning River."
    Mama had brought in the wood tub to the kitchen and filled it with warm water, so we all went up to bed while Jake scrubbed the soot off.
         
    Granny Hollis lived in a cottage down the lane a piece.  Her front yard was a jungle of color; flowers of every kind grew for her when nobody else could get them to grow.  The town women went to Granny to learn what roots and which herbs to put in their salves and embrocations.  Mama said I shouldn't call her Granny, because she was only a neighbor, but she was little and white haired and looked like a granny.  When I was little, the women pieced a quilt called "Granny's Flower Garden," and for the longest time, I thought they named it for her front yard.  Folks said her daughter lived in Cream Ridge, and I'd never seen her visit, but I heard she was in ill health.  Once, Granny had gone away for awhile to help out with her family and asked Jake to take care of her black-faced cow and use the milk.  That was the richest milk I ever had; no wonder folks said Miz Hollis made the best cheese cake in town.  She kept her milk and cream cool in her well. When the weather was fit, you could see her on a Sunday morning, walking all the way to Barnegat to meeting in her black cap and cloak.  She was a Friend, and that was the nearest meeting house.
    She didn't take much to younguns, tho', I guess that's why I was so surprised one evenin' to see a buggy go up the lane with some red-haired children and return a short time later without them.  Me and Toddy'd been playin' tag 'round the station platform, so I tagged him and jumped off and took off runnin' down the lane.  I crossed my fingers and yelled "time out," when I saw them standin' in the yard.  The girl was 'bout my size; she seemed a little sad, but friendly.  I told her my name and Toddy's.  She said her name was Serena and her big brother Tom was thirteen; Rusty was a little older than Toddy.  Both boys had freckles across their noses and bright red hair.  Serena's was what's called "strawberry" and hung in long curls.  Toddy and Rusty was soon runnin' 'round and Serena told me why they was here.  Their mother had been in a sanitarium.
    "Consumption," she whispered.  "The doctor was hopeful for her recovery if she got complete rest, so Granny took us 'cause there wouldn't be any rest for Mama with these A-rab brothers of mine.  I would'a been a help to her, but Granny will no doubt need me here.  Now I've found a girl my age nearby, I feel better."
    That evening I told Mama about Serena and the boys.
      "Isn't Serena a pretty name?" I asked her.  "How come you give me such a plain name?"
    "Would you rather be called your full name, Ara Bella?  That sounds kind of pretty.
    "I don't like that, neither."
    "Well, I'm sorry you're unhappy about your name.  It made my dear mother so happy to have you named for her, but you couldn't remember her.  They called her Bella.  She was so ill, but her face lit up when she held you.  Said she'd always wanted a namesake, but didn't say nothin' so none of us knew.  I was lookin' in a book of names put out by a infant food company, and when I read that 'Arabella' meant 'consolation,' it was like an omen that should be your name, her bein' so ill, and you was a consolation in her last days.  You was jest three months old when she passed on."
    Mama was silent for a little spell, then she brightened.  "Maybe you'll like your name better later, like me.  I got so sick of 'Katy.'  My brothers plagued me all the time when we was younguns.  Who left the door open?  Katy did.  Who made the baby cry?  Katy did.  Who did this?  Who did that?  Katy did, Katy did, Katy did."
    I laughed, and so did Mama, and we both knew we'd live with our names.
    Before it got too dark, I crept up into the garret and brought down Grandmother Bella's doll baby she'd left me.  It still wore the white muslin dress, smocked and worked with pink french knot rose buds.  The head and arms was white china.  She had dark eyes and a pretty little bow mouth and little leather slippers that buttoned around the ankles.  I hadn't held her for a long time, but as I retied the blue sash, I knew I'd always treasure my "Bella" doll baby, along with my share of the lacquered tea set that had been Mama's when she was little.
             
    There was still a couple weeks of school left, and I feared that when Serena started, she'd make new friends with the girls in her own class.  I'd felt foolish to tell her I was in a low reader, but I needn't of worried; she was as good as she was pretty.  At recess, she looked me up to play jackstones with her on the steps, and we talked about showin' each other what "cat's cradle" string plays we knew.  She played with the other girls, too; learnt us games we hadn't heard of, but she always made sure I wasn't left out.  I got to thinkin' maybe it was my own shyness kept me out of things. School let out in May, because there was lots of work on the farms and the young people was needed to help out at home.  We always had a play the last day of school and the mothers, whoever could, came to school to see it.  We was makin' up what we was gonna do.  Every year there was a Maypole dance.  The eight littlest girls would dress up in their muslin Sunday School dresses, with pink and blue and yellow bows and sashes, to match the streamers on the Maypole.  They practiced dancin' around and weaving the streamers 'til it looked pretty.

    "Tra la la; we sing and and dance
    around the pole today,
    Tra la la; let's pick the fairest
    maid for Queen of May."

    Little Annie was gonna be the "Queen of the May," and she was so excited.  Her mother was to roll up her long poker straight hair with rags to make curls, for when she got her flower "crown."  The rest of us was just gonna sing and recite pieces.
    We had a city boy come to our school that year, named Duke Lovejoy.  I remember the day they moved into the big house on Lower Shore Road; they had velvet chairs.  jest him and his mother came first to get everything ready for Judge Lovejoy, who was high-up in the Union County Courthouse.  He was retiring soon, and didn't want his son to grow up in the city, so he sent his wife, who must of been quite a few years younger than him, 'cause Duke was only 'bout fourteen.  But she was uppity; only spoke to a few who would listen to her braggin' 'bout how beautiful her Broad Street apartment was, and the trolley cars and hospitals and banks.  The day his mother brought him to school, the teacher had him stand before the class, and introduced him.
     "Class, say 'good morning' to Marmaduke Lovejoy."
    A snicker ran along the boy's bench, and he sneered in their direction.
    "Duke's the name."
  A while later at recess, Charlie said to Art, "How's your old dog, DUKE, these days?"
    That was when we discovered Duke was no namby pamby, even tho' his mother did appear she had him tied to her apron strings.  The boys got respect for him right away, and so did the teacher, when she found out he was beyond the eighth reader and could answer questions that put her on the spot.  Problem was, he was too wise; whenever he could, he'd get the class in an uproar and cleverly place the blame on somebody else.
    Well, the last day of school came, and we packed away our books and slates and sponge cans, and the boys pushed the benches to the walls for the mothers who came after noontime.  All of 'em looked real nice, but Mrs. Lovejoy had on a fine city frock and a diamond watch pinned to her lapel.  She was so proud of herself and her son.  He had on a suit with a waistcoat and a boiled starched shirt and a black string tie.
    There was a few to get merit slips for completing eighth grade, but he was the only boy; some of the boys who would have been in that class had gone to sea already.  Everything went along real good, with the singin' and pieces, and just to make sure she didn't miss anybody, Miss Paige asked if anybody else had anything to do.  (I should add here that it was supposed to be a serious program -- no nonsense.)
    Well, Duke raised his hand, and his mother smiled and nodded.  I could tell Miss Paige was doubtful, but she probl'y was hopin' that maybe he'd share something intelligent he'd learned in the city, so she introduced him.  Well, he got up and he started bouncin' like on a rockin' horse and started singin':

    "Thompson had a old brown mule,
    he drove it around with a cart.
    He loved that mule;
    that old brown mule,
    with all his mulish heart.
    He had some pie -- he blinked his eye,
    and a mouthful of rubber boots."

One look at Duke's mama's face had me bitin' the blood out of my lip to keep from laughin'.  But, boy, talk about nerve; he tee-heed so hard, he could hardly finish:

    "And that mule cried,
    hee haw, hee haw,
    And that mule cried,
    hee haw, hee haw,
    with a mouthful of rubber boots."

    Miz Lovejoy got up and hustled out that door like a wet hen.  By then, we'd all let loose 'cept the teacher, who was vexed at the lack of order.  We were still weak from havin' laughin' fits, when she dismissed us; what a way for school to let out!
    I'll bet anything when Duke got home, he was laughin' on the other side of his face for tramplin' his mother's pride; at any rate, none of us saw her on the street for quite a spell after that.

(End of Chapter One)

HOME