Once a Midwife

by Patricia Harman

  “I know you like it, Meadow,” I say, leaning away from her mouth. “But a tender nip to my thin skin wouldn’t be pleasant.” Later I ride her around the meadow, but she plods without spirit.

  Toward afternoon, I run into the house to soak some dried peas and cut up some vegetables for our evening meal. While I stayed with Meadow, her crying had stopped, but now it’s started again and I try to think what to do. When I return to the barn, I try to imagine what I would do for a grieving human mother and decide I’ll sing and try to get Meadow to sleep.

  “Somewhere, over the rainbow,” I begin the popular Judy Garland song. “Way up high. There’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby.” The black-and-white horse reaches over and licks my face. Finally I get her to lie down and I lie down in the new straw with her, my head on her shoulder.

  “Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue. And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true. . . .”

  It isn’t until almost dark that Daniel returns and it’s not just him in his Model T, but old Mr. Roote, driving a big Chevy truck with high wooden sides. The children and I are listening to the news when we hear the vehicles come into the yard. The last U.S. troops in the Philippines have surrendered. Japanese forces have captured the remainder of Burma and reached India. Things are not going well for us.

  “Who’s here?” the kids cry, and before I can stop them, they run out on the porch and I follow after them.

  The truck bed of the Chevy is filled with straw, and the elderly Mrs. Stone is sitting in the back with a small brown colt. “We brought Meadow a new baby,” she says, standing up and leaning over the wooden slats. “Our neighbor, Mr. Hummingbird, recently lost a mare after she had a retained placenta.”

  “It doesn’t take long with horses. They’re more sensitive than cattle. You have to get the afterbirth out in a few hours or they’ll get infected,” Dan explains as he and Mr. Roote open the gate at the back of the truck and assist Mrs. Stone down.

  “Did you do okay riding back there, sweetheart?” Mr. Roote asks.

  “Fine and dandy!” the old lady responds, brushing the straw off of her behind and laughing. “When Mr. Hester came over to see our goat and told us what happened to Meadow, we knew just the cure. Mrs. Hummingbird was trying to bottle feed their colt, but it wasn’t going well. It’s a big job, feeding a baby horse every two hours. They were happy to give him away.”

  “I promised the Hummingbirds three free vet visits in exchange for Brownie, and they were more than grateful,” Dan adds as he pulls a ramp out of the truck and leads the little colt down. “He’s just a few days old. How did Meadow do today, Patience?”

  “Well, she stopped crying for a while, but you can hear she’s starting up again. Okay, kids, enough excitement. You can see Brownie in the morning. Pa has work to do. Can I get you a cup of coffee or some nourishment, Mrs. Stone and Mr. Roote?”

  “No, it’s late,” Mr. Roote says. “We better get on.” He assists the old lady into the cab of the truck and turns the ignition. “Good luck with everything,” he says.

  “God bless you!” the old lady calls, and then they’re gone.

  An hour later, the children are tucked in bed and I make a hot mug of soup to take out to Dan. “Have you eaten today?” I ask him as I lean over the gate of Meadow’s stall and hold out the cup.

  “Mrs. Stone fed me after I purged her goat. I think she and Mr. Roote are an item.” He grins.

  “You mean as in sweet on each other?”

  “I mean as in shacking up.”

  “Oh, Daniel! Don’t be so crude. How’s Meadow doing? Will she let the new colt suckle?”

  “Her bag is pretty full and tight, and so far, she’s kicking him away. Poor little guy. He can smell her milk and he’s persistent. Trouble is, she can smell him and it’s an unfamiliar odor. I just tried something new. I took some of her milk and rubbed it all over him. That might fool her.”

  He exits the stall and leans with me on the gate, drinking the soup. For thirty minutes we watch as Brownie circles the mare. If Meadow rejects the new colt, we’ll be in the same position as the Hummingbird family and I’ll be bottle-feeding every two hours day and night.

  “Come on.” I interrupt the bonding and open the gate. “I think I can help.”

  “Patience, be patient!” Daniel whispers.

  “No, this is what midwives do, help mothers breastfeed. You stand by the mare and soothe her while I see if I can get the little one to latch on.”

  Dan gives a big sigh and does what I say. “Watch out she doesn’t kick you in the head,” he warns.

  “Here, Brownie!” I squeeze some of Meadow’s milk on my fingers and hold them out to the colt. Brownie steps forward and sucks on them hard. I pull back and dabble more milk on my fingers, over and over drawing him forward, little by little, until he’s only a few inches from the mare’s teat. “One more time. Don’t let Meadow pull away,” I instruct my husband.

  “Here, Brownie . . . Here, Brownie.” Now his mouth is right where I want it and I slip the teat in. Meadow tosses her head. “Don’t let her get away!” Dan leans on her hard, holding the mare against the barn wall. A few minutes later we let go and stand in a corner watching. It’s not Meadow’s first time nursing. She’s had fourteen healthy foals before, and the feeling of the rhythmic sucking must be as familiar to her as breathing.

  The long-legged colt sucks and sucks. He must be half-starved. Finally, he steps away and looks up at his new mom. Meadow turns and sniffs him from head to toe. She nuzzles his head. “Neeeeeigh!” she knickers softly. Then the little colt returns to her teat, and this time he doesn’t need coaxing and she doesn’t pull away.

  23

  May 10, 1942

  Mother’s Day

  Dan and I stand leaning on the deer fence inspecting the garden while the kids prepare a Mother’s Day surprise. There’s not much coming up, only a few pea plants sprouting through the soil and the tops of the onion sets that he put in last week. It’s the satisfaction of imagining our potential harvest that attracts us.

  The early crops, which won’t mind a frost, are already pulsing with life under the surface. A sprout reaches for the sun and the root stretches down seeking water and nourishment. I’ve had a garden every year since I moved to Union County, on the run from Pittsburgh, with Mrs. Kelly . . . This was back when I was sought for murder, several years after the Blair Mountain incident. . . .

  “Patience?” Dan interrupts my thoughts, touching my arm. “A bald eagle! I think it’s nesting on the top of Spruce Mountain. This is the second time I’ve seen it today . . . you seem far away. What are you thinking about, hon?”

  I take a big breath and let it out slowly. “Blair Mountain. I don’t even know how I got from enjoying the garden to something that happened two decades ago. . . . I’ll never forget the feel of my husband’s skull cracking like an eggshell. I shiver just thinking about it.”

  “I know,” he says, putting an arm around me. “I’ve killed people too. Combat makes you crazy. I wish I could banish those memories.” Then he surprises me by lifting me up and swinging me around. Around and around and around . . . until, laughing, we fall in the grass.

  “Mom!” Mira yells from the kitchen door. “Mom! Quit fooling around and get in here!”

  “Happy Mother’s Day, dear Mom. Happy Mother’s Day to you,” the children bellow when we come in the back door to see our noon meal on the table, along with a bouquet of daffodils and tulips

  “Remember last Mother’s Day?” Dan says. “You had two women in labor.”

  I smile thinking about it, one in the Baby Cabin and one in the house. “That was fun. Thank goodness I had Becky to help me. . . . It’s a lot harder to be a midwife with four kids than I thought it would be.”

  “Do you have anyone due?” Dan asks as we clean up the dishes.

  “Somehow I don’t feel as busy as before and I’ve wondered if it’s getting around to . . . you know . . . politics. Word may be
out about your position on the war,” I say under my breath. “And some women might not want to come here.”

  “I hardly think that could be true.” Dan gives me an irritated look. “Anyway, I wish we could afford more help.”

  “Har-har,” I mock. “Like a maid or a cook?”

  “If you could have one thing for Mother’s Day, Mom, what would it be?” Danny asks.

  “One thing? There are so many . . . but you just want one? How about a new electric broom, Hoovers they’re called, or an indoor toilet or an electric butter churn? No, that’s three!”

  “Come in the living room, we have something to show you.” Our son takes my hand and leads me out of the kitchen.

  “Surprise!” the children yell, jumping up and down. They push a large box out from behind the sofa.

  “What’s this?” I ask, sinking into a chair.

  “Open it! Open it!” Mira insists.

  Inside the box I see a familiar dark-red symbol. HOOVER, it says and I can’t believe what’s inside. It’s the miracle machine that the radio announcer says “Beats . . . as it sweeps . . . as it cleans. The ultimate electric broom with revolving brush and suction!”

  “It’s not brand-new,” Dan tells me. “But it might as well be. I got it from a client over near Delmont, a miner, making good money, and he just bought the newest model for his wife.”

  “I love it,” I whisper with tears in my eyes. “Thank you, everyone. Let me give you all hugs.”

  “Let’s try it!” Danny says, taking the long electric cord and plugging it in. “Here’s the On button, Ma.” He points to a little red switch.

  “It’s kind of like learning to drive,” Dan says. “Here you go. Sprinkle some salt on the kitchen floor, Susie.”

  I click the red button. Vroooom! the machine roars into operation. “Just push it across the linoleum,” Dan instructs me. “The lady that owned it before gave me a demonstration.”

  Timidly, I begin. “You’re doing great,” Dan says.

  “Yay, Mom!” the kids cheer. Then we all try it.

  May 15, 1942

  Blackout

  There’s an air-raid drill tonight, Mom,” Danny tells me. “Can we make popcorn and listen to the radio in the dark?”

  “Yes, if the chores are done. Remember, we can’t walk outside with lanterns or have a light in the barn. The civil defense people are getting really strict about it. Also we need blankets over the front windows and the front door. Can you girls take care of that?”

  “What will happen if we mess up and a little light gets out?” Susie worries. I take her in my lap. “Will they take us to jail?”

  “No, honey. That’s not going to happen. Anyway, we plan to follow the rules.”

  By dusk we have the chores finished and begin preparations for the drill. The children and I actually enjoy this excitement, but as usual, Daniel refuses to participate, saying that it’s all government propaganda, an attempt to heighten civilian fear.

  If we lived in town we would have to take the drills more seriously. Air-raid wardens actually patrol the streets wearing uniforms and tin helmets. Once a month, on random nights and at random times, the drills are announced in the paper and everyone must turn out their lights, pull the curtains, and stay off the roads for two to four hours.

  The movie marquee will be extinguished. The neon lights on the tavern are turned off, even the streetlights go dark. If a person is already on the road, he must pull over and turn off his headlights until he hears the “all-clear” siren. The purpose of the blackout drills is to prevent enemy planes from spotting our towns and bombing us.

  This evening, the children and I begin by going room-to-room, starting with Danny’s bedroom, pulling down blinds and closing the curtains. According to the public announcements, not a speck of light must show.

  While we work we sing a new song we heard on the radio, “Obey Your Air Raid Warden”: “Don’t get in a huff. Our aim today is to call their bluff!” Even Daniel, the grump, sings along.

  Finally, when all is secure, I light a kerosene lamp, make a big pot of popcorn, and we all settle down in the living room.

  My knee is sore tonight and my husband lets me prop it up in his lap. “I think we’re pretty well set.” He laughs. “Now, turn on the radio. . . . No, wait. I hear a motor.” He steps to the front window and pulls back the curtain.

  “Papa!” Susie squeals. “Be careful; the light!” Her father complies and drops the opening to a slit.

  “See anything?” I ask.

  “No, but someone’s coming.” The noise gets louder and now everyone hears it.

  “Aren’t they supposed to stay home during a blackout?” Sunny wants to know.

  “Obey your air-raid warden!” Mira sings.

  A few minutes later Bitsy’s Indian motorcycle without headlights turns into the drive and Daniel goes out.

  “Bitsy! Willie!” I hear him say. “Are you okay?”

  “Stay here, kids,” I order, and join him in the drive.

  “Can’t we come out?” the children all cry. This is as exciting as Christmas, maybe more so, because there’s the element of vague danger. An air-raid warden might get us!

  “What’s up?” Dan asks.

  “We need a midwife,” Bitsy says. “We heard one lives here!”

  “Very funny,” I say, then I see a second dark vehicle creep across the wooden bridge.

  By the time the woman, the one with the two boys that we once saw at the Texaco station with the camper, is in the Baby Cabin, she has to push, and we’ve opened and closed the doors five times.

  May 15, 1942

  Birth of baby girl to Oriole and Bull Jackson, new neighbors from Hazel Patch, at 8:22 P.M. in the Baby Cabin. Attending the mother were myself and Bitsy Proudfoot. Mr. Jackson was a great help in soothing his wife, who said she felt she was being pushed by a runaway train and couldn’t slow down. Daniel Hester was also present, because in the rush to get Oriole comfortable, he got stuck in the corner when I moved my rolling table over to the bed.

  He apologized mightily to Oriole for invading her privacy and said that he’d kept his eyes closed the whole time, but I doubted it. I bet he took a peek or two. Who could help it . . . hearing the sounds of one life giving birth to another.

  The baby weighed 6 pounds 7 ounces and cried right away. No excessive bleeding. No tears. Placenta intact. The Jacksons didn’t have any money until the mister gets his first paycheck at the woolen mill, but I said that was fine. Actually, it was a joy.

  24

  May 30, 1942

  Decoration Day

  The Decoration Day parade, or Memorial Day, as some now call it, was created as a time to celebrate those who’ve fallen in battle to defend our freedom, and this year it seems to have more meaning.

  The parade, though not as big as the Fourth of July parade, is still exciting for the children. We find seats on the courthouse steps. Far down the street and around the corner we hear the rat-a-tat-tat of a drum, then music, and the crowd stirs. It’s the Liberty High School Band, proudly wearing new dark-blue uniforms, with tall red hats with white feathers; followed by a color guard from the American Legion; then the snappy All-Negro Drum Corps from Delmont.

  The drum corps also has new uniforms, but not so fancy—brown pants, with sharp white military shirts and brown-and-red military-style hats in the army tradition. Trailing behind them are the old vets in their old uniforms. The elderly Mr. Roote winks as they pass. A few years ago there were Civil War vets in both blue and gray, but they’ve passed on now.

  There’s even a CCC truck decked out with American flags and a jazz band playing “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” As the crowd cheers, it saddens me to think that these boys will soon be sent to the battlefield; cannon fodder, Dan would call them. The generals who plan the wars put the young men on the front lines while the old guys stay out of harm’s way.

  A yellow-haired young man sings the lyrics through a megaphone. “They made him blow a bugle for hi
s Uncle Sam. It really brought him down because he couldn’t jam. . . .”

  Everyone under thirty starts to dance, including my children—especially Mira, who really shakes it, and Daniel has to grab the back of her dress before she can dash into the streets and put on a show. A trumpet player in the truck stands up with his horn and improvises a few bars and then the singer comes in again . . . “He’s the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B!”

  After the jolly interlude, the Army National Guard marches by with a clipped cadence. The crowd roars with approval, but there’s not one smile on the men’s faces. These are serious soldiers, and they know that they will soon be fighting for our freedom and for their lives.

  “Sound-off; one, two!” the drill sergeant calls.

  “Sound-off; three, four!” the soldiers respond. Then all together they bark in their strong male voices, “One, two, three, four. One, two. Three, four!”

  When the parade ends, we get in the Olds and head for the cemetery at the end of Third Street. Memorial Day in West Virginia is an important ritual. Nearly everyone has relatives who’ve died in some war . . . soon they will have more.

  At the cemetery, old oaks and maples shade the graves and the lawn has been freshly cut. The strange part is the division between the Catholic and the Protestant cemeteries. A wrought-iron fence with sharp points at the top divides the two graveyards, as if after death the dead might jump the fence and intermarry. No worry about the colored. Negroes are buried behind the AME Methodist Church downtown.

  Other years, I’ve let the children run among the tombstones, laughing and playing, while Daniel and I decorated the grave of some soldier who seems to have no kin, but this year people greet us with a solemn nod rather than a hearty hello. It must be the war, I think. Decorating the graves of soldiers who died in the past reminds us of the grief that is coming.

  As we wander through the graveyard, we look for a suitable vet to honor. “How about this one?” Dan asks, pointing to a plain gravestone with an American flag carved into it and no flowers. “Private Jefferson Long,” he reads. “Wounded in the Battle of Philippi. Died in his mother’s arms in Liberty, WV, one year later. 1841–1862.”