Between Earth & Sky

by Karen Osborn

  I have sent a few small things along with Amy’s package for your Christmas. Surely, it will be a joyful one.

  Your Sister,

  Abigail

  April 2, 1883

  Dear Maggie,

  Amy writes that she is content to remain in Stillwater for the summer, continuing her studies. My thanks to you for extending her such a welcome and encouraging her in her work. Indeed, I am blessed to have a family that devotes itself to my child after I have been away these many years. I miss her more than I can write, and have pictured her here during the summer months, painting or sewing with me in the garden, playing with the children, and riding out along the river or to the mesa. But we are just now short of funds (last summer was so dry), and it is best that we hold on to the money that would pay for her ticket.

  Nine years we have lived in this valley, and still I do not understand the patterns of dryness and rain. Perhaps there is no discernible pattern, only the certainty that one will lead to the other. We have had little rain all year, each day the sky stretching wide and blue across the valley and over the mountains, the color of heaven. Maggie, it is so beautiful, I cannot curse it as Clayton does at times.

  The children are well. Margaret cannot be separated from her brother. She rides a little dappled pony, and George rides his horse. They go everywhere, up and down the valley, along the river, into the mountains. When they are gone long hours in the afternoon, I worry some mishap has befallen them, but they always return safely in time to do their chores, and I think that it must be good to be able to roam under the wide sky. Such freedom is usually reserved for boys. I cannot imagine Margaret without it.

  It seems this past year we have all been unusually healthy. Doña Romero says it is the drought, a blessing inside a curse, but I believe one’s constitution is strengthened by one’s hardships.

  Your Sister,

  Abigail

  August 7, 1883

  Dear Maggie,

  At last it has rained, torrents all through the past two weeks, breaking over us each afternoon and often throughout the night. It comes too late for the alfalfa, but we will have a small field of beans, our vegetables, and the little corn we managed to irrigate. This has been the longest drought we have had since coming to the southwest. Throughout the winter, spring, and early summer, farmers in the valley slaughtered their animals as there was nothing left to feed them. Everywhere one went, one could see dead pigs, goats, and chickens. “I cannot stand to see any more death,” I told Clayton last spring when we rode past our neighbors and saw their milk cow lying in the yard, its throat cut. Two days later Clayton himself went out and shot the goat Margaret had made a pet of.

  When the first rain fell, I was in the house preparing the week’s bread for the oven. Clayton and George had ridden out to look with despair on the dried-up ditches, and I had sent Margaret to find the chickens that had disappeared. As I shaped the loaves, I looked outside and saw the darkening of the sky. I told myself that after all these months, it was merely another mirage. And so I did not step out into the yard until the storm was nearly upon us, racing up the valley with the whirling of dark clouds and the explosion of thunder. As I ran through the yard, I heard Clayton and George in the barn, trying to quiet the horses. “Where is Margaret?” I called out, but I could not hear the answer through the wind.

  She rode into the barn shortly before the rain began. I saw her from the house in a flash of lightning, bent over the pony’s neck, white as an apparition. She had ridden out towards the mountains to watch the approach of the storm, she told us later, and it is a wonder she survived. Had she not been so sure in the saddle, I fear we would have lost her.

  Maggie, she is a good girl, really, and spends hours in the fields and helping us with the animals, but she will not sit still long enough to learn to read or embroider. When she is not with George, she is alone, running through the yard or fields or out into the orchard. She begs me to let her take her pony and ride along the river or up towards the mesa, and sometimes I allow it, Maggie, even though she is young. It seems to me she has few amusements. Clayton tells me that given time she will grow into a lady. I only hope he is right and that the desert has not bewitched her.

  Yours,

  Abigail

  September 28, 1883

  Dear Maggie,

  This has been the strangest of seasons. With the rain has come a late flowering throughout the valley and even out into the deserts and mountains. I cannot adequately describe it, but after so many dry months, the air has thickened with the various fragrances. My good neighbor Señora Teresa Martinez calls it a time of miracles. Another neighbor of ours was working in his fields just after an evening rain, when he was startled by voices above him. He looked into the sky and saw a magnificent balloon.

  As he watched, a woman threw an armful of roses, which drifted downward. When the balloon disappeared, he assumed it had been an apparition, but the scent of roses was everywhere, and in his hair he found a soft red petal.

  The rain seems to make everything possible. Last Sunday Clayton and I and the children rode out for Reverend Brown’s service at the church. The Porters were there, the Sloaners, a new family I had not met, Miss Alden, and several others. It seemed to have been so long since I had seen any of them. What a reunion we had, singing hymns together and later drinking tea, which Miss Alden had brought Our ride home was filled with the strange beauty of the wildflowers and blossoming cacti. Even a few of the trees, confused by the long drought and sudden flood, had burst into white blossoms. “An unusual heaven,” Clayton commented, and I had to agree.

  I have made arrangements to send both Margaret and George to the mission school this year. If Margaret remains at home another year, I feel she will turn completely to the wild. She follows George and Ramon, Señora Teresa’s son, up towards the mountains, herding goats and sheep. I cannot keep her indoors. The only way I have been able to convince her to attend school is to tell her she will be able to travel to and from school riding on her pony with her brother.

  The Catholic priests persist in their attempts to destroy the mission school. They clearly are responsible for a number of Indian children being pulled out of the school and have tried, unsuccessfully, to have the school’s land taken away. The school survives mainly due to personal donations from local families and a few of the churches in the east. If not for the Catholics, we would have public schools in New Mexico and not an embarrassingly high number of illiterate, well over half the population. I have heard that many of the mining towns now have public schools. But there are so many Catholics in the valley, I do not think we will see such progress here.

  Amy writes that she is doing well in her studies. Please send word at once if she wants for anything. She is young to be so far from her parents, and sometimes, despite the reassurance of your loving care, I become anxious for her.

  Your Grateful Sister,

  Abigail

  December 18, 1883

  Dear Maggie,

  Amy writes that she grows despondent with the approach of the holiday season. I have no doubt the parties she wrote she would attend will create a more cheerful attitude, but I am anxious for her. Please, Maggie, give her a mother’s love and comfort for me. I miss her more than I can express.

  I understand that Mother has bought her a dress for the holiday celebrations. Amy says it is made of deep-green velvet, with satin trim and rows of white pearly buttons, and that it is long-waisted, cut in the latest fashion. I do not know of anything that I can make to equal such a dress. All this month I have spent crocheting a lace bed spread and pillow shams. If I can finish them by next week, I will mail them for Amy’s Christmas. I have prepared a package for you also, Sister, and will send them together by railroad.

  Yours,

  Abigail

  March 1, 1884

  Dear Maggie,

  The first of March, and still snow covers the ground like lit crystal under the sun, a blinding slick whiteness covered with a thi
n sheen of ice. Clayton tried to persuade me to ride out to the mesa with him this afternoon, when the hard crust had softened with a watery beauty, but I convinced him to take George and Margaret, as I am feeling poorly. Perhaps I have only been cold for too long and must climb into my bed until this season passes.

  Perhaps I will take out my paints and commit one of my sketches to the canvas. Last week I finished a portrait of Pamela Porter, and she seemed pleased with the effect. Oh, Maggie, it is on afternoons such as these that I miss my Amy most, and if I dwell on her too much, all that I’ve lost through the years takes form and I cannot be convinced of this life’s purpose.

  But do not worry yourself. I will take out my paints and stroke the canvas with my brush, bringing back all color and brightness into my world.

  I am your sister,

  Abigail

  May 26, 1884

  Dear Maggie,

  I am sending a money order for Amy’s train ticket so that she may come home this summer. If you would, please cash it for her. I thank you, again, for all you have done. Her letters are filled with the kindnesses you have given. I am truly grateful. We will welcome Irene if she still wishes to make the train trip west with Amy. I know they have grown fond of one another, but that is not surprising—they are our daughters!

  This has been a spring of flowering, one spring like this only every fifty or sixty years, our Spanish neighbors tell me. Everything has blossomed at once, so that the desert is pink, blue, and yellow, like a colored map. Yesterday Clayton and I rode up towards the mesa. Even the rock was striped with colors, bands of gold and red and pink. “Paint it, Abigail,” was all Clayton could say. “Paint it just the way the colors lie now.”

  The purple verbena covers the garden like a carpet, and the apple trees which Clayton planted in the orchard are heavy with blossoming. I would that I could spend all day in it

  Shortly after sunrise, I bake biscuits and fry eggs for Clayton, George, and the two Mexicans that help with the planting. Margaret eats the hominy we make from our corn, cooked with eggs. After breakfast, when the men go to the fields, George goes with them. He is as tall as I am and would be on a horse all day if he could. When the house is in order, I send Margaret to the fields with water, if she has not already gone to ride along the ditches with her brother or help with the planting. There are also the cows to be milked and the chickens which must be fed. It is after dinner, when the sun touches the mountain tops, before I can sit in my garden.

  We will hope to see both girls by the end of June. We do so want to meet Irene. I know we do not have as many social occasions, which you write that they so enjoy, but I am sure they will be so busy exploring this strange and various country that they will not have time to wish for parties to attend!

  Your Loving Sister,

  Abigail

  July 28, 1884

  Dear Maggie,

  It has been a joy for us to have the two young ladies in our house. The singing and laughter that have filled the rooms make me feel a girl again. Each evening after supper we sit in the garden under the shade of the cottonwoods and read poetry aloud. In the afternoons they often paint or draw. And they have taught Margaret her arithmetic. I am sure both of them will make admirable teachers. You should know that Irene was offered a post not more than fifteen miles from here. If she takes it, she and Amy will be headmistresses at neighboring schools!

  While we have enjoyed Irene immensely, and of course she is welcome in our home at any time, you may think it wise to shorten this visit. Being here is a little like visiting another country, and young people often romanticize what is new and undiscovered to them.

  A few weeks ago there was a Fourth of July barbecue held at the Deerings’ ranch. Amy and Irene were quite excited, as the barbecue is a big affair held each year, which lasts the day and into the evening, with all kinds of food and games, music and dancing. The six of us rode out to the Deerings’ the morning of the Fourth. Oh, you should have seen the decorations! Long tables were covered with bright table cloths on which platters of steaks with every kind of vegetable and breads had been set. Streamers made of red, white, and blue cloth hung from long poles stuck into the ground. And the people were dressed so that they could be called decorations too. Irene and Amy both had tucked tiny flags into their hats and wore their blue suits with the long wide skirts.

  There was much eating and gossiping that afternoon. It had been a year or more since I had seen many of these neighbors, and I was lost in a flurry of greetings and news and reminiscences. Amy, Irene, and George joined the young people. The Deerings raise a large herd of cattle, and so there were a number of young cowboys in their wide-brimmed hats prancing around on horses and showing off their abilities with a rope.

  I overheard Amy try to pull her cousin away from a ring they had created to ride in. “They only want to create a spectacle,” she said. But Irene did not want to leave the crowd which had gathered around them. It is difficult not to watch them; they are so agile, so full of quick grace.

  Later when I looked up from my conversation with Mrs. Coleman, whose daughter had just gotten married the month before, I saw how the sun had sunk and that they were getting ready to light the fireworks display. I found Amy and asked where Irene had gone. It took me several minutes to get the truth from her, that Irene and a young ranch hand had taken two of the horses and gone riding. I immediately spoke with the Deerings and was assured that the ranch hand was a responsible young man, the son of a friend of Mr. Deering’s who had settled in Utah.

  By the time they returned, Irene breathless from the ride, the fireworks had ended. Later that night I explained to her that going riding with a young man, especially a young cowboy, out here is different than going out walking with a young man in Stillwater. In her mind I am sure it was no more than a friendly ride through the desert, but I suspected the boy had more in mind, as I heard him ask if he could ride out to visit her later in the week.

  Several times now, despite the distance between our land and the Deerings’ ranch, he has called on Irene. They go out riding is all that she will tell us, and I do not doubt her word but fear for her reputation. Mr. Deering has told Clayton the young man would marry Irene if it comes to this, but I am not sure you would want a young cowboy for a son-in-law.

  If you think it wise we can send Irene back to Virginia a week or two early. I am quite sure Amy would agree to accompany her so that she would not have to travel alone. Once Irene is back in Virginia, I know she will forget this ranch hand, as she is a sensible young lady.

  I am your devoted sister,

  Abigail

  August 20, 1884

  Dear Maggie,

  I am dismayed by your accusations that it was my influence, or lack of influence, that caused Irene’s indiscretions. Irene is not a child anymore, and surely she is accountable for her own mistakes. I assure you, living in the west has not caused me to “loosen” my values so much that I no longer can “tell what is right from what is wrong.” When you comment that my notions about love lack the maturity of a woman my age, I wonder that you could be so “mature.” I would hope that I am never so old.

  Maggie, you have been my one true confidante. How can you judge my life so harshly? Did you use my confessions to strengthen the blame which you falsely laid on me? I can picture you in Virginia attending socials and helping out at the church and at John’s store, and in the house that was given to you by John’s parents with its wide and gracious porch, under the shade of the magnolias and oaks, sitting in judgment on my life when you know how I have had to struggle to shape it myself, the best that I could.

  I have written to Amy that she is to return home in April upon completion of her certificate. The school east of North Valverde is expecting her to begin the following fall, and she will need a good part of the summer to prepare her classroom and her lessons. In the event that she is no longer welcome at your home, I have sent her money enough to board elsewhere while she finishes her studies. I shall writ
e to Aunt Celia. Perhaps she will assist Amy in finding a suitable place.

  Your Sister,

  Abigail

  October 13, 1884

  Dear Maggie,

  Amy has written that she is “most welcome” in your home and plans to stay with you through the spring while she completes her certificate. I am grateful that your judgments of me do not extend to Amy. I know she is looking forward to completing her studies so that she may return to the west.

  She writes that Irene’s new suitor is the son of Mr. Clyde Baker. I remember Mother’s wish that one of us might marry “a Baker boy.” It is a good family. I am happy for you.

  It has been two months now since I sent you a letter, and I had thought you would write back to me. Aunt Celia has not written since the spring. Have you divulged any of your doubts about my lack of judgment or morality? I pray that you have not betrayed my confidences. Amy has said that Mother is not well. Please write to me if she is declining. I shall come east at once despite your ill feelings towards me. I wish very much to make a reconciliation with her.

  Your Sister,

  Abigail

  January 14, 1885

  Dear Maggie,

  You write that if I were truly in mourning, I would come east for Mother’s funeral and pay my respects. You know nothing of the depths of my grief and remorse. If I had not heard from Amy that Mother had taken to her bed, I would have known nothing, so little care did you take to keep me informed. Had you written to me truly as a sister should, I would have come at once to attend her. Instead you expect me to come now, after there is no hope of reconciliation. You expect me to come and sit at her funeral when everyone in the church will know that she had refused my letters.