by Lillian Arnold Lopez
Chapter Three
Summertime was a busy time for all of us. There was the preservin' for Winter, and garden and field work to do. The men worked the fields, but they had to work in the bay, too, and some days they gathered salt hay to ship by train to the Trenton potteries. They used it to pack earthenware, and it was good for extry ready cash. Mama never complained, but sometimes she worked from sun up to sun down, hoein' and preparin' food to lay away. I helped all I could, pickin' peas and beans and tamatas, and corn and fruit; anything in season. It was my job, too, to see that Toddy wasn't in the way. He was a little busybody, always wanted to "help," so I'd keep an eye on him, while he did somethin' couldn't git him in trouble, like pickin' tater bugs off the plants.
One day, Mama sent Grandpa out to find some mullein, so I knew she must be feelin' poorly, 'cause she only drank mullein tea when her kidneys acted up. I noticed she wasn't actin' too frisky, so I told her maybe she better lay down on the daybed for awhile. I heated up the weekaminie wheel and wrapped it in a flannin' rag, and she said maybe a little nap would help.
"Try to keep Toddy still," she said. "Make sure he don't git his hands on that horn or my feather duster. Yestidy he was playin', he was shootin' a wild turkey and got it full of sand."
I got some cornhusks out on the porch and was makin' him a little boy doll, when Serena and Rusty came up.
"That's cute," Serena said, "can you show me how it's done?"
"I'll help you make a lady doll; I dried a mess of husks."
We was makin' the doll, but Rusty started complainin'.
"Dolls is for sissy girls; we're boys."
"Yeah, we're boys," Toddy whined.
We finished 'em and put long dried corn silk on for hair, and they laughed when we fixed it so it looked like a Mama spankin' her little boy. Then Grandpa came home, and I took the basket of velvety mullein leaves inside, but Mama was sleepin', so I just set 'em down and tiptoed out with Toddy's basket of play toys. Him and Rusty started sortin' out the wooden Noah's Ark animals and Serena picked up a arra' head.
"I found that out beyond the mill dam," I told her. "There was Indians used to live here." I winked at Serena, "Grandpa remembers when there still was Indians around here, don't you, Grandpa?"
"Well, they wasn't 'zackly livin' here then, but when your Pa was little, there was one who come thru' here; always had a pack of dogs at his heels. Once he came to the door, and your Grandma asked him in," Grandpa chuckled. "I remember how your Pa and his brothers hid and peeked out. They'd heard stories of scalpin'."
'Bout that time there was a yowl.
"Toddy, leave that cat's tail alone. Grandpa, what about Indian Will?"
"Well, there was lots of stories 'bout different Indians. Will was supposed to 'of lived over on the beach. Some say he killed his wife, 'cause she wouldn't eat possum with him. Others say it was 'cause she ate his prized beans. Anyway, she had brothers in Long Island come to avenge him. Will was a crafty old Indian, and outsmarted 'em! There was talk he dug up pirate gold on the beach; give the "yeller" ones to a white man, but kept the "white" ones, 'cause they was pretty."
That was all I heard, for it was then I discovered the boys had snuck off. Shading my eyes, I looked in all directions, and fin'ly saw two bobbin' heads, red and flaxen, headed down the path towards the pig pen. I ran to head 'em off. That mother sow didn't take kindly to anybody botherin' her piglets.
Uncle Dan'l lived way back in the woods on an old farm his pa had cleared back eighty five years ago. His cabin had been there that long. Uncle Dan'l was born in it and lived there all his life. He'd raised two boys, but he was alone now. That's why he was happy to give Jake a good deal on a piece of his land within hollerin' distance.
He wasn't really our uncle. I think the story was, his wife had been Mama's second cousin. But he got along real good with Papa, and us younguns liked him; he was always tellin' us riddles and yarns. His wife had died when the boys was little, and he riz 'em up alone. He often sat and talked about his boys; I think for him, they stayed young -- in his memory, that is.
'But a year after Young Dan'l married Lurrie Grissom, her folks decided to move westward with a few other famblies in the area. Lurrie wanted to go, so Young Dan'l begged his Pa to pack up and go along. But he couldn't bear to leave the only home he'd ever known, where his folks had settled and worked to build up all them years. In the back of his mind, he hoped they'd change their minds 'bout goin', like some of the others had. But they packed their best belongin's in a sheet wagon, and made plans to head for the new land. Guess most of all, he hated to see 'em take Dan'l, third, just a wee babe in his Mama's arms. At the end, he gave his blessin' and his best milk cow, Molly. The last sight he had of 'em, they was wavin' and promisin' to write. He often said it was like a picture on his mind, them leavin', and Molly tied to the back of the wagon.
So he settled down with Caleb, his younger son, seventeen at the time and talkin' 'bout joinin' the Life Savin' Service. But it was less'n two years later, on a cold February day, Caleb was tryin' to rescue some folks whose boat was sinkin' in the bay, and he lost his own life.
Young Dan'l had never got back either, even for a visit. Fifteen years now, and all he had left of his sons, besides his mem'ries, was a tin box of letters he'd saved -- two or three a year from Young Dan'l. He always told me that when I got a chance, I could come over and read 'em, but I never did, 'til one day Papa went over to help him take honeycomb.
Uncle Dan'l had 'spicioned there was a honey tree nearby. He'd seen the bees with heavy honey sacks around his clover, and even follered some of them to the edge of the woods, but lost the line. Then one misty mornin', he went walkin' and smelled honey real plain, so he snooped around 'til he found the right haller tree. He'd tried to get some, but the bees got riled, so he got out before he got stung.
"You hafta move real slow," Papa advised, "but jest in case they swarm, tie a piece of cheese cloth over your hat and under your chin. And tie your pants and shirt at the wrists and ankles."
"Why don't you help me?" Uncle Dan'l asked. "There's plenty for both of us to get all the sweetnin' and wax for candles and ointments we'll need. Better keep it under your hat, tho', or ever'body North Branch to Barnegat, who's had hive bees fly off'll claim they come this direction. Well, if we don't git it, a skunk will."
I was glad he asked Mama if I could come along to bresh up the cabin for him. She told me run along and help him.
"There's no need bein' fussy," Uncle Dan'l told me, "can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. I've been so occupied outdoors, I'm lucky to get sumpin' to eat and warsh my cup and plate." Then, to plague me, he chuckled, "Don't bother any of my funny little mice, if you find 'em."
He'd never let me forgit that time when I was five. I caught a little mouse in the field and put it in my apron pocket, 'cause it was tiny and pink (it didn't have any hair yet), but it bit my finger and Uncle Dan'l was there, and he laughed and I got really mad at him for it. But he came all the way back a little while later carryin' a "mouse" he'd made out of a cucumber, with a piece of vine left on fir a tail and shoe button eyes and broom straw whiskers and stick legs. I couldn't stay mad at him after that, even when he plagued me, and I kept that cuke mouse 'til it got soft. Sometimes I make 'em for Toddy, but I never forgot real animals ain't playtoys.
After I swept up and passed a rag over his furniture, I set down with the letters he'd left on the table for me. They was in a Christmas candy tin with holly painted on it, and they was all in order the way he got 'em. I took 'em out, one at a time, and read how Young Dan'l's fambly had trekked across the prairie to Ioway, and 'bout the baby girl, Debry, who was born there in 1874 (why, she was jest my age). They'd settled there for awhile, then on to Nebraska, where the government was sellin' land for two dollars a acre.
Things was goin' real well 'til the grasshoppers come. "Not jest a few, but like a big dark cloud," Dan'l had wrote. "They've settled on our farm, eatin' ever'thin' in sight. If it keeps up, you might be seein' us comin' back East, like our neighbors did." But the next letter told how they'd raised up in a cloud and took off, as suddenly as they'd come, and now things was goin' real well. I read and read. They was all happy about their two acres of apple trees, and how they was growin'. They all took turns writin'. The last letter had been wrote lately and it was still in its envelope, with a splash of red sealin' wax, and it was from Debry. She was tellin' her grandfather (who she'd never seen) about the excitement there. The new railroad had jest opened up thru' the state, and was all celebratin', with free train rides an' all. I was jest readin' the last where she wrote, "Papa said don't you worry if you hear about the bresh fires out here in Nebraska, as they ain't anywhere near us," when Papa and Uncle Dan'l come to the cabin. They each toted a basket of honeycombs.
"Place sure looks nice," Uncle Dan'l said. "Be sure to tell your Mama I'm obliged for lettin' you come."
That day we had a little railroad excitement of our own. A freightload of goods caught afire up above the junction near North Branch. A few barrels of gasoline aboard exploded; did 'bout five hundred dollars worth of damage.
Monday was warshday. Early every Monday morning, unless it rained, Mama would set up the wooden tubs in the backyard and build a fire under the big iron pot to heat the water we dipped from the rainbarrels. She'd douse the clothes up and down in the warsh tub and spread 'em on the scrubbin' board, and rub 'em with soft soap and rub, rub, rub. Then she'd wring 'em out, and I was wrenchin' 'em in the clear water tub and hangin' 'em over the line. I looked up, and there was Brother Tomas standin' by the gate, arms crossed, lookin' at us.
"Mama," I said, and she looked up and wiped her hands on her apron.
"Mornin' Brother Tomas. How's things at your place?"
"Jest thought I'd come over and warn ya there's chicken thiefs about. Heard a ruckus last night, and this mornin' our best Rhode Island Red was gone."
"Reckon you got a fox?"
"Yes, two legged foxes, and by the sounds of their titterin', they was young or tipsy."
The brothers Tomas and Gavin had come to town and settled by Law-Hill Crick, 'cause it reminded 'em of their boyhood home in Scotland. They was good neighbors; didn't bother nobody.
"I was thinkin' p'r'aps your lad moight know what young scoundrels is 'lowed to run wild nights."
"Menfolk heard 'bout a vendue over 'round Double Trouble, Shamong, someplace, lookin' for stock 'n stuff for Jake -- but they oughta be home directly," Mama answered.
"Just tell the lad if he knows who it was, he cud do them a favor by tellin' them to take warnin' ny ta come back. We got a coople mean curs tied a'tween the house and coop, and they moight give 'em a real welcome pairty."
So saying, he walked away. Mama turned back to the tub.
"Don't that beat all? I don't blame him for gettin' riled," and she rubbed a pair of britches and twisted 'em like's she would'a done them scallywags' necks, if she'd had 'em there.
Later on, over dinner, Mama told Jake 'bout Brother Tomas' visit.
"I better not ever hear of a son of mine doin' sech a thing -- I don't care how old he was -- I'd thrash the daylights out'a him," Papa threatened.
"I ain't never done nothin' like that," Jake defended hisself. "Maybe a few watermelons, but folks 'spect that. And for Hollereen, we unhinged and carried off a few barnyard gates, or busted some little pun'kins. Nothin' that mean, tho'. I think I know who it prob'ly was, and I've a notion to keep my mouth shet. Let 'em take their medicine; I know them dogs."
After dinner, me and Mama and Jenny was settin' out on the porch, peelin' peaches for presarvin'. Pretty soon, we heard a noise, and looked up to see a road cart comin' in a cloud of dust. Mama jumped upp and set her pan down.
"I believe that's the peddlar comin'. see that he stops while I go see how much change I got. I need jaundice bitters and Papa's out of corn plasters, and I'd like to git a new string of Job's tears for Petey, if he's got any. Poor little feller's been havin' a miserble time cuttin' teeth lately."
"Maybe she'll buy me that darnin' egg she promised me," I thought.
But when the cart got closer, we saw it wasn't the peddlar stall. It stopped at our gate, tho', and the driver, he was a stranger, touched his cap and asked for the lady of the house. Mama went to the gate, and he told her some of the famblies around was havin' their pixtures took; would we like to? Mama said she'd have to ask Papa, so the man said he'd be back to take it, if it was alright.
We got the peaches cookin', and Mama looked up Papa in the field, cultivatin' corn. He said alright to git a pixture, but leave him out. He wasn't puttin' on any waistcoat in this weather. Mama dressed up in her Sunday-go-to-meetin' caliker. Jenny and me put on our best waists and flairy skirts. We dressed Toddy and put a fresh apron on Petey, and set around 'til the man got back. Well, Petey cried and Toddy wouldn't stand still; he broke away to find the birdie the man said to watch, so it was jest me, Mama and Jenny in the pixture.
When the man brought it back on a little piece of tin, I thought it was some kind of magic.
I put the plates and cups around the table for supper, and asked Mama what else I could help her with.
"Jest git Toddy out of here; he's been gettin' into ever'thing."
"Oh Toddy, why do you bother Mama when she's makin' supper?"
"'Cause why I'm starve to deaf."
"Well, come with me and Mama will call us when it's ready; we'll watch Jake whittle."
Toddy liked that, so we found a place where we could watch. Jake was really good; he carved little game birds all Winter. Folks from the city bought them, called them "mini'tures." He'd got his first little pen knife when he was 'bout eleven years old, and even his first ones were pretty good. Now he could take a little piece of pine wood and make it look alive. I hated to see him sell 'em, but that's how he bought his land. He could sell all he could make, but he didn't sell the little pair of mallards on the mantel, 'cause Mama took sech a likin' to 'em. The mama duck was 'bout big as a man's thumb; she was settin' on her nest and the drake was standin'. Jake fastened 'em on a piece of driftwood with meader grass. We was watchin' him workin' on a little wild goose, but looked up when the gate squeaked. Uncle Dan'l parked his pushcart near the fence, and stepped up on the porch. Papa's head'd been noddin', but he stood up.
"Set down, Dan'l."
"Well, jest for a short spell. In this hot weather, I ain't wuth my salt. It was near a hundred degrees today, nears I could tell by the way the crickets was churpin'."
Uncle Dan'l could predict the weather. He always knew when rain or cold weather or even thunderstorms could be expected. Mak'rel skies, mare's tails (them little wisps of flyin' clouds), or weird lights in the sky. He could tell two, three days ahead. Even the ring around the moon was a weather sign.
"I jest took some garden stuff down to the Inn; had a run in with that city woman they hired to run the kitchen. Claimed I sold her rotten termaters last time. 'Yore to-may-toes was overripe'," he imitated in a high voice. "Wasn't for the fact I'm a gentlemen, I'd a told 'er off."
I knew the one he meant -- complained my berry measure wasn't full when it had merely settled a bit from walkin'.
"Gotta git back to the house and make a bite to eat."
"Stay and take victuals with us," Papa invited. "Katy's makin' somethin' I know you like -- clam flitters."
"That's for sartin'. I don't git much women's cookin'; ain't much a hand at the stove meself."
Jake spoke up then. "Your raw fries is as good or better'n any woman could make. I'm hopin' you'll larn Clarissa how to fry 'taters like yours."
Uncle Dan'l chuckled, "Fried taters and eggs; practice makes perfect -- but I don't want to be a bother."
I went in to tell Mama and lay another place. She was already heatin' lard in the spider and stirrin' up the batter.
"Tell 'em it will be ready directly."
I went back out.
"I can't stay away too late," Uncle Dan'l was sayin'. "There was a lot of squawkin' in the hen yard last night."
"Reckon you got a red fox nearby?" Papa asked.
"Well, I can't rightly say, but there's talk Leed's devil's been seen over in Burrsville out near the old iron forge. Cows been dryin' up and they say a youngun disappeared right out of his dooryard."
Toddy was all ears for the Leed's devil stories that had been handed down for generations.
"There's them that claim to've saw him walkin' on the beach with a golden haired woman, jest afore that wrecked ship washed ashore some time back."
I was glad Mama called "supper" then. If Toddy got any more excited, I'd never git him to sleep.
Me 'n Serena was together every chance we got that summer, but I knew it would have to come to an end before school started. They'd had a letter her mother was gettin' better, and her father would be comin' for them any day. As glad as I was for her, for I knew she missed them, surely. Still, it would leave a empty place in my life. Sure wouldn't seem right without my best friend.
"You'll fergit me soon enough," I accused, but I didn't really think she would. I just wanted to hear her say it.
"I'll never forgit you, Ara, you're like a sister. If only there was some way I could prove it." Her face lit up. "Remember when your Grandpa told us how the Indians made blood brothers? We could be blood sisters."
I snuck a paring knife from the kitchen and we climbed up in the hay mow, so our big eyed brothers wouldn't see us, but when it come time to make a little cut, we lost our nerve and got down. We was talkin' behind the ice house and breshin' miskitas away. One miskita had a lot of blood in it, and I got an idea if we both let 'em bite us, we could exchange our blood in the bite.
Serena said, "What's the matter with our thinkin'? Didn't we both get scratches on our legs when we went thru' the briars for them flowers?"
So we carefully picked off some scabs and mixed the blood under them. so now we was blood sisters, but our legs was kind'a messy, so we had to go to the pump and wipe 'em off. Tom come along and looked at us 'spicious like, and Serena had to threaten him that if he said anything to Granny, she'd spill the beans on him smokin' corn silk and sweet fern out behind the Rey's barn. That surprised him, 'cause he didn't even know she'd seen him smokin', but we'd done some spyin', too. He said he hadn't seen nothin'; he'd jest come from Pine Needle Road. Then he give us both some chewin' pitch he'd cut from a pine tree, jest to make extry sure we'd keep our mouths shet.
Serena's Granny had helped us make friendship jars, for when we had to part. We'd been collectin' sun dried flower petals from the time the wild crabapple came in bloom. Even after they was dried, they had a spicy smell, and we'd saved petals from Sweet William, roses, and violets. Granny showed us how to make layers of petals in a cannin' bottle with fresh verbena from the garden, and salt and spices and cedar shavin's. When you took the stopple off the jar, it made the whole room smell sweet. We made enough for us and Granny and our mothers to have one to keep.
Time was runnin' out, tho', and we still hadn't found time to go on that arrahead hunt. Some of the folks was even findin' hammerstones around that the Indians used for poundin' and shellin' acorns and sinkin' fishnets.
We was makin' piccalilli that mornin', and I was slicing onions, when I heard, "Yoo hoo!"
"Here," I answered.
Serena peeked in the door. "Do you always cry when your friends come callin'?"
I smiled thru' my tears. "Our onions is unusual strong this year; set down."
"No, I can't stay. Just runnin' an errand for Granny for jar rubbers. We're doin' pepper relish up, but when we git done she said I'd have some free time. She's makin' Tom churn the butter. Reckon we could go on that Indian arrahead hunt?"
"I think Mama'll let me go after I git this peck of green tamatas cut up."
An hour later, we was on our way to Owltown. Serena laughed about the name.
"You folks in town's got Dogtown and Skunk Holler and Dutch Gap and now you even got Owltown. Hope I find some good arraheads like Tom did to take back home."
We stopped for a few minutes to look at the mill.
"Allie Mae brung me over here from school one day when it was misty, to show me a hant," Serena confided. "said a youngun was ground up in the mill long years ago, and tried to make me see her vision in the mist. Said you could hear her cryin', too. We waited long's we could, but I didn't hear nothin'."
"I 'spect Allie Mae's 'magination works overtime," I told her, "but stranger things has happened."
We was passin' Hogan's house, and little Ellie was lookin' out the winda, so I waved at her. Then I started to tell Serena what Mr. Hogan told us 'bout his two little girls, Ellie and Sadie. They was playin' in the woods near the railroad tracks, and they got to wonderin' what would happen if they flagged down the train.
So they put Ellie's red flannin' petticoat on a branch, and stuck it down 'tween the ties. Sure 'nuff, the train stopped and the girls was so scairt they hid behind some bresh. The trainman got off and tore Ellie's petticoat in a dozen shreds, and then they was really scairt to go home.
Serena butt in. "Say, ain't this near where that cat woman lives? Tom says she'll kill anybody bothers her cats. Some boys told him to watch out for her."
"Her name is Miz Turnbull," I told Serena. "Mama says the real reason she dislikes younguns is 'cause they poke fun at her son, Ned. He's funny in the head; ain't got the mind of a five year old, but he was right sensible when he was a young feller. He was helpin' to fight a big fire halfway to Forked River, and sudden-like, the wind changed. All the men started runnin' toward the mill pond, but Ned got on the wrong path and got caught in the fire. They found him later 'mos dead, but his mama nursed him night and day, and got his health back, but his mind is feeble. He's harmless, but the boys tease him. That's why his mama gets so mad, she's ready to kill 'em. She does have a lot of cats, but that's 'cause Ned likes to watch 'em play. They say he teaches 'em tricks. Got one that stretches his paws apart to show 'how big he is'. I'd like to see it, but I'm scairt 'cause she don't trust no younguns."
"I can't find any arraheads," Serena said, as she was searchin' the ground. "You sure these was Indian trails?"
"I know people who's found 'em 'round here; let's look over here."
I turned and looked up at Serena, finger on her lip. "Sh-h-h."
Following her gaze, I saw in the clearing a stone's throw away, a woman shovelling dirt from a good size hole. My scalp prickled as we watched her stand and wipe the sweat from her forehead. It was Miz Turnbull, and she lowered a big sack in the hole and shovelled dirt on it. We was too scairt to even move. About that time, a squirrel scampered up a nearby tree, and I gasped. Miz Turnbull jerked her head up in our direction. We started runnin' and didn't stop 'til we was out of sight and out of breath, and then we fell on a bed of pine needles
"It's true -- it's really true!" Serena was excited and carried away. "She's done it! That's a youngun in that sack she put in that grave. We've got to come back and dig it up."
But nex' morning early, Serena left with her father. I often thought about and wondered how she was getting along.
It wasn't 'til a coupl'a winters later, I was to see Serena again. Her Granny had slipped on a piece of ice and broke her arm, and they came to coax her into spendin' the rest of the Winter with them in Cream Ridge. So, while her folks was makin' arrangements for the critters' care, we got to talk a little while. We had so much to tell each other about our lives since we'd parted, and somehow her conversation got around to that last day in the woods.
"I've often wondered if you went back, like we said."
"No, I never got around to it. I was too scairt to go alone, and no children was reported missin'."
"Is she still there?" Serena asked.
"Yes, and she still hates younguns and loves cats. Her son is dead, tho'. Got caught in a snowstorm couple winters back, and didn't know enough to find his way home; took pneumonia and died. Womenfolk in town took pity, her not havin' any kin, and they went to console her. One thing led to another, and they learnt she could read fortunes, so now they sneak off to see her when their husbands ain't around."
It was then we admitted to ourselves and each other that the bundle she buried could have been a big cat.
It was lucky for Granny Hollis that they took her to their home, for three weeks later the great blizzard of '88 struck, and I don't think she could have braved it alone.
