Robert Wallace Paolinelli
705 Vallejo St.
San Francisoc, Ca 94133
(415)986-8026
BLOOD
BY
ROBERT WALLACE PAOLINELLI
I
I am
bleeding. As my mother bled, and my
grandmother and her mother and her mother, all the way back through the
generations of women bleeding every month since the beginning, so I bleed,
also. I am not pregnant. How could I be? I have no man.
Today is a day
of blood, for I slaughtered two chickens and bled them. They were hens; I kill my own kind. I collected their blood in a pail which I mixed with water. As the chickens cooled, I took the blood and
water mixture to the plot of land I shall use for my spring garden. I poured the bloody water onto the earth; now the earth will
be nourished by blood as all things are nourished by blood. It is the substance supreme, the liquid
without equal in the bodies of humans and animals; plants and trees do not have blood as
such; but I am sure they have something
similar--but it is not red.
Through blood
we are born, by blood is the unused egg washed from my body and the body of
every healthy woman. Men do not bleed
every month. They have no connection to
cycles. We women are different. God made us different in many more ways than
is outwardly obvious. God gave us
special blood which leaves our bodies at predictable
times. Is that not truly a mystery? It is, it is.
When I
finished blood-watering the garden to be, I plucked the chickens, saving the
feathers for pillows; but I let the cats
have the long, wing feathers; they like
to suck out the blood. Even cats live by
blood. When the chickens were plucked, I
gutted them. I found several undeveloped
eggs. I put them aside. I gave the livers, hearts and gizzards to the
cats and the intestines to the
dogs. They are all satisfied. Blood seems to satisfy everything.
After singeing
the chickens, I put them to boil with the undeveloped eggs, some salt, garlic,
onions, carrots and let them simmer. They were old hens; their meat tough. But by the time they
are cooked, their meat will be tender and will fall from the bone. The blood that remained in the chickens seeps
out into the water and turns brown in the broth; even blood makes the broth taste
better.
Philip and
Andrew have been gone for three days.
They will be back before dark. It
is always three days when they go to the market town: One day going; one day in town; one day back.
They will be hungry, thus this chicken broth and vegetables I
prepare. They will bring back the things
I've needed: a bolt of heavy cotton
cloth; a packet
of needles; sugar, salt, coffee, cloves
and a small keg of brandy. Some brandy
in one's coffee of a cold morning or in one's evening tea is salubrious; and when I feel the
heaviness of these gray days on me, a glass of brandy lifts my spirits.
Often, when I
have my flux, I do not drink brandy, but make tea from the leaves grandmother
showed me which takes away cramps and gives one strange thoughts and makes one
lose all sense of time. I have no cramps
today, so I do not make the special woman's tea.
My sons
returned. Today is a day of blood. Philip and Andrew had been drinking, and they
tried to ride the horse at the same time . But because they
were drunk and were singing and yelling, they frightened our old horse and she
reared, sending both to the ground.
Philip hit his head on some sharp gravel and Andrew suffered similarly,
only his right cheek was specked with clotted blood. They were sober when they arrived.
I washed their
wounds. They are foolish. But they are young
and work hard and deserve some respite from the farm's drudgery, so I cannot begrudge
them their drink--but not when they are around animals. That is both stupid and dangerous and I told
them so. I had to bandage Philip's head. The gravel cut deeply into his scalp. I washed the wounds with warm water, then applied a poultice which will both promote healing and
draw out any dirt or slivers of gravel I failed to wash out. His head wounds started to bleed again. I had a little of his blood on my hands. So today I had my
own blood, chicken blood and Philip's blood.
Indeed, a day of bleeding.
As predicted,
they were ravenously hungry and they ate the broth and vegetables with slices
of my thick bread, and they all but ate both chickens. I have saved some meat for tomorrow. I gave the bones to the cats.
Before I went
to bed I changed my blood saturated cloth. I washed it in a bucket of water and saved
the water which I shall pour into the garden; even my own blood will nourish the
soil.
Everything is
blood: the oceans, lakes, rivers,
streams and rain must be the earth's blood.
How could it be otherwise?
FIRE
II
I am
warm. The fire is hot and I've had to pull my chair back from the heat lest I get
scorched. We were running out of split
wood. I guess we just didn't
understand how cold and stormy this winter would be. It has been storm after storm with some times
just a few hours of respite in between.
We have plenty of uncut logs stacked out behind the barn. But when I saw that we had only two cords of
wood left, I told the boys we would take advantage of the break in the weather,
hitch up the old horse to the wagon, and go out to the abandoned coal mine
about three miles away. It would be a
lot quicker to get coal than to cut up the logs and split them. As soon as we have another break in the weather we can do that.
We brought
picks and shovels. Surprisingly, we made
good time. The earth is hard and the old
road leading up to the mine is passable.
By lantern light the boys took to picking out
coal from an old seam while I shoveled chunks of coal into the wagon. We worked up a sweat inside that old
mine. We stopped for a
rest and to eat some bread and cold boiled beef. We had unhitched the horse and pushed the
wagon into the mine, so loading was not a hard chore. All the time I was loading the wagon I kept
thinking about how warm the house would be once we started burning coal. My plants would surely die if they had to
suffer any more wood rationing because of this dastardly cold. When the wagon was loaded, we hitched up the
horse and headed back. Luckily the
weather was still holding;
but I had had an intuition that it would. On the way back we
saw a few deer browsing under the snow.
Philip was sorry he'd not brought his
rifle. He is partial to venison. But we have plenty
of meat.
We dumped the
coal in the front yard as close to the door as we could; and, using buckets for the smaller lumps, we
brought it into the house and hand-carried the large chunks, some as big as
large melons. Within an hour the house was warm.
I put coal in the cooking stove and it is now burning down to embers I
shall use for cooking supper;
but first I heated water
so we could all take a bath, for we were filthy with coal dust. I let the boys wash first. I stayed in my room next to the small stove
and continued my knitting. They are
young men now and it would embarrass them and me to be within view while they
bathed.
The coal burns
very hot and in no time the shovel full of coals I put
into my small iron stove in the bedroom had the room warm enough for me to
remove my shawl. It felt good to be warm
and to hear the boys splashing and talking; it reminded me of when they were
younger and would splash in the old zinc tub.
Those were hard days, but they had their moments of good, too.
While I bathed,
the boys took the horse the apple parings I'd saved
for her. They had cleaned the tub and
had filled it for me. I appreciated
that. The water was a little too hot,
but I suffered it because it has been at least ten days since I've had a full bath and I was in need of a good long
soak. Too bad the weather is so bad, otherwise I would go over the other side of the river
to the natural hot springs and sit in one of the holes until I began to feel
weak. But the
old zinc tub was all I had and I took advantage of it.
I looked at my
body. It is still firm and not fat. My hands are rough, but the rest of me is still womanly soft.
I imagine that if I could keep my hands from doing rough work, I would
have hands as soft as they were when I was a young girl. Farm work, washing, digging, cooking, even
hauling coal as we did today, are not easy on a woman's hands. Nevertheless, I have a shapely body that no
man has touched in fifteen years. I am
now thirty-seven. I often long for the
touch of a man--but there is not one I would take to my bed. Too many years have passed since Julian
deserted me and the children. In the beginning it was painful and
lonely; but as the years passed, one
into the other, the pain diminished, and I became less needy; and in the place of physical desire for a man
came a strength, not from my body--that I get from household chores and farm
work, but a strength, I guess, in my soul.
I am as soft and warm and compassionate as I have always been; yet my soul is
strong, strong, and I feel I could withstand any kind of hardship or
deprivation or tragedy just because my soul is strong. My body is strong because I use it all the
time; but I
can't ever remember using my soul--yet I know it, too, is strong. So it didn't get strong
through prayer, for I don't ever pray, although grandmother raised me in the
church, I never go and I never pray. I
used to feel guilty about not taking the boys to church; but at least I had them baptized by
the circuit padre who used to come by now and then. I heard he died a few years back. He even wanted to baptize me; but I
declined. When he asked me why, I just couldn't seem to explain to him why. I stuttered and felt a little foolish because
I could offer no explanation. However,
he baptized the boys, and I gave him dinner and a silver dollar and he went on
his way. I'll
always remember that day because it was so cold and a storm was brewing. We stood in front of the fireplace while he
poured holy water on their foreheads. I
cried a little that night because I was happy Philip and Andrew had been washed
by the holy water. Somehow
that made me feel good. It was also that same night that I excited myself for the first
time in many, many months.
Afterwards, I got out of bed because I could not sleep and stood in
front of the fireplace. Philip had
banked the fire before he went to bed so there was no fire; but I could feel some heat and it seemed to
go right to my loins, and I put my hand down there, and as I stood in my
nightgown I once again excited myself. I
put one hand on the mantle to steady myself.
Without realizing what I was doing, I let out a moan
which Philip, who had not yet fallen asleep, heard, and he came in
asking if I was alright. My body was
aglow with a soft warmth; but I know my cheeks must have turned
red when I heard his voice. For a moment
I was so shocked I could not respond to his honest question. I took a deep breath and lied: "I was feeling lonely for my
mother. I'm sorry I disturbed your
rest." He knows that now and then I
let out a sigh for my mother whom I lost many years ago. I guess he believed me, for he said,
"She's in heaven and at peace, mother," then he went back to his
room.
When I was back in my own room I cried into my pillow because I had
lied to my son--which I have never done, but I also cried because of the sweet
sentiment he expressed about the grandmother he never knew--and he had said it
thinking he was helping to soothe my troubled spirit--when the truth was his
mother was moaning because of her self-aroused passion. I felt positively wicked because I had lied
to him about the circumstances. I never
ever excited myself again outside of my bedroom--except when I was alone at the
hot springs or up in the hills picking the first greens of spring.
Now we have
fire. The whole house is warm; my house plants
will survive. When I look into a fire of
a quiet evening, I feel ancient, as ancient as can be and I wonder why. I feel a connection I cannot put into words. The heat of the fire enters my body and makes
it warm; the
heat of fire cooks food; the hot food
enters our bodies and makes us warm, so in a sense we are eating the fire. I am as connected to fire as I am to my sons. We are all creatures of fire, for we were
conceived in heat and the heat of a mother's body keeps the baby alive and warm
while inside her. And
it is the heat of passion which drives us to procreate. Ah, the warmth of this
evening.
III
Memories
I was looking
in an old trunk for some lace I had put away a long time ago and I came across
two old pictures I had all but forgotten I even had: One of Julian when he was seventeen, dressed
in his militia uniform before he went off to the war. He is smiling that boyish grin I remember so
well. I was just fourteen when his
regiment went south. I was already in
love with him. Grandmother did not
approve, saying I was too young to be in love, and, anyway, he was going off to
war and she said the army in general, and war in particular changes a man--and
not necessarily for the best, either; moreover, I could well find any number
of young men when I was old enough. I
usually obeyed grandmother, for she had been both mother and grandmother to me; but I did not
listen to her about the feelings in my young heart and my lover who was going
off to war. She did, however, consent to
let me go to the depot to see him and the other men from town off, and she was
at my side all the time.. I could not get close to him, but we could
see each other. He looked so small
standing next to the long musket he was holding. I was so proud of him and I waved and waved
until the train was out of sight.
Grandmother
did not approve of our writing, but neither did she forbid me to answer his
long letters from Tennessee, but she did insist on reading his letters and my responses which were most guarded. When I received word that he had been wounded
in Georgia I wept for a week. I was
certain he would die of his wound and I would never see him again. While he was in the hospital
our letters flew fast and furious across the country. Grandmother became almost penurious about the
postage. After General Lee's surrender
at the Appomattox Court House, it was six more months before his regiment was
mustered out and it took three more weeks to come home.
The first
telegram I ever received in my life was from Julian, who sent it to me the day
before he arrived. I kept it for years
and always remember what it said:
"Will arrive on the 5th.
Meet me at the depot 3 P.M. Love Julian."
For a sixteen year old girl whose soldier lover
was coming home, that telegram had more meaning than all the letters of our two
and a half year war correspondence.
Grandmother was a bit short with me when she knew the message, for she
said we would now be obligated to meet him and she did not wish to be obligated; but seeing that he
was a veteran, a corporal and had been wounded, it was our patriotic duty to be
there upon his arrival. I was almost
faint with anticipation. The depot was
crowded for the train brought not only Julian but
other survivors of the regiment which had fought all through Georgia and into
the Carolinas.
It took me a
while to find him in the blur of blue uniform-clad men jumping out of the
windows and jamming the narrow carriage doors.
At last I saw him. I burst into tears. He seemed taller than I had remembered, his
face was tan and he had grown a large moustache which
made him seem older. There was shouting
from all sides and the municipal band was playing and the
crowd surged and my tears came in such a flood that I lost him. But he found
me. Suddenly I felt someone take me in
his arms and hold me so tightly it almost hurt.
And through my tear-filled eyes I saw Julian,
felt the scratch of his moustache and the strength of his warrior's arms on my
young body. Then he kissed me squarely
on the lips! Grandmother burst out: "How dare
you, Julian Lampton?
You may be a war veteran, but that gives you no right to outrage public
decency! Stop that kissing instantly!" Her voice was strident and so unlike
her. I was so humiliated I begin to
cry. Obedient to her command, he let me
go. Just then
Julian's parents pushed through the crowd and he was lost to me for the rest of
the day. Grandmother literally dragged
me from the depot. When we got home she
told me that I had disgraced myself in public and that she had not raised me to
make public scandal;
and, further, should Corporal Lampton
come calling, I would not receive him.
She sent me to my room and told me to pray for my blemished soul.
It was a whole
week before I saw Julian. He was
standing on the church steps as grandmother and I approached for the ten o'
clock service. I could feel her stiffen
when she saw him, but she was polite.
"Good morning, Mr. Lampton, it is good to
know that the army has not eroded your religious values." Her voice was cold, almost sarcastic and
again I suffered humiliation on account of her. But he said
something that made me proud and felt he had vindicated himself from grandmother's
biting words: "Ma'am, I probably
prayed more all the time I was fighting the Confederates than most folks pray
in a lifetime. With your permission,
ma'am, I would like to join you and Mary in your pew." And grandmother
said, "Everyone is welcome in the house of God." And Julian
responded, "I know that ma'am, but I'm not asking God for permission to
sit next to Mary." Grandmother just
about turned white and she jerked my arm and almost ran into
the church and deliberately sat in the middle of our regular pew, making
sure there were people on both sides of us.
During the service, when our heads were bowed, Julian, who had managed
to sit behind me, passed a note to me; I quickly tucked it into my glove and
did not get a chance to read it until we got home more than two hours
later. I was dying with anticipation to
know what the note said. At last alone
in my room, I pulled out the note, unfolded its many folds and read. "Darling, I want to marry you. What can we do? Your grandmother does not like me. I am aching for you. Send me a note the best way you can and tell
me where and when we can meet. Love,
Julian, your husband to be."
Julian's note
surprised me, for in all the time he was away I never thought of marriage; my greatest wish
was that he not be killed or terribly maimed.
But now he wanted to marry me--and I, too,
suddenly, wished to marry him. I did not
know what marriage meant--only that two people who were in love would always be
together, smiling, and laughing and doing things together. I was so naive. I did not know anything about being a wife,
and I had only a fuzzy notion about physical intimacy between a man and a
woman. I will not say I should have
heeded grandmother;
when one is naive, in love, and determined, no amount of wisdom
will prevail.
Julian had been apprenticed as a shoemaker before the war; but when he returned, he did not return to
the cobbler shop, but, instead, was taken on my Mr. Erickson, who had a small
dairy farm at the edge of town and it was easy for me to get my note to Julian
because the boy who drove the milk wagon passed our house every day and I knew
him by name; and when grandmother was
taking a nap, I ran out to him and gave him my note and five cents for his
trouble. In my note I told Julian
that this coming Sunday grandmother and I were invited to Mr. and Mrs. Bowes,
friends of grandmother's, for an after service dinner. The bowes had a
large piece of property on which was a small bridge spanning a wide creek and I
told Julian to meet me at the bridge, for it was far enough away from the house
and we could not be seen. I did not give
him an hour and he had to wait a long time.
I could not think of an excuse to go for a walk by myself, but Mrs.
Bowes suggested I go for a walk while she and grandmother had a talk about
something--that something was to determine my later actions.
Julian was at
the bridge and when we saw each other we ran to meet and he embraced me as he
had upon his homecoming and we kissed and kissed--Lord, how long did we kiss,
for our kissing fairly took my breath away. We professed our deep and abiding love and he
formally proposed to me;
but good daughter that I was, I insisted he call on grandmother
this very evening and ask for my hand. I
was adamant and refused to kiss him again until he agreed. He agreed.
When
grandmother and I returned from the Bowes', she said she wanted to see me in
the parlor. That was rather
unusual. I waited for her while she put
our Sunday hats away. She sat opposite me
very erect and proper, more so than usual, and I intuited
that what she was about to tell me would effect my future. What she said was that Mrs. Bowes' sister was
the headmistress at a small normal school for young women in Cincinnati, and
that I was to go there at the beginning of the spring semester starting in
January of 1866. I would board there and
come home for the holidays. Grandmother
would hear none of my protests--and protest I did.
When I realized
my fate was about to be sealed by her and Mrs. Bowes, I blurted out,
"Julian will be calling this evening to ask for my hand." Then grandmother did something she'd never done--she slapped me on the cheek. "Your impertinence has arisen only since
that young man has returned and filled your head with nonsense. I shall close the door in his face. Now go to your room and stay there until
tomorrow morning.
I heard Julian
knock on the door. I heard grandmother
tell him to stay away and to never return to our
house. But he
said that he would come again and again to ask for my hand. I heard the door slam--something out of the
ordinary in our house. Grandmother came
to my room to make sure I was still in it, then locked
the door from the outside.
In the meanwhile Julian and I, via clandestine notes, contrived to
elope. I chose Wednesday afternoon
because that was when grandmother always visited the minister's wife and left
me to shop and prepare dinner. We left on
the train in the middle of her afternoon visit when she would least expect anything. Love had made me cunning.. We stood at the far end of the platform and
did not board until the last minute. We managed to get to Kentucky and were married the next day. We sent grandmother a telegram directly after
the ceremony.. And I thought I was the happiest of wives. Little did I know.
Memories Continued
IV
I put Julian's
picture back into the trunk, but kept out the other one; it is very old, taken sometime after
my father was graduated from West Point, which was in 1840. He is standing in full dress uniform with his
gloved hands resting on his sword. He
looks very young and very serious. Next
to him, sitting, is my mother and two other women,
friends of hers in her youth. They met
in Washington where father had gone to see about a posting in the west. At a formal ball, he was introduced to
mother, and as she told me, it was love at first sight. Thereafter, he called on
her regularly; it seemed his posting was
taking longer than expected; but being
the resourceful man I believe he was, he pursued mother until he won her over
completely--but not grandmother and, as I understand, not grandfather, either,
for they had it in mind for mother (their only child and precious to both of
them) to marry the son of a wealthy Baltimore banker, a long time associate of
grandfather's. But
the affairs of the heart are governed by a powerful force--and how well I know
that. After several months of anxious
waiting, father was offered a posting in Missouri, but not as an engineering
officer, but would be assigned to the infantry.
He was a dedicated young officer and would go in whatever capacity
he was assigned, for he wanted to go west. As his departure date neared, he went to
grandfather and asked for mother's hand; he was politely refused. Mother was broken hearted. She was eighteen at the time, and she vowed
she would not marry the banker's son--or anyone else's son and would stay a
spinster all her life. I guess there is
a stubborn streak in the women of the Clayborn
family. I saw it in grandmother, and I
saw it in myself, although my stubbornness has been transformed because of
circumstances, maturity and common sense.
Father went
west at the head of any infantry company.
He brought the men safely to Missouri and began his routine. He wrote long pleading letters to grandfather
trying to convince him to relent and give his permission for him to marry his
daughter. Grandfather, being a polite gentleman
answered father's first letter saying, "Virginia has been spoken for. Your persistence, although noble and
admirable, is of no use. You would do
well to seek elsewhere for a wife."
But father would not give up. He wrote to mother, and she answered his
letters; but
she was soon told that it was unseemly for a young woman, already betrothed, to
receive letters from another man.
Mother, then persuaded a cousin in Washington to receive father's
letters at her address and give them to her when possible and their
correspondence continued.
When grandfather died suddenly, it was discovered that he owed a
great deal of money to creditors and our ancestral home (as it were) and its
property and much of grandmother's jewelry had to be sold to satisfy the
outstanding debts left by grandfather who had had no head for business and was
forever investing in enterprises which either failed or returned much less than
the amount he'd invested.
Grandmother,
upon getting grandfather's affairs settled, approached the banker and intimated
that she believed the time was ripe for his son to marry her daughter; the banker,
however, deemed it inappropriate that any son of his should be associated by
marriage to a bankrupt's daughter.
Grandmother was devastated; mother, however, was elated; and it was then that she began to put
pressure on grandmother for permission to marry her true love. Grandmother, instead, moved to Ohio and moved in
with an old widowed aunt. But removal or no, the correspondence between Lt. Buckworth and Virginia Clayborn
continued. Father had now been in
Missouri for over two years and he was to be reassigned, this time to New
Orleans and he was to be promoted; he got permission to take three weeks
leave and he went straight to grandmother and stayed most of his leave. Finally he wore her
down and she gave her permission. He
said they would marry once he was resettled in New Orleans. So a few months later, accompanied by
grandmother, mother was chaperoned all the way down the Mississippi by river boat to New Orleans.
Several days later they were married. Father invited grandmother to move to New
Orleans and live with them. In spite of
the rebuffs he had received from my grandparents, father was not one to hold
grudges. She said she would come live
with them when their first child was born, and she returned to Ohio.
They were
happy, and after three years, mother was pregnant, and, at the same time, war
was declared against Mexico and, naturally, father went off to war. Mother's first child, a boy, died a few days
after birth. Grandmother, moved to New
Orleans shortly before father left for Mexico.
She was a great comfort to mother, especially after my baby brother
died. Mother really never got over his
passing; and I
remember seeing her crying by herself, and when I would ask her why she was
crying she would look at me with her tear and pain-filled eyes and say, "I
weep for Andrew, who is now an angel."
Father came
home from the war a physical wreck.
Although he had not been wounded, he suffered many privations in the
field, one of which was a fever which laid him low for many,
many weeks and he would break into great sweats. He would have periods of what seemed to be
recovery and no sooner would he be about as happy as a lark, when
down he went again. Because of this
malady, he was pensioned from the army and we stayed in New Orleans where
father was able to work form time to time designing
levees. It was during one of his periods
of false recovery that I must have been conceived.
I was born (so
mother told me) during one of the serenest nights that she
had ever experienced in her life and that, she said, was the reason for
my easy delivery.
My memories of father are hazy, for he was often abed, by now,
he was almost an invalid. When I was five years old
father passed away. I was not clear
about mortality; and
I thought he was just extra sick and had been taken away and would be back when
he was better. It was at that time that
a pet canary I loved, died. Until then I did not understand death; it was then that
both grandmother and mother explained that Flower Song, (such was the name I
had given to my sweet singing canary) and Daddy were now both in Heaven. At last the reality of understanding what
death meant sunk into my child's mind and I fully understood, now, not only
that Flower Song would never return, but that my dear Pappa,
was also gone forever.
Grandmother
now took control of our lives and with the decisiveness of the matriarch, she
moved us back to Ohio, and there we stayed.
I was made to go to school and grew up with a happy heart and a longing,
however, to return to New Orleans, which had made a strong impression on my
young soul. I'd
even learned to speak some French, which I have all but forgotten.
Mother's
health began to fail her and by the time I was eight years old, she was house
bound with a terrible cough which would wrack her
body. Then she started to cough up
blood. Eventually she took to her bed
and there she stayed. I went to her often and she told me all the events of her
life which my eager mind retained,. I would ask her questions about grandfather,
and father and she was always willing to answer my curiosities: what color hair did my father have? What did it mean to be a captain of
engineers, and what was an army pension?
I must have taxed her strength, but she was always willing to talk. She was beautiful and would smile and hold me
and kiss me and tell me to always listen to
grandmother for she was wise, kind and would show me how to be a proper young
woman.
A week before
my ninth birthday mother died in my arms.
I was visiting her. She and I
were holding each other. Suddenly I felt
her body stiffen and a strange sound came from her, like a protracted
moan; then I felt her slump and I laid
her gently back on her pillows. I tried
talking to her; but
she did not respond. I shook her. Nothing. I ran from the room calling for grandmother.
We buried her
in the churchyard. A few mourners
attended. Everybody was very kind to me and grandmother. I
felt mother's loss deeply; in fact, I do believe I never got over her passing,
even after all these years. I had
nightmares for months afterwards: Mother
would die in my arms, then she would come back to life
laughing her happy laugh, then die in my arms again. Grandmother had me sleep with her for almost
a year and she would soothe me when the nightmare would frighten me awake. From the time of mother's death until I
eloped with Julian, I was a most unhappy girl.
In a way I still am.
V
It is the
first day of spring and there is a foot of snow on the ground
and it is bitter cold. Fortunately, the
storm that brought the snow has passed on and there was a bit of sunshine
earlier. Right after breakfast
the boys took their rifles and some food and said they were going to go deer hunting,
for Philip is convinced that the snow and cold would drive them from the high
places and come down to the valley.
The cow has
been milked; the
butter churned; I gave the whey to the
hog. The chickens have been fed, so too
the horse and we've lots of fuel. I walked with the boys for a ways, but the
cold drove me back and I stood in front of the fire place
with a hot cup of water in my hands which I sipped for I was certain my bowels
were half frozen. I don't know how the
boys can stand such cold weather; but they are strong and full of vigor
and they can walk for many miles without stopping, and in the summer they can
run at least five miles before their wind gives out. they are my pride
and joy. After Julian
left I was ready to leave; but the
longer I thought about leaving the less I wanted to leave, for I belonged here,
and the children belonged here and I could not bring myself being a stranger in
some new place and taking the boys away from the place of their birth as I was
taken from New Orleans. Now that
I think about it, I have been living in Colorado for so long that I can say I
have lived here longer than any other place since I was born. After all these years, I wouldn't
even know where to go--even if I had the opportunity. A place long lived in takes on a life of its
own; it is as
if one fed off of it--and I'm not talking about the food we grow or the animals
we raise or hunt, but those things are part of this place, which has a
tenacious hold on me. Last year, around
September, I received a letter from Mr. Swanson, from the bank, telling me that
the money he had invested for me had returned a large profit and that I could
come to town to the bank and collect it, or, he could re-invest it for me, in that case, he would need my signature. But for the life of me I could not bring
myself to go to town, so I had Philip go to town for me with a note telling Mr.
Swanson to send me one-hundred dollars and to re-invest the remainder and to
send whatever papers he needed me to sign with Philip.
The money Mr.
Swanson invested for me was an original one-hundred dollars Julian had sent to
me during the first months after his desertion.
He sent it in the mail; ten, clean, almost new ten dollar
bills, he said he'd won in a poker game in Denver. I didn't want it; but I put it in the bank for the
boys. Periodically, Julian would send me
money and I always put it in the bank.
When the savings reached five-hundred dollars, Mr. Swanson himself came
out to the farm to discuss investing it in some railroad or other. I only half understood; but he said he was certain I would
prosper thereby. I gave him my signature
and forgot all about that investment.
That was about ten years ago. After the railroad business, he convinced me I should invest in a
shipping company that brought coffee from South America and after a couple of
years I started making lots of money and was amazed that it came so easily and
in such abundance; and to think my
father, who loved the rich life was living in an illusion, borrowing from one
to pay off another; selling a piece of
land here to invest in a venture that would fail, All I have done is give Mr. Swanson
permission to invest my money and half the time I don't know what he's talking
about.
Being in this
place has made me rich, not only in pocket, but in spirit, for every time the
weather clears and I am able to see the mountains, my heart skips a beat. Winter, summer, spring,
autumn--especially autumn--the mountains stand out in their awesomeness and they
make me a little afraid. We went to see
the aspens last fall and they stood out among the conifers like golden haired
women surrounded by green chaperones. On
the hottest summer days, I can always see a bit of snow on the distant peaks
and it makes me feel a bit cooler.
Every place
has its magic--if that be the correct word; every place has its spirit--for good
or bad. Not far from the hot springs I
go to, there is another hot springs, but there is such a foul smell of sulphur in the air that not even the birds go there and
what plants do grow there are sick looking and stunted. I went there once out of curiosity; I stayed for ten
minutes or so and never went back. So
the spirit of that place is foul smelling and not compatible to life; yet a quarter mile
away is the hot springs I have dubbed "Lazy Pools," because whenever
I go there I just want to sit in the hot pools forever--but fifteen or twenty
minutes is about all a body can take. I didn't know that and stayed a long time soaking the first
time. When I was ready to go home, I
could barely manage to crawl out of the pool and had to lie for a good half
hour in the cool air to get my strength back.
There is a
peace in the country;
just like the peace, I guess, beyond understanding spoken of in
the scriptures--or at least I believe it to be.
Even when the wind is howling and the snow is spinning in vortices there
is peace; when
the snow lies quietly on the land after a storm and there is no wind, there is
peace. When the boys were younger, they
would rush out after a storm and immediately build snowmen--a whole group. Andrew, I feel has an artistic bent, for his
snow men were always so well sculptured.
He piled the snow into a tall column--just like a piece of marble, then
took his knife to it and carved the most amazing things: a bear, a deer--but he had to use some pine
branches for antlers. He even carved a
likeness of me which took my breath away. But then the sun
came out and by the end of the day my likeness had melted. But I was thrilled nonetheless, When I am old will
my physical beauty melt as did my snow likeness? I guess, in spite of every thing I am still a
little vain. But
why not? I am the personification of all
the natural beauty around me;
and my sons are beautiful;
they are part of the beauty that surrounds me. They were born here, in this very house; I nursed them,
nurtured them, watched them grow in this place.
How important has this place become for me. I believe that if Julian had never left he
would have become as much a part of this place as I have. But he was always
restless. Perhaps it came from the war,
always moving from one place to the next, often staying only a few hours, then marching off to some where else. In between there were skirmishes and then
forward, forward, forward, relentlessly forward. Grandmother was right about one thing: the army and war change a man and not
necessarily for the best.
The boys
returned with a deer, a young buck which they dragged across
the snow with a rope tied around its antlers. I fried up the liver for them immediately and they fed the rest of the intestines and
organs to the dog, whose days, I am sure are numbered. Old as he is, Pip still gets around. He stays pretty close to home these days, but
in his youth, he would be gone for days at a time. We never knew where he went; the boys tried to follow him once, but
lost him in the trees beyond the abandoned coal mine. I guess he had a special place, just as I do,
where he used to go to be quiet and at peace--if indeed dogs long for peace as
do we humans.
Yes, I'm sure his special place was a peaceful
one. Pip belongs here, for it was just a
mile or so away that we found him all alone and trembling; he was perhaps a couple of months
old. We were coming back from town and
the horse shied when the sweetest puppy I ever did see jumped out of the bushes
and stood on its tiny legs and started barking at the horse. There was no question about taking him with
us, for he gladly let Andrew pick him up and snuggled close to his chest, and
he's been with us ever since.
A place has
its own spirit. Whence it comes is a
mystery. But a
spirit can also leave a place and it will never be the same place
afterwards. When Julian and I first
moved here, I sensed something. What? I cannot say,
but it was something and I felt comfortable and something told me I would be
here the rest of my life. In the first
months of living here I was always singing, for the
happy spirit of this place touched me deeply.
Julian, on the other hand, became morose and started drinking
heavily. He had wanted to be a farmer
and I was willing to be a farmer's wife.
I didn't know much in those early days about
farming, but I learned because I wanted to belong to the land and its cycles. As much as I could, I kept in rhythm with the
seasons and when it was planting time I planted. Julian did things only because they had to be
done. He milked the cow only because she
needed to be milked; I
milked her because I loved that beast and genuinely enjoyed receiving her milk
and making butter and cheese and drinking it.
Julian only planted to eat, never with the notion that he was
participating in a great cycle of fruition.
When I wanted to plant a dozen apple trees, he couldn't
understand why. But
I said then we could have bees, who would drink from the apple blossoms, and
then have their honey and sell both apples and honey when we had a
surplus. He could never think farther
than planting one tree and eating a few apples.
He never understood the spirit of this place, and that is why he is no
longer here. He also never understood
how dedicated I was to this place and how much it meant to me. Why he got it in his head to be a farmer is
beyond me. But,
then, so much in this life has been incomprehensible to me.
VI
Birth
I am so tired; but I cannot
sleep. I am ever amazed at the capacity
of a human to endure sleep deprivation.
Last night was windless, and the snow fell in a gentle, lazy way. Large flakes fluttering to the ground--lazy--that's the only way I can describe them. When I became aware of the snow
fall and seeing how gently it fell, I put my heavy shawl over my head
and shoulders and went out into the brisk night air and watched the flakes
glide to the earth and pile up. When I
started to feel the cold, I returned inside and made hot tea lacing it with
brandy, and, with mug in hand, I sat before the fire place
drinking my toddy. The boys had long
since gone to bed. I read for a while
and the quiet night, the fire and the brandy put me into a gentle sleep. I can't say at what
hour I dozed off in my chair, but I do know what time I was awakened: 1:30 A.M., by a loud pounding on the door and
someone calling, "Senora, Senora Lampton!" My eyes popped open. I looked over to the clock. The boys heard the knocking, too, and were
out of their room faster than I could get myself moved from my chair. Upon opening the door they found standing in
the snow, all bundled up, our neighbor, Mr. Melendez, who owns the parcel next
to ours. He apologized profusely for
disturbing our household at such an hour, but his wife, Gloria, was due and the
midwife could not be fetched on such short notice, and would I please (he was
so gracious) attend his wife. She had
been having pains and there was so much he did not know,
and could I come and help. They were
both young and this was their first child.
I could not refuse. Of course I
would go; even
Philip offered to go; but I told him
that it wouldn't be necessary.
Gloria Melendez was abed and calling out when we
arrived. When she saw me
she said in Spanish, "Gracias dios una mujer," Thank God, a
woman. I didn't
know her too well, but having been in travail myself, twice, I understood her
predicament. I held her hand and spoke to her, telling her what to expect and showed
her how to breathe when proper breathing would be necessary. We waited.
Mr. Melendez kept his distance by his own decision; however, now and then he would poke
his head into the room to see how his wife was doing. I could tell that he was worried; but I couldn't
think of anything to say to allay his fears.
When the baby
crowned, I had a feeling all would be well; and in not too long a time Gloria was
delivered of a healthy girl who must have weighed about seven pounds. When I announced the gender to the father he
began repeating the phrase, "Ave Maria,"over
and over; he
must have chanted a full ten minutes.
In the
meanwhile, as the infant suckled at her mother's breast, I waited for the
placenta to stop pulsating. When it did,
I tied it off in two places, then with Mr. Melendez's straight razor, which I
had him strop, then pass over the fire a few times, I severed the umbilicus,
and the infant was now part of the manifest world. The young mother indicated a bowl and told me
to put the placenta therein. Then she
called out to her husband and said something very rapidly in Spanish, too fast
for my ears to comprehend; but he
immediately took the placenta-filled bowl, put on his jacket and went outside
and did not return for quite a while. In
the meantime, I cleaned up the mother, the infant, the birthing bed, changed
the linen, then made Gloria some herbal tea I had
brought along for postpartum nourishment.
She was beaming with the joy only a woman can know who has carried a
child to term and felt it suckle her swollen breasts.
How well I
remember when Philip was born. Oh, it
was such a mystery that I had been carrying a boy inside me who would grow to
manhood. By the time I was pregnant with
Philip, I understood how babies are conceived and something
about gestation. Nevertheless,
one moment there was nothing within except potential and when Julian had spent
himself, our blood and spirits were joined in the great mystery of the
reproduction of the human race. I felt
like an especially selected woman, selected by cosmic lot to hold life within
me. All the months of both my pregnancies I felt somehow closer to the source of the
nameless cause of the arising of all life.
Of course, pregnancy had its bad side, too; nonetheless, I accepted all the
inconveniences, and had the same complaints most woman do. In that matter I was
no different.
During partuition, I had the feeling that I was being
initiated into a secret society
to which only women can belong. Often I
got the feeling that I was carrying all of humanity in my womb instead of one
child. I thought I would feel
differently when I was carrying Andrew; but the impression was even deeper the
second time. I would have liked to talk
to other women about these thoughts, but I had no women friends with whom I
could open my heart. I have yet to have
a woman friend, but I am friendly with most of the women in the area and a few
shopkeepers' wives in town. I have, however, kept my thoughts to myself.
I stayed up
the rest of the night with Gloria. She
slept a long time. I stayed awake for
the sake of the child; but the little
girl slept when the mother slept and the few times Gloria awoke, only to look
at me and smile, the child awakened, too, and would begin to cry; but the young mother would present her breast
to the newborn girl and sucking, she would fall asleep. It was touching to watch over them. With the first hint of dawn, Mr. Melendez,
who had slept in a chair by the stove, woke up and said he
was going to fetch his cousin and would I mind staying until he came back. While he was gone, I made some coffee, fried
up some bacon and potatoes and finding a basket of eggs, cooked a couple for
myself, for suddenly I had an enormous appetite and I ate four pieces of their
good bacon, most of the potatoes and two large eggs and drank two cups of
coffee. I rarely eat so much.
When I heard
my name being called I went to Gloria who was sitting
up. She looked tired but beautiful. I held the baby while she got out of bed to
relieve herself. The infant was so small; I haven't had a
baby in my arms in years and just holding her for a few minutes made me think
of how fragile all life is. Yet we don't
hold the fragility of life as dearly as we should, otherwise there would be no
war, no violence, no fighting among men; no anger, gossip, rumor mongering,
deceit, greed, hate or other forms of destruction. Too soon we meet our
end after our allotted time and we should treat ourselves and others the way we
treat fine porcelain and other delicate objects. That infant represented all the sweetness,
all the love and understanding of peace and harmony in the world. How strange that something so small should
have such profound symbolic power, and, at the same time, not be a symbol, but
the living expression of all the best qualities of life.
I sat on the
edge of the bed and held a plate of potatoes and eggs while Gloria nursed her
child, holding her in the crook of her left arm and eating with her right. I held her coffee cup up to her lips. I felt I was feeding the mother of humanity.
Mr. Melendez
returned with his portly, ebullient cousin who immediately took charge and I
was free to go. Gloria kissed me and
hugged me and I kissed the baby and the cousin kissed and
hugged me and Mr. Melendez hugged and kissed me. I felt so loved and appreciated I started to
cry. Before I left
I was invited to the baby's baptism and told to bring the boys, too.
All the way
back home, riding in Mr. Melendez's wagon, I was fighting tears. When I finally got home, I sat at my kitchen
table and broke down. The boys were very
concerned, but I told them I was fine and to leave me alone. I realized during my weeping that I wept for
all the sorrows infants will have to live through as they evolve from innocence
into the world of conscious pain, tribulation and ignorance. But then I started
to smile and thought of all the joys of life and the appreciation of the good
things and events in life and I pulled myself together and went in search of
the boys. When I found them mending some
harness, I hugged and kissed them both and looked each of them in the eyes
saying how fortunate I was to have such good children; then I broke into tears falling on
Philip's shoulder and wept for reasons I cannot say. But I guess now and
then a woman just needs to cry.
VII
I received a
letter from Julian which was a shock to me. The letter was two weeks old and was from El
Paso. he said
he was very sick, had very little money and that he didn't know how much longer
he would live and would I mind if he came to stay with me and the boys and, at
least die around his own people. At first I did not say anything. I just read the letter over
and over again until Andrew asked me why I was reading such a short
letter for such a long time and why was I holding the letter so tightly. By that time I was ready to burst into tears
because Julian was sick and (perhaps) going to die and the only place he felt
welcome was here on this farm (where he had not wanted to be) and with people
he had abandoned many years before. I
felt kind of cheated that he would wait for his end to
want to come back to us.
But I am a soft hearted woman and I read the letter out loud
to the boys. When I was finished, they
both looked at each other and then turning to me said--almost with the same words: "We need
to go to El Paso and fetch Father."
That is when I broke down and cried for I did not think the boys felt
anything for their father who had deserted them and they never knew him. Nevertheless, I was so proud of them and I gave them my blessing and some money and I
hitched up the wagon while they packed a few things and I took them to
town. We were able to buy tickets for
the train which left the next morning for Albuquerque,
thence to El Paso. We stayed the night
at the hotel. In the morning I went
about doing some shopping and I also stopped off at Doctor Colter's
office and told him that my husband who had deserted me many years before was
sick and perhaps dying and would he kindly look at him after I had settled him
in.
While I was
out feeding the chickens I heard a wagon and when I
went to see I saw the boys. They waved
to me from a distance and I waited for them in front of the house still holding
the can of chicken feed. I had not
expected them back so soon. However,
while they were gone I had moved my things out of my bedroom
and took up residence in a small guest room I seldom had an opportunity to use,
for guests were rare, but I always felt we should have a guest room,
nonetheless. Now I was the
"guest," and Julian would be in the bed he left. I didn't mind
putting him in the big bed. If a man is
going to die, he might as well die in comfort.
Julian was dressed
in a dark, wrinkled, dirty suit. He had
on a pair of shoes which had seen better days. He had no collar and the shirt he wore was
dirty. He was grey beyond his
years. He had a few days growth of beard which made him seem older than he was, and his hair
was long and unkept.
In short, I barely recognized the man whom I had loved and with whom I
had lived with and had had two sons.
Standing before me, being held up by his two sturdy sons, was a skeleton,
a wisp, a spectre of what was once a healthy and
robust Julian. I took immediate pity on
him and told the boys to bring him to the bedroom at once.
We all three
helped to undress him and put him to bed.
During all that time none of us spoke.
I did, however, finally ask him if he was hungry and he said he had a
little appetite, but more than anything he wanted to
sleep because the train ride and the trip from town inside the wagon had
exhausted him. We left him to sleep and
we went to the kitchen where I made the boys some breakfast and asked them to
relate something of their trip, but they said they were also tired and wanted
to sleep. So
they excused themselves and went to their room and I was left to myself to
ponder this visit from the father of my children--legally my husband, but I
could not bring myself to call him husband, for husband was a term which
implied intimacy, and we had not been together for many, many years.
Dr. Colter came out to the farm and examined Julian. He was with him for about an hour. We stayed in the kitchen. When Dr. Colter
came out he asked for some coffee and while he drank it he was very frank with
us, saying Julian was dying of some kind of liver problem most likely cancer
and hadn't much time left to live--maybe a month--if that long. There was nothing to do. He left a bottle of laudanum and instructions
on how to administer it. Dr.Colter finished his coffee, bid us a good day and went on his
way.
We three sat
at the table in quiet shock. I had my
eyes closed. When I heard whimpering I
opened my eyes and saw both boys trying to hold back tears. I had let go of Julian many years ago and
though the news of his impending death saddened me, I did not shed a tear for I
believed I had shed all the tears I would ever shed over him. But the boys were
young and had sentiments for their father I could understand but not
share. I got up and
put my arms on their shoulders and encouraged them to cry and get out
all what they had been holding inside them for all these years. They broke down at the table and their tears
moved me, also, to weep, but not for Julian, but for the pain my sons were
experiencing for the father the never knew but who was now in their presence
and about to die. When I collected
myself, I told them that they should do all they could for him and get to know
him as best they could before he got too weak to talk.
They took over
nursing Julian; I
did very little. I did visit with him; I even read to him
now and then, but Andrew and Philip were his constant companions. As the weeks passed and his strength started
to ebb, they sat with him and listened to him as he related stories from his
soldiering days with General Sherman and how Julian had seen
General Sherman and had been "Close to him as you are to me now." That seemed to be Julian's oft
repeated statement during his last days:
that he had been close to the famous General Sherman during the campaign
in Georgia. I felt so sorry for Julian. Many a night I wet my
pillow for the great sorrow I felt.
But the more I thought about my tears the more
I realized they were not because of sorrow for him that he was dying. No; the tears, I finally had to admit,
were the tears of the young woman who was still alive in me; the young woman who had loved Julian and now
her lover was dying. When I had that realization I stopped crying but when I looked at myself in
the mirror the next morning I saw an old woman--or so it seemed.
The boys had
to administer more and more laudanum until the dosage did not matter, for the
pain was even greater than any drug could tame.
The day Julian died the boys were at his side. He had drunk a few sips of hot coffee early
in the morning, then he said he wanted to sleep. He closed his eyes, then
suddenly he arched his back, let out a long, agonizing cry, then silence.
We buried him
on the knoll just this side of the apple orchard--the orchard he did not want to plant but which now was his resting place. The boys insisted on ordering a head stone
with all his particulars. I did not
object and told them to order the best which I would
pay for with the money I had in the bank.
After all, Julian had sent me the original amount
which I had spurned, but, nonetheless, invested. How ironic life is.
When we buried
Julian, we buried him in the nightshirt he had worn during his illness. A few days later I remembered his suit and shoes which I thought would be best if they too were
buried--but far from the house and unbeknowst to the
boys. I took it upon myself to do
this. I walked about a hundred or so
yards from the house with a shovel while the boys were busy elsewhere. I picked a spot and dug a hole and was about
to toss in the clothes when I decided to check the pockets. I found a piece of paper and opened it. The piece of paper was a telegram form and it
was dated several years back. It had
been folded and unfolded many, many times.
It was addressed to me and it read:
Dearest Mary Stop
I still love you and the boys stop I miss all of you terribly
stop...it was unfinished.
I refolded it and put it in my apron
pocket and buried the clothes.
When I got back to the house I took the old
telegram form and burned it, then sat in my chair and had to let out the last
tears I would ever shed for Julian. I don't know what demons were haunting him, but had he sent
that telegram I would have answered:
Julian Come home Stop Mary. But he never sent it, and that has made the difference in
all our lives. He now lies buried where
he didn't want to be and our lives must go on.
Today, on my
way to bury Julian's clothes, I saw the first apple blossoms on the trees. In a few weeks the orchard will be a sea of
white blossoms and then the bees will come It is only our memories which keep us
linked to the past. The cycles of life
continue in spite of everything--even the death of someone you once loved.
The End