by J. F. Collen
Nellie looked around at her sister’s grandiose house, perched atop newly packed dirt already cultivated into a garden, with a fine view of a developing city and vast Lake Michigan. Mercy, Agnes thinks this is uncivilized? What of my lot and portion? I fear my future holds only serious deprivations in store, loneliness being the worst curse of all. Tears welled in Cornelia’s eyes. Poppycock. She shook herself. I travel with those I love most in this world. We are our own hardy band of love, warmth, and comfort. We are a self-contained little civilization. We shall not only endure, we shall excel and be prosperous.
Nellie gave Agnes a hug. She was at a loss for words as to how to comfort her sister, so she said, “Mayhap if we squeeze the pineapple now, collecting its juice for the wassail, it shall outlive these last two weeks until Christmas. A springhouse would aid this endeavor. Has Armistead constructed one?”
Agnes collected herself and said through gritted teeth, “No. He has not. My engineer is far too busy. But that is a subject for another conversation.
“There shall be no wasting this precious fruit as a door decoration, custom or not. Nor will we fritter it away on wassail. We shall slice it immediately and savor its succulent juices before our tea.”
Nellie opened her mouth to protest. But Agnes did not notice. “The tea has long since grown too cold, in any case,” she said.
She glared at Nellie, who somehow now felt guilty for ruining her sister’s tea.
“Furthermore,” her sister continued, “Mother Long has imparted her old English recipe for wassail, claiming it is quite superior.” Agnes sniffed. “I confess I was pleasantly surprised to find her recipes contained some valuable information for utilizing the few vegetables and fruits in plenty here, in unique dishes. Quite tasty, in point of fact. It has certainly pleased Armistead that I have endeavored to recreate some of his mother’s southern cooking. In any case, Mother Long has forced me to concede that wassail more properly should be made the old English way, with tart apples instead of pineapple juice.”
Nellie nodded her affirmation.
“Do not tell Armistead that I only concede this point out of necessity—due to the scarcity of pineapple around these parts.”
Nellie laughed at her sister’s attempt at levity. “Then it is settled. Sharpen your best knife,” she declared. Agnes led Nellie and her daughters through the beautiful foyer, straight into the large, well-appointed kitchen.
The Long boys ran into the room, marveling and shouting at the appearance of the pineapple. Each boy declared he wanted the first piece.
Emma and Elizabeth stood on either side of Nellie eyeing their cousins as visitors might watch wild animals in a zoo. The menfolk entered the kitchen.
“What have we here?” asked Armistead, with a big grin. Cuthbert, the oldest boy, climbed up the sink and jumped on Armistead’s back as he approached the group. Both families surrounded the big table and watched solemnly as Agnes sliced the pineapple.
“Mama, Egbert has crooked-y legs. Do you think he has rickets?” Emma asked, neatly nibbling her slice.
Elizabeth nodded her head, ‘yes’ making pineapple juice dribble down her chin. She caught it with her finger and sucked it back into her mouth as she said, “Yeth, rick-ith.”
Nellie looked at her sister, dismayed at her daughters’ bad manners.
“Not full on!” said Agnes, putting her hand, still clutching the knife, on her hip and turning to Elizabeth as if to debate the point. At the sight of the adorable little girl looking up at her, with one edge of her bonnet drooping over her eye and a sticky-mouth smile, she softened. She looked over at Nellie. “I do fear he may be advancing down that slippery slope.”
Nellie, her own delicious slice already consumed, Lord knows I attempted to savor it, knowing full well I may never eat pineapple again, stooped and looked under the table at her nephews’ legs. One set of little boy legs did look slightly malformed.
“We shall begin treatment today,” said Cornelia, righting herself.
“Cornelia, ‘tis incomprehensible your pineapple-toting Conestoga wagon also secretes every remedy for any malady,” Agnes huffed, now both hands on her hips. “Sakes alive, how was there room for the rest of you to fit?”
“I’ll grant, I did not transport every therapy. Fret not, however. Any herb deficiency shall be readily rectified by a trip to the market in a sprawling city such as your Chicago. But most likely you have some of these very necessities in the harvest from your lovely garden.”
Placated, Agnes smiled. “There is one more concern, however.”
“Don’t tell me Cuthbert has some disease as well?”
“None of my boys are diseased! We simply fight the plagues rampant in this swamp of a town,” Agnes retorted.
Agnes washed the big knife and hung it out of harm’s reach. The two women left the kitchen, leaving the children laughing and licking the cutting board and table in search of remnants of pineapple juice. “Make sure you do not touch the slices for your fathers,” warned Agnes in a stage whisper, as the men continued to talk, oblivious to their children’s antics.
“What illness do you suspect troubles Cuthbert?” asked Cornelia, already walking back down the long hall to the front door to retrieve her medicine chest.
“He has such severe gnawing pain in the intestinal area upon occasion, I quite fear he has a case of pinworms,” Agnes confessed, accompanying her to the wagon.
“Is his breath offensive? Does he have a voracious appetite?” asked Nellie as they walked back outside. Agnes nodded in the affirmative and Nellie said, “I am in accord with your diagnosis. Howsoever, do not be vexed. One short course of garlic, Carolina Pink Root, and molasses shall provide an excellent anthelmintic that shall cure Cuthbert within the week. In the meantime, we shall ensure your other sons, in fact all the children, eat some brown bread and molasses as a preventative.”
“Mercy, I am a failure as a mother. I am unable to keep my brood safe.” Agnes looked as if she would cry.
“Nonsense,” said Cornelia, with a firm, reassuring pat on her sister’s back. “These diseases plague us all. We cannot expect to shield our children from all ills. We must practice constant vigilance and take tried-and-true steps to help them defeat the maladies. Your boys derive from good stock. With my remedies and the good food you provide, we shall guarantee these ailments are fleeting in duration. Furthermore, they already appear the picture of well-being, cavorting about, running, and playing like healthy heifers. This natural energy shall aid their return to full vigor.”
Cornelia dove back into the wagon and reappeared with a large chest.
The children burst out the front door and ran towards the back. “Listen to them holler and whoop!” laughed Nellie.
“Whoop? Truly, Cornelia, sometimes your puns can be so insensitive,” Agnes picked up her skirts and stormed back inside.
“Find me some horseradish and some horehound,” Nellie shouted after her, already inventorying her supplies as she walked to the house. Her pace quickened in the suddenly bitter cold wind. “I used my cache of each remedying a cold so tenacious, neither daughter could escape its grip. Have you any fall rhubarb left?”
Agnes appeared at the doorway, “Sakes alive, do come in before you once again allow our tea to freeze. I shall not reheat this kettle again!”
Chapter 23 – There’s No Place like Home for the Holidays
Chicago, Illinois, December 1856
“It fills my heart with happiness to be surrounded by family during our Yuletide season,” said Agnes, as the sisters watched the children hang their stockings.
Nellie laughed. “My cup runneth over as well,” she replied. “I do seem to recall Christmastime is your favorite season of the year.”
“Sakes alive, Cornelia, I am fully cognizant of your preference for celebrations at the big house in Sing Sing, caroling around the Tannenbaum with our parents and the rest of our siblings.”
Nellie looked at her, startled. “Mercy, no, I did not—”
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“Nonsense,” interrupted Agnes. “‘Tis my preference as well! To spend my days, all my born days, in this lonely swamp of a one-horse town, pining for my family....”
Cornelia’s spirits sank at these words. This thriving city, within the boundary of the United States, a one-horse town? What would one call Salt Lake City then? Have I foolishly committed myself to a lonely life?
Agnes threw her arm around Nellie’s shoulders and gave her a warm hug. “I appreciate and cherish the opportunity to spend the Solemnity of the Nativity with you. Together we can create new memories as we revive and relive the Christmases of our childhood.”
Nellie smiled her appreciation of her sister’s convivial words.
Obadiah tapped Nellie on the shoulder and beckoned her to a corner of the room. “Before we exchange commemoratives with the rest of the family, I wish to present a special gift I have thoughtfully chosen for my sweet Cornelia Rose.”
Nellie inhaled his excitement, and felt her heart flutter with anticipation.
“Close your eyes and open your hands,” Obadiah commanded, with a laugh.
Nellie complied. The package thrust into her hands was so heavy she dropped it. It smashed painfully upon her foot. “Mercy!” she gasped.
Obadiah bent to retrieve it. “Exercise more care this time,” he said.
Nellie grimaced and stared at the heavy package in her husband’s hands. This mysterious package contains no jewelry, of that I am certain. Mayhap some books? But it is far too awkwardly shaped....
“Cornelia, make haste, whilst the children are suitably occupied,” Obadiah said, and thrust the package into her hands.
Nellie glanced at the fireplace. The children were throwing pinecones and twigs into the fire and watching them crackle and pop. Suitably occupied playing with fire? she wondered, untying the string, and opening the brown paper.
A short-handled shovel slipped from the paper and would have dropped again had Obadiah not stuck out his hand and caught it. He handed it to Cornelia.
She blinked, and tugged her stray strand of hair, speechless.
“Isn’t she a beauty?” Obadiah gloated. “Real shiny, genuine metal with a beautifully hewn short handle. Perfect size for a little lady, the salesman assured me.”
“Mercy,” said Nellie, grabbing it with two hands and dutifully turning it over to admire the handle.
“It shall make the trenches you must dig each night for a cooking fire practically dig themselves.” Obadiah smiled at her, waiting for a response.
Nellie gulped some air. “Adequate words escape me,” she whispered.
“As if it were not special enough, I etched your initials on the handle.” Obadiah grabbed the shovel and turned it over to show Nellie the ‘C. R. E. W’ whittled into the wood. She almost snorted, thinking, unintentionally apt—I am the sum and substance of our crew.
Obadiah laughed. “No words of gratitude are necessary. I can see your happiness in your expression.”
Nellie looked down at the shovel, willing her eyes to remain dry. Not only is my treasured gift a shovel, I am to dig ditches every night on our journey, in addition to my other responsibilities.
Obadiah lifted her chin, and his laughing, dancing eyes met hers. “Once you master the trench, you can advance to excavating a privy.”
Nellie did not trust herself to reply. Obadiah stood there watching her, smiling proudly at his own cleverness.
Nellie opened her mouth and then closed it again. This... this... ditch digging shovel is his special, thoughtful, gift? The summation of his affection?
He shook his head. “Great shakes, it almost slipped my mind. There are three other little, inconsequential items in the parcel that go along with your priceless spade,” he whispered. “Advance apologies are required, however, for I am quite certain they cannot compare in grandeur to your new shovel.”
Nellie was tempted to let the shovel slip from her hands and clatter to the floor but she did not want to scratch Agnes’s fine wood finish. She retrieved the brown paper at her feet and laid the shovel in its place. Unwrapping it carefully, to protect her foot from further injury, she gasped.
A feather quill lay atop a beautiful leather-bound journal. She dropped the brown paper again.
“Obadiah, you devil!” she exclaimed.
“Tarry a moment, there is more,” Obadiah grinned so broadly his mustache over his smile seemed to touch his ears. “I put your initials on the cover.”
Tarnation! He whittled the leather? Nellie flipped over the book, and sighed with relief. In beautiful gold-leaf, someone skilled engraved her initials, encircled by a rose. “Praise the Lord, ‘tis beyond beautiful,” she whispered.
“A journal for you to chronicle our journey, or document cures in your midwifery practice. The possibilities proffered by the blank page are endless,” Obadiah said, beaming at her.
“Your thoughtfulness continues to overwhelm me,” said Nellie.
“The parcel contains yet another trinket,” said Obadiah, pointing at the brown paper on the floor.
Nellie put the journal down and picked up the paper again. Buried in the folds was a miniature leather-bound book. She read the binding and raised her joyous face. “The Tempest,” she whispered. “My favorite play by William Shakespeare.”
“I was taken by the size of the volume,” Obadiah said.
Nellie closed her hand around the little palm-sized book and threw her arms around her husband, “Thank you, my dearest, rogue husband.” She stepped back, for Obadiah had not returned her embrace.
“What do you reckon I have concealed behind my back?” Obadiah teased.
“A pick ax as an accompaniment to my shovel?” Nellie asked, with feigned innocence.
Obadiah laughed so loud everyone in the room looked at them. “My wife exhibits a keen sense of humor. I shall enlighten you all at a later time,” he announced to his in-laws. The children shook their heads and resumed throwing things into the fire. Agnes and Armistead bent their heads together, resuming their private conversation.
“Mercifully, there is an extreme dearth of curiosity in this gathering. Howsoever, I should have restrained myself,” Obadiah said. “I do not wish the children to clamor for their gifts. Hopping horse feathers, I am delighted by your response. You may open this now.” He handed her an oblong, narrow wooden crate with brown paper tied to the top.
Nellie opened it and stared at a complete set of Shakespeare’s works, in miniature volumes. Now she permitted the tears to flow. “Obadiah, my love,” she whispered.
“I know full well you were forced to leave your treasured library behind in Sing Sing. I recognize your sacrifice and hope this gift compensates in small part for all you have forsaken in New York.”
“Your generosity exceeds itself,” Nellie said through her tears of joy. “My heart soars at the love and thoughtfulness contained in these gifts.”
“Even the shovel?” teased Obadiah.
“Even the shovel.” Nellie laughed. “Why did you not present this plethora of gifts on the morrow, during our Christmas Day festivities?”
“I was loath to risk missing every detail of your countenance as you first gazed upon the shovel. ‘Twould have been a tragedy if you opened it whilst I was engaged in the Christmas stocking excitement of the children. Your face whilst you struggled between your disappointment and your courteous nature shall bring me laughter each time I think upon it. ‘Tis priceless to me, my precious Rose.”
Nellie threw her arms around his neck and he squeezed her tight in his arms. Obadiah whispered, “I hope to compensate for the anticipated lack of literature on our journey by filling your eyes with the beauty of our surroundings and your ears with the poetry of my heart.”
Nellie thought her heart would burst from an excess of love and happiness. As she drew back to pour her own words of love into Obadiah’s ears, she felt a tug on her skirt. She looked down at Emma’s upturned face, pinched with worry.
“Dagobert is daring Elizabe
th to put her ribbons in the fire to see if the red ribbon makes a different colored fire from the yellow one,” said Emma.
Nellie rushed to the hearth and pulled Elizabeth away before Emma finished the sentence.
“Let’s pop some corn,” said Nellie, hoping that proposing a safer activity might divert the boys from their pyromania. The popping of corn soon joined the sound of the merrily crackling fire. The children gobbled it as fast as it popped. While they ate, the boys played one impish prank after another. All the children tried their hand at tall tales, keeping the whole family giggling. After several batches, the boys rubbed their full stomachs.
“Full stomach, light head,” said Agnes.
Nellie looked at her. “I am familiar with the sentiment, but that phrase is not a common expression.”
Agnes laughed merrily. “You fail to recognize Mutter’s sayings simply because I say them in English?”
“Ach du Liebe! Volles Magen, leichtes Kopft!” exclaimed Nellie, giggling. “Why did you not say so?”
“I’d say those children are all full of beans,” Obadiah joined in the conversation.
“Your father would say ‘full o’ Blarney,” said Armistead. Nellie and Agnes collapsed in giggles at the sound of an Irish brogue overlaid on Armistead’s southern drawl.
Obadiah stood, kissed Nellie on the top of her head and then sat back down next to Armistead. Not to be outdone, Armistead popped up and kissed Agnes on the mouth.
“Scandalous,” sputtered Agnes. “In front of our guests?”
Nellie, laughing so hard she could barely pronounce the words, said, “Agnes, don’t carry on so. We are all family.”
“Truly,” assured Obadiah. “What is a little passion among family?” He jumped back up, swept Nellie off her feet and kissed her soundly on the lips.
Nellie gasped, but then laughed.
Agnes held up her hand as Armistead rose again. “I think this charade has gone far enough.”
Armistead went to her and took her hand. “I shall cease only when you smile and confess your continued amorous feelings to me.”
