“How the hell did you get here in a coal truck?” Hardman asks.
“My Olds is in a ditch on the other side of the ridge, but there’s a baby,” I point to the truck. “There’s a newborn. Get the mother and infant into the ambulance. Everything’s fine, but take them to my place. Take them to the Baby Cabin, Bitsy. The placenta is still attached. I didn’t want to cut the cord without sterile scissors.” After Bitsy takes charge of the mother and infant, she brings me a blanket and gets me into the warm front seat of the old ambulance van that doubles as a funeral wagon.
For a few minutes the men confer about whether to try to tow the two vehicles out, but finally decide to leave both where they are until they can get more help and the roads are clear. Then the tractor leads the way down Hogback Mountain toward the Hope River.
“How long have you been stuck here?” the sheriff asks as we slip and slide down the slick slope.
I hesitate, thinking about the long night. “It must have been about eleven hours.”
“You were damn lucky you didn’t run out of gas and freeze your butt! Pardon my French.” Hardman shakes his head.
“But how did you know where to look for me?”
“Lou guessed,” Bitsy answers. “He knew you’d be hurrying to get home and he remembered telling you about the shortcut.
“A baby born in a coal truck! Good thing you were here,” Bitsy says.
November 27, 1942
(Delivery Note, written one week later, because I got a bad cold and was very sick.)
A healthy male infant was born to Felicia and Martino Ricci in a Delmont Coal truck on the top of Hogback Mountain. We were both stuck in the mud and ice in separate vehicles, but I walked through the sleet and arrived just as the poor woman was about to give birth.
Fortunately, everything went well. The infant cried right away and was of good size. The mother didn’t tear and blood loss was average, about one cup.
At dawn we were rescued and taken to the Baby Cabin, where I used my hanging scale and learned that the infant weighed 6 pounds, 12 ounces. The family stayed for two days.
Present at the delivery, mother, father, and midwife, Patience Hester.
47
November 29, 1942
Prisoners of War
Saturday, for the first time in weeks, the children and I went to town. We were out of lard, and sugar, so I took our ration cards and we all crowded into the Olds. It was a clear day, not a cloud in the sky and on the way we sang, “The bear went over the mountain. The bear went over the mountain. The bear went over the mountain to see what he could see. And all that he could see. And all that he could see was . . .”
“What do think he saw, Mira?” I asked.
“Another bear!” she laughed.
“A carnival,” Sunny offered.
“An army fighting the Germans,” Danny proposed.
“God,” Susie surprised us.
“How about you, Mom?” Mira wanted to know. “What do you think the bear saw?”
“I don’t know . . . your pa coming home?”
Something changed in me when I ran off the road in the storm and was stuck on Hogback Mountain. I’ve been so confused, swinging from anger at Dan to fear of being alone, hating him for abandoning us to scorning him for his moral purity, to missing him. . . . Now I don’t care if Daniel’s a convict, a felon, a draft dodger or a pacifist. I just want Dan home; nothing else matters.
Our first stop is Bittman’s Grocery, which is already decorated for Christmas with a wreath on the door. “Stay with me, kids, but don’t cause a commotion. If you’re good, I’ll get you a candy cane.”
Inside, my four little ghosts silently follow me. Not one says a peep. B.K. is working behind the counter today and he measures out my allotment of sugar and coffee.
“I’ll take five red, white, and blue striped candy canes too.” I indicate the patriotic sweets in the glass case. “Oh, and how much are oranges?” The children’s eyes get big.
“Ten cents apiece. It’s a good price. How about a dozen?” I nod my head. “Did you hear the German prisoners arrived yesterday?” B.K. asks as he bags my fruit and puts my purchases in my cloth satchel.
“Already? I thought the paper said they were coming in December.” Danny’s standing very close, listening. He’s been worried about the POW camp since we first heard about it.
“Yeah, but they arrived early. You should have been here. Two trains pulled into the station and the German soldiers got off and formed into lines like they were in a parade. There must have been two hundred of them. They were wearing sharp wool uniforms too, complete with medals.
“Our fellows, the U.S. military police, all looked about sixteen and were wearing wrinkled camouflage and heavy khaki jackets. On the other hand, our boys had the weapons—carbines and even a Thompson submachine gun.
“The guards marched the Germans down the street to five waiting army trucks. It wasn’t until the POWs got in the trucks that I saw a trace of fear in their eyes. They must not tell the captives where they’re going or what will happen to them. Of course, the Nazi propaganda machine makes all Americans look like flesh-eating monsters.”
“Do you think anyone around here will actually hire prisoners?” I ask. “I’d be afraid.”
“Don’t know about that. A lady from Elkins was in the store the other day and said some of the Italian POWs at the camp near her home are carpenters and stonemasons. Her father had them build a nice little barn on their farm. She knew the prisoners by name and the family ate their noon meal with them every day.
“I tell you, Patience, there’s a need for manpower in Union County. So many fellows have gone to the war. If I had a farm, I’d use them.” I raise my eyebrows and Danny turns away in disgust.
Just then the bell on the store door rings and Ida May from Ida May’s House of Beauty enters. It’s clear something is wrong. Her eyes are red and she wears no makeup. I tell the kids to wait outside and approach her when she’s smoking a cigarette back by the pickle barrel.
“Ida May, what’s wrong?” I whisper, putting my arm around her.
“It’s Gerald, my brother from Beckley . . . His plane went down. He’s a flight engineer in the air force. Now he’s missing in action. Annie, my sister-in-law who’s staying with me, got a telegram from the head of his squadron.”
“Missing in action? That doesn’t mean he’s dead. He could’ve just been captured or in hiding from the enemy.”
“No . . . it’s not definite, but Annie is beside herself. She won’t eat. Cries all the time. We haven’t told their children. Oh, Patience! What can I do to console her?”
I try to think. What I would do? Hold Annie. Hug her. Pray with them both.
“Here, take these oranges.” I shove the sack into her hands. “Maybe Annie’s children will like them.”
Out in front, my kids wait in the thin winter sunshine. Danny has his hands in his pockets staring at the National Guard soldiers unloading boxcars across the street. The girls are playing hopscotch on the sidewalk squares. “Thank you for being good in there.” I pull out the candy canes and pass them around.
“What happened to the oranges?” Danny asks gruffly.
“I gave them to Ida May.”
“She could buy her own oranges,” my boy snarls. “She has more money than we do.”
“I know, but Ida May is so sad. This is a secret. I don’t want you to tell anyone. Ida’s sister-in-law got a telegram this week from Washington that her husband, Ida May’s brother, went down with his airplane somewhere over Germany. They haven’t told the two little girls about their Pa, and I don’t want them to hear about it from some stranger you’ve told.”
“Dead?” my son asks.
“No one knows. He’s missing in action.”
Danny swallows hard. “That’s okay, Mom,” he says, taking my hand as we walk back to the car. “Those kids need the oranges more than us.”
November 30, 1942
Dear Daniel
,
I know you must have heard through Reverend Miller about my adventure getting stuck on Hogback Mountain on my way home from the prison a few weeks ago. I’m sorry I couldn’t write, but I’ve been ill. I doctored myself with lobelia to thin the mucus and kept the fever down with Bayer Aspirin, but I’m still coughing and am surprisingly weak. Mr. Maddock and Sheriff Hardman got the Olds back last week and it wasn’t damaged much and still runs.
Being stuck on Hogback Mountain, I thought about you and our differences and I was ashamed of how I left you. Something changed in me that night. Life is too short to be unkind. We are in this together and despite our differences about the war, I want to be together. I need to be together.
I thought of you on Thanksgiving and wondered what you had for dinner. Do prisoners get any special food? Since I was sick, we didn’t have much of a celebration. Mrs. Miller brought over a plate of ham and Mr. Maddock brought a mincemeat pie that Sarah made, but I felt so rotten I didn’t eat much.
So that’s all the news.
I lay my hand on my heart.
Patience
Winter Returns
48
December 1, 1942
Anniversary
ONE YEAR OF WAR! the Liberty Times announces above an editorial by Bill Blaze.
On December 7, 1941, life, as we knew it in the U.S.A. changed. We did not seek war. Americans have never been so reluctant to enter a war, but the devious Japanese pretended to negotiate while they prepared a deadly raid on our people.
Nearly twelve months later the war still stretches before us, a struggle of years, not of months, and we must steel ourselves for losses and sacrifices. Here on the home front we will endure shortages and deprivation, but in the end, we shall triumph. Today, let us remember, in a moment of silence, those who died December 7, 1941, those who have died in combat since then and those who will die in the future fighting to protect our freedom.
On the same page there’s another article headlined GAS RATIONING ORDERED BY PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT and an ad for Gold’s Dry Goods that says ONLY 21 MORE DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS. It features photos of a toy farmstead, a stuffed Donald Duck, and a punching bag on a stand complete with boxing gloves for only three dollars. Our son would love the punching bag and if it would help with his anger, I might consider it.
I go to the money jar in the pantry to assess our finances; $35 and some change. If I spend a total of $5 for Christmas, there won’t be enough for the punching bag.
December 3, 1942
Dear Daniel,
As Christmas approaches, I realize this will be the first time we’ve been apart in twelve years.
I remember the first Christmas we shared before we were married and I’m sure you do too. You came to my house on Wild Rose Road. It was a cold, snowy night and when you knocked I was surprised because I hadn’t heard you drive up.
I’m not sure why I let you in. I’d only met you one time, when you came to treat my cow’s mastitis. It was the middle of Prohibition and you stood there on Christmas Eve in a trench coat and fedora holding a bottle of booze. Pretty wild of me to let you come in, don’t you think? But I’d just been singing carols with my two beagles, Sasha and Emma, and I guess you seemed trustworthy.
Now for the news. It’s not Bitsy Proudfoot anymore. It’s Bitsy Cross. She and Lou Cross married! They went to Uniontown yesterday and tied the knot at the courthouse. There are laws against interracial marriage in West Virginia, but not in Pennsylvania. Bitsy says they were repealed in P.A. in 1780. Can you believe that, just a few years after the Revolutionary War?
Anyway, Lou now declares he’s one-eighth Negro and he argues that no one can say he isn’t. How do they know he doesn’t have a great-great-great grandmother who was a slave? So even in West Virginia their union is legal. I congratulated the two wholeheartedly, but still I fear for them. Some people can be so unkind. On Sunday they are having a big party at the schoolhouse in Hazel Patch. It’s in the paper and everything.
Now, back to Christmas. I saw a punching bag I’d like to get for Danny, but it’s rather dear, three dollars; probably paper dolls for the girls and maybe a few new hair ribbons. What do you need? I’ll try to get back to the prison before the holidays and bring some current newspapers and a book. After my accident, Sheriff Hardman insists I not go alone again and I guess he’s right, so I’ll have to find someone who can spend a whole day accompanying me, maybe Reverend Miller, though he’s working part-time at the woolen mill. Maybe Mr. Maddock. I’ll see, but he might not want to leave Sarah.
I try not to be sad that you are away and accept my life as it is.
We say our prayers for you every night.
With love,
Patience
December 6, 1942
Celebration
Bitsy and Lou are officially living together at Hazel Patch now and I guess that’s a good thing. Despite Lou’s popularity, I’m not sure a mixed couple will be accepted in town, and there are no dwellings left in the colored section on the other side of the tracks in Liberty.
By way of the newspaper, they’ve invited everyone they know to celebrate. It was a paid advertisement on the back of the Liberty Times, complete with a holly border, fancy print, and two turtledoves.
Mr. and Mrs. Lou and Bitsy Cross
Invite all their friends
To celebrate their recent marriage.
Festivities will be held at
The Hazel Patch Schoolhouse,
Salt Lick Road, Liberty, West Virginia.
2 P.M., Sunday, December 13, 1942.
Refreshments and Dancing.
Children welcome.
I am shocked at their boldness and yet also pleased. If there’s going to be gossip or objection, might as well get it out in the open. The children are excited and can’t wait for the party. I offered to bring three apple pies. Lou will get a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and there will be cider and popcorn.
SUNDAY DAWNS GRAY and cold, not the best day for a get-together, but by noon the sky clears. I’d planned to get to Hazel Patch early to help Bitsy set up, but at the last minute, Susie had to go make a trip to the outhouse and then I lost my keys. Fortunately, after a major search, Sunny found them on the banister of the porch, where I’d left them.
The sun broke through the blanket of gray as we followed the creek toward Hazel Patch. Salt Lick, half frozen, sparkled with ice, and the children sang Christmas songs at the top of their lungs. “You better watch out. You better not cry. You better not pout. I’m telling you why. Santa Claus is coming to town!”
“How many more days?” Mira breaks in. At seven she’s the youngest and probably the only one that really believes in Santa Claus. Danny is all past that, but he never lets on. Susie and Sunny and I discussed the old guy recently when Mira was outside.
“The girls in Liberty told us that Santa Claus isn’t real, that our parents bring the presents. Is that true?” Susie asked.
“What do you think?” I deflected the question.
“I think they’re right,” Sunny put in. “But I like to pretend.”
Susie puts her hand on her hip and gives me a look. “Just admit it. You and Pa buy the presents.”
“Okay,” I finally say, “Santa Claus is a story, a legend from the old days. I think there actually was a real man like him once who gave presents to children in Europe. Germany or Holland, I think.”
“The Germans have Santa too?” Sunny exclaims. “I thought they were bad people.”
“Not all of them.” I frown, wishing Dan were here to explain.
“Your pa’s grandparents were Germans. Mr. Dresher is German. The family that stayed in the Baby Cabin after my car accident on Hogback Mountain, Martino and Felicia, are Italian. They aren’t our enemies in this war. I’ve never met a Japanese person, but I’m sure there are some good ones.” By this time we’re almost to Hazel Patch and I start the song again.
“He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake. He k
nows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness’ sake!”
Two Left Feet
As we pull up next to the one-room schoolhouse, I compliment the kids on the decorations. Brown and white faces of paper elves, wearing red pointed hats, cut out of construction paper, are taped in the windows, and the small bell tower on top of the white clapboard building is festooned with holly and spruce bows.
“Willie and I did that,” my son tells me proudly, pointing to the roof.
“They had to climb ladders,” Mira adds.
I’m surprised that there are already ten cars in the lot. Inside, the Reverend and Mrs. Miller, the Jacksons, and the Maddocks greet us, but the big shock is when Opal walks in carrying little Joey. It’s like the two are celebrities, at least to Bitsy, Willie, and our brood.
Joey is now one year old, and what a beautiful child he is, with the same brown skin and curly hair as his mother, but eyes that are a startling light gray. And what a smile! Willie carries him around introducing him to everyone as his cousin, and I think some people believe him.
Because of the crowd, I wasn’t able to spend as much time with Opal as I would have liked, but her mother, who drove down with her, told me that Opal’s father, a porter on the B&O Railroad, got her a job as a teletype operator at the station in Connellsville. She gets fifty-six cents an hour, almost the same as a factory worker, and she’s already saving up money to buy her own car.
Grandma Johnson takes care of Joey when Opal’s at work, and I could tell she’s proud of them both.
LOU CAREFULLY SELECTS a record and puts it on a beautiful new electric portable turntable that he bought Bitsy for a wedding present. He lowers the needle and a new popular song by Bing Crosby comes on: “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas. Just like the ones I used to know. Where the treetops glisten, and children listen to hear sleigh bells in the snow.”
Bitsy’s wearing a calf-length red dress with little pleats down the front and a white lace collar, which goes beautifully with her coffee-and-cream skin. Her new husband has on a white cowboy shirt and a green bolo tie.
Once a Midwife Page 27
