Once a Midwife

by Patricia Harman

  “Is it high?” Ruby asks as I take off the blood-pressure cuff again. “I like you a lot. I don’t think it’s high.”

  “Actually, Ruby, it’s 170 over 90. I don’t usually deliver women at home with high blood pressure. I think your body’s telling you something. You need to be in the safest possible environment. You’ll probably be fine, but just in case, it would be better to be where there are doctors and medicines.”

  Ruby’s gray eyes fill with tears. “Now I’m really scared,” she whispers.

  Ada, clearly uncomfortable with the other woman’s emotions, stands and pulls on her sweater. “I better get going,” she says in her high-pitched voice. “See you next time, Mrs. Hester. Good luck,” she says to Ruby, and bounces out of the cabin.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell Ruby. “I don’t want you to be afraid. I just want you to be safe. Homebirth isn’t for everyone. Just find the nicest doctor they have at Boone Memorial and ask him if he would come when you go into labor. Tell him how scared you are and maybe you can also find a comfortable, experienced, woman to be with you. Fib to the nurses in the Obstetrics Ward, if you have to. Say she’s your sister. It’s not a real lie. We are all sisters.”

  April 5, 1942

  He Is Risen

  On Easter Sunday, the girls all look so pretty in their Sunday best with their new hair ribbons, and my two men look handsome in white short-sleeved shirts and ties. I just wore my spring church dress, the yellow one with the tiny white flowers, and a white hat and white gloves.

  As I always do, I scan the pews in the Methodist Chapel in Liberty to see who’s here. The place is packed with the Christmas and Easter crowd. When we stand for “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” I notice Lou Cross singing to beat the band. “Onward, Christian soldiers! Marching as to war. With the cross of Jesus going on before.”

  The pastor’s patriotic sermon surprised me and it bothered Daniel, I could tell. He squirmed in the pew, let out long sighs, and at one time I feared he might stand up and leave.

  “In these days of war,” the pastor proclaimed, “it is our duty as Christians to throw back our shoulders, double up our fists, and fight for our country. This will take sacrifice, but let us remember that our savior sacrificed for us.”

  The preacher went on and on and finally concluded. “Christian patriotism will fuel the fight for freedom. America has many privileges, but it also has great responsibilities. Our first responsibility is to God, but we are duty-bound to our beloved country too. Let us pray.”

  The prayer was almost as long as the sermon, but I did learn that already twenty-three soldiers from Union County have lost their lives. West Virginians are very patriotic, and in every war they volunteer for military service with the highest number per capita of any state. A Mountaineer will defend his family at all costs and by extension he will defend his motherland.

  I look around, wondering if any of the women sitting in the pews this Easter are the mothers, sisters, wives, or lovers of those twenty-three dead. In this war, women will sacrifice too.

  On the way home from church, the children are bursting with excitement. “Can we have the Easter-egg hunt before Sunday dinner, Pa?” Danny wants to know.

  “Please!” Susie and Sunny beg together.

  “It’s fine,” Dan says without expression.

  We don’t go in for the Easter Bunny myth. Even Mira wouldn’t buy a story that a magic rabbit could personally dye millions of eggs and distribute them around the countryside overnight, but Dan’s lack of enthusiasm surprises me. The patriotic sermon must still be getting to him.

  After we change out of our church clothes, we take turns hiding the beautiful eggs out in the yard. First Daniel and I hide them for the kids. Then the kids hide them for us. Afterward, we usually have a Sunday meal at home, but this year we’re going to Hazel Patch for a picnic, where Bitsy and Willie have opened the abandoned chapel for the occasion. I don’t know what it will be like, but there used to be plenty of picnic tables out on the lawn, and apparently Bitsy and Willie are working like bees to get it cleaned up.

  As we pull into the churchyard, I see the Maddocks’ truck, the Blums’ Pontiac, Lou Cross’s Plymouth, and Bitsy’s motorcycle, but there’s another vehicle too . . . an old yellow open-sided hack that used to transport our children when they went to the Hazel Patch school five years ago. Reverend Miller and Mrs. Mildred Miller are here!

  The kids jump out of the back of the Model T as soon as we park and Danny runs over to Will, who’s playing horseshoes with Lou and Bitsy. Reverend Miller is raking dead leaves from the daffodils along the side of the chapel and Mrs. Miller is holding court at a picnic table. Dan starts raking leaves too, but I head straight for Mildred Miller.

  “Well, look who’s here?” I call. “A sight for sore eyes. Are you here for good or just visiting?”

  “For good, we hope. Our daughter Cassie and her family moved to California, so we had no reason to stay in Pittsburgh. We thought we’d see what’s left of the community. I’m surprised there isn’t more damage from storms or vandals. The chapel is still in good shape.” She stands to embrace me against her big, soft chest.

  Reverend Miller, except for the gray in his hair, looks about the same as he always did, though I see, as he talks to Daniel, that his face is lined with care. The Great Depression has been hard on him, hard on all of us, really.

  “How about your log house? Can you live in it or will it need a lot of work? Daniel is so busy with the rush of lambing season, but I can come over and give you a hand.”

  Without a pause in the conversation, Mrs. Miller scoops my girls into her arms and holds them there, as familiar as if they were her own.

  “Most of the furniture we left in the house is gone. But we still have bookcases, bedsteads, and the stoves. A few of the windows are broken, but Bitsy says we can move in with her until we fix things up. That Willie is a nice boy. It’s so good for Bitsy to have a family.”

  “She’s doing well at the woolen mill too,” I chime in.

  “Yes. She told us she got another raise and promotion and we met her boss for the first time last night, Mr. Cross. He brought her home. Quite a fellow.”

  An hour later, sheets have been spread over three rough picnic tables that are situated under the cottonwood trees. Our potluck meal will be a feast, with deviled eggs, ginger carrots, fried chicken, and corn bread.

  I call for the children and find them in the overgrown field behind the chapel, now playing army with Willie and Lou, and by the time we get back to the tables, everyone is holding hands, waiting patiently for Reverend Miller to say grace. After the impassioned homily about patriotism at the Methodist church this morning, I’m expecting more of the same, but I’m pleasantly surprised.

  “O Lord,” Pastor Miller begins. “We thank you for the trees that shelter us from rain, for the birds that sing, and for the river that sustains us. We thank you for our friends and for their love. On this Easter Day, let us not forget those who have no friends, those who are hungry or cold. Blessed Savior, watch over the soldiers who battle for freedom.

  “We know there have always been wars, but help us find a way to peace so that all wars end. As Jesus died for our sins, let us rejoice, for he still lives and we are resurrected with him. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

  “Amen,” we all murmur.

  “Hallelujah.” Lou Cross laughs. “Let’s eat!”

  WHEN WE’VE ALL filled our stomachs, everyone cleans up while Bitsy and I carry baskets of dirty plates back to her house. “Hey, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you about. In the newspaper photos, I always see the colored soldiers making not just the right-handed V sign for victory but a V with both the left and the right. What’s that about?”

  “I read about it in the Pittsburgh Courier, the Negro paper, a few months ago. You know the V sign with one hand means victory over tyranny right?” I nod. “Well, the second V represents victory for Negroes fighting for free
dom here in the U.S.A.

  “When the war is over, there will be a new struggle for equality at home. Not just for whites, but for coloreds and for women too, so that’s why we do the double V. Get it?”

  “I’m going to do it too and I’ll teach the children about it. . . . There they are now.”

  Again, the kids are busy playing war and we stop for a minute to watch them. Danny and Willie roll on the ground and start crawling forward on their elbows, like soldiers, through the new green grass. My son takes a clod of dirt, pretends to pull a plug, and throws it like a grenade.

  “Take that, you yellow devils!” he shouts, but the girls don’t give up. They come roaring straight at Danny and Willie with arms outstretched like dive-bombers.

  “You are all dead!” they yell, throwing themselves on their brother and Willie with a noise like a bomb. “Now we’re all dead!”

  Friendly as anything, the five children lay in the grass laughing and looking up at the sky. If only real war were like this. No blood. No lifeless bodies carried away on stretchers. No mothers’ cries of grief.

  April 9, 1942

  Before dawn Dan is called to a lambing. April is the busiest time for a vet in West Virginia, and for weeks we see him only a few hours a day.

  “Mary had a little lamb,” the song goes (or two or three little lambs!). Most ewes can give birth without assistance, but during this busy time, it’s recommended that ewes be vaccinated for clostridium and tetanus. By vaccinating the pregnant ewe, the lambs will acquire immunity when they drink their mother’s first milk. That’s why, even before the lambs come, Dan is running around giving vaccinations all over Union County.

  The real challenge, he tells me, is helping deliver multiple lambs that are all tangled up in the uterus. This, he says, is also the most satisfying part of the job. Imagine the potential difficulty with triplets! Sometimes Dan finds a hoof while doing an internal exam, and he has to figure out which lamb it belongs to.

  When I hear his Model T come in the drive in the middle of the night, I rise on one elbow, switch on the lamp, and look at the Big Ben alarm clock. It’s one A.M. Soon Dan is clomping up the stairs, too tired to try to be quiet. As usual, he’s left his dirty coveralls on the back porch and stands before me in red long johns wet from the ankle to the knee.

  “Hard day?” I ask. I know that it has been. He left at dawn.

  “Yeah. I wish to hell these farmers would round their sheep up before I get there. I swear the Bishop brothers actually chase their flock to the most remote spot on their farm on purpose. I had to cross a good-size stream and found one ewe already delivering triplets on the other side of the bank.”

  “Did the lambs live?”

  He smiles. “Yep, every one of ’em. . . . I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow.”

  I get out of bed in my white flannel gown and unbutton his long underwear, then kick it under the bed. “Get in,” I instruct as I turn off the lamp.

  “Naked? No nightclothes?” he asks, and I hear him smile in the dark.

  “You know what we midwives say, skin-to-skin is the best warmer,” I answer, pulling my gown over my head, crawling under the quilts naked, and curling around him.

  “Ahhhh!” Daniel says, and then he’s asleep.

  In the morning he’s gone before I get up and after the kids are off to school, I go out to tend my thirty-six tiny tomato plants in paper cups under our makeshift greenhouse, an old window leaning against the bottom of the porch. The glass captures the sunlight and tricks the seeds into thinking it’s summer, when in reality, in the mountains, we could have a frost until June.

  When I stick my head under the glass to water my babies, the smell of earth and growing things makes me smile. Sometimes, I think all I need to be happy is sunlight, earth, and water.

  And it’s not just me. Bitsy and Mrs. Miller are putting in their gardens soon and at the last Red Cross meeting, I learned that people in town are hopping on the bandwagon. It’s called Food for Victory because the more produce people grow in their backyards, the more real farmers can grow to feed the military.

  I felt like an expert, telling Mrs. Wade, Ida May, and Marion Archer which seeds they can plant early in spring (peas, spinach, radishes, and lettuce and cabbage, because they’re frost-hardy) and which they had to wait on (beans, corn, tomatoes, peppers, and squash).

  This evening, after chores, Dan and I sat on the porch, listening to the spring frogs. “I’m so content here,” I say to Dan, leaning up against him. “It’s hard to believe that we live in such grave times and that much of the rest of the world is suffering.

  “At the Red Cross meeting, Mrs. Stenger told us the Nazis in Poland are arresting all the Jews and putting them in barracks. Whole families are separated, the men from the women and children. Wouldn’t that be awful, to stare at each other through a barbed-wire fence? So helpless.”

  “You know the U.S. has its own concentration camps,” my husband tells me.

  “Where’d you hear that? I don’t believe it.”

  “Yeah. The feds are rounding up all people of Japanese heritage—men, women, and children—on the Pacific coast. Whole families, even those born in the U.S.A., on the off chance that they might be spies or saboteurs. They’re taken by bus to enclosures in remote inland places like Colorado and Arkansas. The buildings are little more than chicken coops with windows. Basically they’re prisons, with barbed wire, guards, and guns.

  “One of the most unfair things is that their property, businesses or farms the families have owned for generations, is confiscated and sold for pennies. The U.S. concentration camps are called internment camps. Same difference.”

  I frown. “I’m trying to reconcile what you’re telling me with my vision of what the United States stands for.”

  Daniel grins and begins a familiar song: “While the storm clouds gather far across the sea, Let us swear allegiance to a land that’s free . . .”

  “Very funny!”

  “God Bless America,” he continues sarcastically with his hand over his heart. “Land that I love! Stand beside her, and guide her, through the night with the light from above!”

  I can’t help but laugh, but there’s a part of me that hates him, hates him as he makes fun of our country. Men are dying for his right to be free.

  21

  May 2, 1942

  A Tasty Treat

  Every spring, Dan and I go up to our high pasture on the side of Spruce Mountain to clear out the saplings that grow in each year. This spring, he’s been so busy with lambing, he hasn’t gotten around to it, so today, while he’s in Liberty making a call, I’m going alone.

  By midmorning, the children are off to school and my farm chores and housework are done, so I pull on my rubber boots and my old wool jacket and go out to the barn. When I lived at the end of Wild Rose Road by myself, before Bitsy came, I used to do things like this alone all the time. I don’t need him, I remind myself.

  First I get an ax from the tool room in the barn, then, since all the other horses are in the lower meadow grazing, I put a bridle and harness on old Mack, who is gentle and lazy. A workhorse isn’t trained to wear a saddle, thus I plan to ride bareback. Also, Mack is a Berkshire and about a foot higher than a riding horse so I have to stand on a stool to get up.

  “Come on, Mack,” I say, making a clicking sound with my mouth. “Let’s go clean up the pasture!”

  It’s a cloudless, brisk day with a wind from the south, and I pull my beret down over my ears. As we plod along (there is no galloping with a workhorse), I look up at the mountain. Along the edge of the forest, pink mountain laurel bloom amongst the spruce, and on the lower shelf yellow mustard. It’s the young maples and oaks, sprouting here and there that will soon destroy the grazing land.

  Within an hour, I’ve chopped down fifteen young trees with trunks the size of my wrist and am feeling rather proud of myself. It’s a small job, but important. Since we don’t want the dead trees lying around, I drag them to the edge of t
he barbed-wire fence. That’s when I see him . . . not forty feet away.

  The bear is standing at the tree line, partially hidden by a young spruce, and I freeze, trying to recall whether I’m supposed to look him in the eye or look away. Since our eyes are already locked, I hold my pose.

  Next I can’t remember whether I’m supposed to appear intimidating or try to look meek. I decide to look fierce, but this is not easy. I’m only five-foot-five and even wearing my bulky red-and-black farm jacket I’m not very scary.

  The bear goes back to scratching under a fallen tree for spring mushrooms and I take a step back, but my movement is noticed. “Sorry,” I whisper. “Sorry to interrupt your meal. I’m just going to ease over to my horse and go home now.”

  The animal looks me up and down, probably thinking . . . I’ve been hibernating all winter and am mighty hungry. She could be a tasty treat.

  I take another step back. The bear shakes his head and moves toward me. Ax still in hand, I wonder if I’m strong enough to fight off a two-hundred-pound creature. Probably not. The bear makes a low huff.

  I try to make the sound back. “Huffff!” The bear’s ears twitch and he scrapes the leaves, ready to charge. This isn’t a grizzly, just a common black bear, but still I doubt I can outrun him.

  There’s no way to yell for help. Daniel’s in town spaying Mrs. Stenger’s cat. Becky and Dr. Blum are on the other side of Spruce Mountain. I take another step back and whistle for the horse. I try again, but my mouth is so dry I can’t pucker up.

  “Mack!” I whisper. “Come!” The horse is fifty feet behind me and I can hear him munching grass. I’d sprint for him, but I’m afraid if I turn, the bear will be on me in a flash.

  I take two more steps backward and the distance between us grows, but the bear now ambles up to the barbed-wire fence. Each time I move, I become more interesting, but I can’t just stand here. I raise my ax, unsure the animal will even recognize it as a weapon.

  The old horse has not smelled the bear yet and I fear if he does, he’ll trot down the mountainside and into the barn without me. Slowly I rotate to the side, trying to keep both the horse and the bear in view. “Mack! Come!”