I vow to live by my newly constructed plan, and before sleep takes my hand and quiets my mind, I make my first step toward maturity. I bow my head to thank God for saving me from the fever.
***
July 1935
Summer days in South Dakota are the kind you want to bottle and save. This summer feels extra sweet, given the months of confinement in my bedroom. Classes finished in late June, and Miss Marshall was impressed by my effort, enough to pass me to the next grade. My strength improves each day, and I can finally help Mother with the garden. Iris flits around, chasing butterflies and inspecting ladybugs while I crouch among the strawberry plants. Mother hums a church hymn as she moves between rows, adding sweet red berries to her basket.
“How old were you when your mother died?” I hold my breath in anticipation and tilt my head toward the bush to avoid eye contact.
“I was fourteen.” Mother stands and stretches her back, sneaking a glance in my direction. “Why do you ask?”
I shrug and tread with care. “I guess I’ve always wondered what your life was like before you had us.”
Her large brimmed hat casts a shadow over her face. I can’t read her expression. “Do you have a particular question in mind?”
“Well, I was curious if Grandmother really did die of a broken heart. I’ve been wondering if it’s contagious. You know, like how Iris and I have blond wavy hair, same as yours.”
Mother’s dirt-stained hand covers her mouth as she giggles. “Oh, Violet. Honey, a broken heart isn’t passed down through generations.” She tilts her head to the side. “Are you worried you inherited my mother’s broken heart? Is that what is troubling you?”
A solemn nod is all I can offer, for fear of dissolving into a puddle of raw emotion. I’ve tried to be grown-up about the situation, but my weak heart won’t give my mind any peace. I’ve started to wonder if a weak heart and a broken heart are similar in nature. Perhaps I will die of a broken heart, after all.
“Come now.” Mother puts her arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer. “My mother died of a broken heart. That is true but not in the way you think. She wasn’t sick. She couldn’t live with the loss of my father and brother.” A furrow develops across her forehead, and I imagine she’s traveling through childhood memories. “She was a good woman, a loving mother. Sometimes, life gets the better of us. That is why I urge you to embrace each moment. Find joy in the simple aspects of your life. You can’t always control what happens, but you can choose how you react.”
Mother holds me at arm’s length and lowers her face to mine. The brim of her hat touches the top of my head, shielding our faces from the garden. “Your heart, however, is not broken. You are in no danger of dying from a broken heart. I can promise you that, Violet.”
I revisit Mother’s words every time my heart flutters in my chest. They comfort me as I become familiar with the new rhythm of my heart. I remain cautious, though, not running or jumping like Iris does—free and with reckless abandon. I keep my promise to myself, and with consistent daily fortitude, I mold myself into a young woman like a caterpillar molds itself into a butterfly.
As I gain confidence in my body’s ability, I help Father with the horses. The first time I visit the barn, I am reassured. The horses don’t notice my heart isn’t the same as before. They welcome me with nuzzles and snorts. I take this as a good sign, as I know how sensitive these beautiful creatures can be. My determination to live a full and happy life is renewed as they crunch the carrots I’ve brought from the garden.
Summer days are busy on the farm. There is always a field to plow or hay to bail in preparation for winter. Father busies himself mending, building, and painting, in addition to his regular work. Caring for the garden, the vegetables that will feed us through winter, takes precedence over leisure time on every good weather day.
With school closed for the summer, church on Sundays is the only scheduled time we gather with friends. Sundays make long summer days worth the effort. The sweet tea tastes sweeter. The fried chicken is crispier. And we treasure the time with friends and neighbors. The adults gather on blankets in the shade, and the young children chase one another in a disorganized game of tag.
At eleven, with a birthday next month, I find myself lost between age groups. The adults’ conversation still borders on dull, but I’ve grown out of the children’s make-believe.
John and I sit on the church steps as he tries to teach me how to make a whistle out of a long blade of grass, a skill I have yet to master.
“What does your heart feel like now?” John tugs at the blade of grass. “Mother said the fever got you good. She’s been praying for you since she got word.”
I smile at the thought of John’s mother including me in their evening prayers. John’s kindness comes from deep within the Smith family. “You know when you’re pulling a wagon but one of the wheels isn’t quite right?”
“I think so.”
“Kind of like that. Like a catch. That wheel makes the pulling harder. The wagon still moves, but there is a lag to the rhythm that makes it feel a little uneven.”
John’s head bobs. “I see what you are saying. So your heart doesn’t hurt you, then?”
“No. There is no pain, just a restless feeling, like butterflies filling up my chest. At first I thought my heart was broken.” I look away to hide my insecurity about the state of my heart. “But Mother is certain that isn’t the case.”
“I don’t suspect your heart is broken either, Vi.” John leans his shoulder into mine, capturing my attention. “I like you all the same anyway.”
A wide smile spreads across my face before a laugh escapes, releasing with it any worry about John and my weak heart.
***
October 1935
Autumn sweeps in with a crisp breeze, snuffing out any remnants of summer. Fall colors decorate the landscape as the low sun casts a golden glow across the fields. The air is thick with the scent of fires. Farmers burn foliage and brush as the leaves crinkle and fall.
Mother and I have been pulling in the garden for weeks. Each Saturday, we spend hours canning, drying, and storing vegetables. The cellar is almost full, which is a welcome sight. I would much rather be in the garden than over a hot stove. Last week, we cleared the apples from the tree and the ground, which resulted in jars filled to the brim with apple preserves. As this morning’s frost threatens to blanket the ground with icy crystals, Mother and I gather the remaining root vegetables and squashes and prepare them for storage.
Iris lugs her overgrown pumpkin to the back steps and waits impatiently for Father to help her carve it in time for Halloween. She announced last night at dinner that she plans to dress up as a cat this year, so when she’s not pacing in front of her pumpkin, she’s practicing her “meow” for the big day.
Mother, tired of listening to the strangled pretend cat sounds, closes the kitchen window in exasperation. Within minutes, the window is laced with steam from the bubbling canning pot. The final batch of jars is nestled in the pot as I collect the discarded vegetable bits for the chicken coop.
I head out the back door, arms full of the metal bowl heaped high with scraps. The fresh air washes over me, soothing my red-hot face.
“When is Father going to carve my pumpkin?” Iris asks as I make my way down the steps.
“Did you ask him if he could help you with the pumpkin today?”
Iris squats beside her pumpkin. “Can you ask him?” She looks up at me with a hopeful gaze. “I want the big ol’ jack-o’-lantern smile to go right here.” She tilts the pumpkin back and points.
“I will see if he’s in the barn, but Iris, Halloween isn’t for another week. Father may want you to wait a bit longer.”
A small pout forms across her lips. “Please, ask him. He won’t say no to you.”
“We’ll see.” I turn away from her and continue toward the barn.
“Hey, Bud,” I say to my favorite of Daddy’s horses as I walk by his stall. His chestnut n
ose sticks out to greet me. “I’ll be back. Give me a minute.” He whinnies in response as his head bobs up and down.
“You’re the only one I know who actually gets an answer from that stubborn old beast.” Father chuckles as he steps out of an empty stall, broom in hand.
I laugh, but I know it is true. The animals and I understand one another.
“Let me help you with that, darlin’.” Father takes the bowl from my arms and vanishes behind the barn’s back door to dump the load into the chicken feed.
I stroll back to Bud and scratch his ear before planting a kiss on his nose. I move the hair from between his eyes and reveal the white star atop his forehead. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”
Father returns from the chicken coop and hands me the empty bowl. “All finished with the garden?”
“That was the last batch. Good thing, too. There isn’t a shred of room left in the cellar.”
“Mighty fine news, that is. Enough to get us through to next summer, I presume.” Father nods and reaches for the broom.
A shiver takes hold of me. I begin to retreat to the warm kitchen when I remember. “Iris is waiting on the back steps for you. She has her heart set on carving her pumpkin tonight.”
“Does she, now?” Father rubs his chin. “Guess I best be getting done with this sweeping so I don’t disappoint. Tell her we will carve after dinner, but she’ll have to help Mother with the dinner dishes first.”
“She will be delighted.” I smile at his willingness to please her, but as I walk away, I wonder if Iris was right. Maybe I am the one he would never tell no.
***
July 1936
The heat smolders in the stagnant sky. Sweat trickles down the side of my face as I fill pails of water for the livestock. The past few days have been hotter than most. “A record high,” the stern voice on the radio said during last night’s broadcast. Mother and I have been working to keep the garden moist and the animals watered. Even Iris has become listless in the extreme heat. She lounges in the shade of the back porch, her doll perched on her lap. Father is consumed with rebuilding the pig enclosure, after a neighbor rescued one of our biggest pigs wandering toward town.
I am filling another pail for the horse trough when a shadow appears near my feet.
“Hey, Vi.” John’s hands are stuffed into his trouser pockets, and his face is flushed with heat.
“John. What brings you by?” I brush aside the damp hair, stuck to my face. “Little warm for a walk in the country, don’t you think?”
He laughs as he removes his cap and pushes his own damp hair back across the top of his head before replacing the cap. “Father said to come by and offer help with the pig pen.
“That is awful kind of you.” I feel my cheeks warm but console myself with the knowledge that they are already red from the sun. “Father is around back. I’ll take you there.” I leave the pail beneath the spigot and wipe my hands on the back of my dress.
We enter the shady barn, filled with pigs’ noise, unhappy to be in the warm, confined space. When my eyes finally adjust to the darkness, I notice John glancing sideways at me. My eyes meet his and he gives me a lopsided half-smile. My tummy flips in response.
“Maybe when I’m done here, we could go put our feet in the stream to cool off,” John says as he holds the door open for me.
“I’ll have to check with Mother. Iris will want to come, too.” Apology edges into my voice.
“Sure. Iris is welcome, too.”
We step into the brightness, and I shade my eyes with my hand. I spot Father bent over a low section of fence, knees planted in the dry, crusty soil. “The cavalry is here,” I call out to him.
“John.” Father stands and extends his hand for John to shake. “Nice to see you, son.”
“John’s come to help with the fence.”
“Mighty thoughtful of you, John.” Father beams at him as he wipes sweat from his forehead.
“I’ll let you two get at it.” I walk back toward the barn, unable to hide my smile. I know that although John was gracious enough to invite Iris to the stream, his invitation was clearly intended for me.
***
March 1937
Easter doesn’t suit the month of March in South Dakota. Rain, sleet, and snow still frequent Cedar Springs often enough to make the town just plain messy. I struggle to welcome spring flowers and sunny days before winter has made its departure. Yet, here we are, huddled together for warmth in the church pews, celebrating both the ascension of Jesus into Heaven and the beginning of spring. Iris shivers between Mother and me, too vain to put on her winter coat and cover the new dress Mother sewed. The heat inside the church doesn’t cut through the frostiness, and I notice my breath forming clouds as I sing along with the hymn.
During the potluck after the service, we share a meal with our friends and neighbors. Since the weather is too sour to eat outside, the men position the pews against the side walls to free the floor space for folding chairs and tables. We bow our heads in thanks. Many families are struggling in the low economy, which makes the Easter celebration even more meaningful. Everyone is welcome to enjoy the food and festivities.
Father and Reverend Campbell discuss the Farmers’ Almanac, both wishing for an early spring. John sneaks into the seat beside me, his plate heaped full of mashed potatoes, green beans, and baked ham.
“Did you hear the news?” John asks between mouthfuls.
“What news?” I cast him a questioning look as I move the green beans around my plate.
“Miss Marshall,” he says. “She’s getting married.”
“Does that mean we’ll have to call her Mrs. Marshall?” Iris asks from across the table.
“No, Iris. She will have a new last name. She will take the last name of her new husband.”
“Huh?” Iris looks dumbfounded.
“Say Violet marries me.” John hesitates and casts me a brief glance. “She would become Mrs. Smith.”
“Oh! I get it.” Iris’s eyes light up, and John focuses on the food before him. Iris prattles on, wondering aloud what Miss Marshall’s new name will be as John gathers his composure.
I lean toward him and whisper into his ear, “Good example. She understands now.”
John doesn’t look my way, but I see a faint upward turn of the corner of his mouth.
***
August 1938
“This isn’t fair.” I stand before Mother, arms crossed. “I am ready to move up a grade. Miss Marshall, I mean Mrs. Graham, said so herself.”
“This isn’t about fair, Violet.” Mother sits on the back porch, rocking in the shade as she darns a pair of Father’s socks.
“Iris shouldn’t make decisions about my education.”
“Iris isn’t making any decision,” Mother scoffs. “Your father and I feel that three years at high school will be plenty of time for your education.” Mother stares at me with a quiet steadfastness, daring me to argue.
I clench my fists and take a deep breath. “I understand that Iris wants me to stay. Really, I do. I am excited about this opportunity is all. Going to high school this September would be good for me.”
“Violet, your father and I insist that you continue at the country school for one more year.” Mother sighs, and the sock and needles fall to her lap. “Iris, isn’t the only one who isn’t quite ready for you to go.”
“I’d be home every weekend,” I say, though the weight of my message is deflated by the realization that Mother still worries for me and my weakened heart.
Mother’s voice softens. “Your father and I have agreed to next year. I promise to permit you to enter high school next September.”
“Fine.” My reply is laced with disdain, and I cringe as I hurl the word. I turn on my heel and walk down the porch steps, away from the conversation.
I kick at the stones embedded in the driveway. I felt such pride when Mrs. Graham delivered the news that I had been accepted into the high school program a year early. I was ho
nored, especially since I had made up so much work after being sick. I ran all the way home, Iris calling after me the entire way. Excitement won out over ladylike behavior as I burst into the kitchen to tell Mother the good news. I should have known then, by her strained look of terror, masked by a tight smile. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. Disappointment engulfs me as I head down the shaded path toward the stream.
Sunlight filters through the dense leaves of the trees lining the dirt path. I hear water rushing over the rocks, smooth from years of erosion. I step out from the shade and slip off my shoes and socks, feeling the coolness of the dark, firm soil. A splash catches my ear, and I look up stream to see John surrounded by several large boulders, standing in knee-deep water with his trousers rolled up. He holds a fishing pole in one hand as his other guides the line, his eyes fixed on where the line enters the water.
I watch as he moves the line back and forth before I decide to make myself known. “Hello, John.”
His head snaps up, and he stumbles among the boulders and the fast-moving water. “Hi, Vi.” He waves. “Be right there.”
I settle myself on the bank, close to the water’s edge, and dangle my feet into the refreshing rapids until he meanders back to shore.
“Catch anything?” I ask as he sets down his fishing pole and sits beside me.
“Just numb feet.” He shrugs. “Always best to get out here in the morning or as the sun is setting.”
“I don’t think I’d be too good at fishing. Not enough patience, I’m afraid.”
“Aw, I don’t know about that. Takes focus more than patience.” John’s eyes never leave the rippling waters. “Didn’t expect to see you out here, especially without Iris in tow.”
Becoming Mrs. Smith Page 2
