by Deanna Edens
“Great,” Will said approvingly, “I’ll drive up here in the morning and bring a few groceries. There’s a loaf of bread and some lunchmeat in the fridge.” Feeling as if he needed to elaborate he added, “I brought those up from my store earlier today.”
“You are very thoughtful, Will.” I paid tribute to his kindness.
His eyes crinkled up as he strolled toward his truck and mounted into the driver’s seat before turning to yell back at me, “I’ll see ya in the funny papers.”
“Yep.” I snapped my fingers in Hank’s direction, “Let’s go inside.” The old hound dog lazily dropped to the porch and dawdled into the living room, jumped onto the blue velvet sofa, burrowed in comfortably, and immediately fell back into a snoring state of slumber.
I glanced around the cozy living room and thumbed through the books resolutely propped on a large shelf. “Intestinal Cures for Large Animals, Eye Infections and Treatments, Castration Techniques.” I ran my finger over the spine of each book. “Yawn.” I had given up on finding a good book and decided to fix a sandwich when I noticed a rope hanging from the ceiling in the hall. It appeared to lead up to an attic, so I tugged on the cord and carefully lowered a wooden staircase. When I reached the top rung I was surprised to see sunshine flowing in. I never realized there was a large attic in this old farmhouse, or that there was a high window, which allowed natural light to gleam through during the daylight hours.
When I stepped into the musty room I felt as if I had entered a fairytale land. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could make out the shapes of candles, chests, old books, and dried flowers nestled over a circular window. A hand-carved wooden chair was positioned in the corner and miscellaneous containers lay haphazardly on the floor. The stream of light flickering through the window accented a stack of vintage books and an old lamplight – all this amazingly perceptible at first glance. On top of the pile of books, positioned staunchly on a shelf, I observed an aged green journal. I plucked it down and opened it, “My notes on the suffrage movement and unionization in West Virginia, along with other random thoughts…”
It was a handwritten journal, composed by Erma, and dated 1919. “Should I read Erma’s personal thoughts and memories?” I pondered. “This may be considered an invasion of privacy.” I slammed the book shut and tucked it under my arm. “This would be a fun room to explore,” I anticipated before descending the rickety stairs.
Once I was back in the living room, I nudged the drooling hound dog. “What do you think, Hank? Should I read this?” His ear didn’t even twitch, so I figured he didn’t give a hoot one way or another.
“She obviously wouldn’t have left it here if she didn’t want anyone to read it,” I rationalized, as I scooted Hank over, snuggled in beside him, and joyously fingered the timeworn parchment of the aged journal.
Sissonville, West Virginia
June 6, 1919
“Friends”
{{2}}
“Erma?” Ida called out as she pulled the screen door open, “Are ya here?”
“Back in the clinic,” she heard a voice shout, “come on in.”
Ida made her way to the back of the old farmhouse and peered through the door of the clinic where she spied her best friend curiously examining a piglet’s nose.
“I can’t figure out what’s bothering Herbie,” Erma declared, as she glanced toward Ida.
“Who’s Herbie?” Ida asked, as she dropped a large hatbox down on the desk, glimpsed around at the peeling, yellowed wallpaper and wondered for the umpteenth time why her friend had decided to buy this farm.
“Herbie,” Erma pointed toward the sleeping pig who was blissfully draped across the slab of wood that served as her operating table, “is Eugene Mayfield’s pet pig. The poor animal is sleeping too much and Eugene can’t get him to wake up in the mornings. It’s been goin’ on for over a week now.”
“Okay,” Ida perched her hand on her hip as a frown quickly formed on her face, “you really need to get out of this holler more often.”
“I left the holler two days ago to buy groceries,” Erma distractedly replied.
Ida exhaled slowly, “Driving to the end of the road to purchase a sack of flour doesn’t count.” She rolled her eyes dramatically as she carefully lifted a hat from the elaborately decorated box, “Look what I bought you in New York, Erma. Isn’t it lovely?”
Erma stared at the large hat with its oversized suede brim and red ostrich plumes sticking out in all directions. “Thank ya, Ida. It’s very hoity-toity. It will match my overalls perfectly.”
“Now you are being sarcastic,” Ida scowled, “I took great care in choosing this hat for you. It is the latest fashion in New York City.”
“I’m sorry, Ida.” Erma smiled at her friend, “It is very lovely and I do appreciate ya thinking of me. I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings.”
Ida gave her a dismissive wave of her hand, “It’s alright. I’ll get over it.” She placed the hat on top of the box before plopping down on a chair by the desk.
Erma gaped at Ida for a long moment, noticing she had gotten a new haircut while in New York. Her short stylish bob made her look sophisticated. “Your hair looks beautiful, Ida!”
“Well, thank you for noticing. It’s a little short,” she felt her blonde curls, “but I am getting used to it.”
“It’s perfect. It makes ya look all grown-up and classy.”
“Thanks.” She took in a deep breath as if gathering her courage, “Erma, I attended a lecture in New York last week and have decided to join the suffrage movement,” she peeped at her friend to gauge her reaction, “and I want you to join it with me.”
“I have a lot of suffering to tend to right here,” Erma tilted her head in the direction of the sleeping pig.
“Suffrage,” Ida articulated, “not suffering.”
“I know what ya meant, Ida.” Erma said, as she opened the pig’s mouth wide and leaned in close.
Ida looked at her curiously, “Anyway, I am planning to attend a suffrage meeting tomorrow night at the Kanawha County Library, because the speaker is going to be Lenna Lowe Yost, and I’d like for you to go with me.” Her eyes widened with excitement, “You know as well as I do that women should have the right to vote and to stand for electoral office.”
Erma nodded in agreement as she sniffed the piglet’s breath. “Come over here and smell this, Ida.” Erma requested.
“You want me to sniff a hog’s breath?” Ida’s nose scrunched up incredulously, “I’m very concerned about you, Erma.” She rose out of the chair and took two steps toward the operating table. “I cannot express how important it is for you to get off of this mountain from time to time.”
“It’s not a hog,” Erma corrected, “it’s a pig. Now come here and tell me what ya smell.”
“I’m not sticking my nose into a pig’s mouth,” Ida released a hushed sigh before asking curiously, “what is it you think you smell, anyway?”
“I don’t know.” Erma stretched the swine’s jaw open wider, “You tell me.”
Ida leaned forward and inhaled deeply, “Yuk! How disgusting! This pig has been drinking ‘shine.”
“Yep,” Erma acknowledged Ida’s observation, “he’s been too drunk to wake up in the mornings. That’s what has been wrong with him.”
Ida leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “I reckon Herbie hadn’t heard of prohibition. I wonder where he’s gettin’ moonshine.”
“I’ll have to ask Eugene when he comes to pick him up,” Erma teasingly winked, “I figure he’ll be mighty surprised to find out Herbie has been dipping into his still.”
“I doubt if he’ll be surprised,” Ida picked up a bar of lye soap and began to scrub her hands absorbedly. “Herbie is probably Eugene’s drinking buddy.” She snatched up a dry cloth and abruptly turned to face her friend, “The way I figure it is – tomorrow night you can stay up here in this holler sniffing hog’s breath or pin on your new hat and accompany me to the suffrage meeting in Cha
rleston. What do you say?”
Erma narrowed her eyes as she carefully considered her options, “It’s a tough decision.” Her finger rose to rest on her cheek as if she was prudently weighing her choices, “Hog’s breath, or a trip to the beautiful town of Charleston? Overalls or a new fashionable hat delivered straight from New York City?” She shifted her weight, “Hmmm.”
Erma winked in Ida’s direction, “Of course, I’m goin’ with ya. What time will ya pick me up?” She tossed her favorite old brown leather hat on the floor and gently picked up the gift Ida had given to her, “It looks like there’s a full-size ostrich hanging off the top of this thing,” Erma reasoned, as she gaped at her new headpiece. She examined it with interest as she attempted to determine exactly how she could fasten this gigantic ornament into her massive spray of locks.
The following evening, Erma could hear Ida’s Ford Model T bumping its way up Black Hollow Road long before it pulled up beside the farmhouse. She slid the last bobby pin in to secure her chic hat just as Ida cracked open the screen door.
“Are you ready?”
“Sure am,” Erma called from her bedroom.
“Let’s get a move on,” Ida called out, “Route 21 is busy this time of evening.”
Erma stepped into the living room and twirled in a circle in order for Ida to admire her new hat. “What do ya think?”
“You look gorgeous,” Ida acknowledged, “and I am jealous. Why does everything you put on make you look like a movie star?”
Erma flashed Ida a grin, all the time knowing her friend was lying through her teeth, “Yeah, just like Charlie Chaplin.”
Ida giggled when she pictured Charlie Chaplin’s moustache, “You’re much more attractive than Mr. Chaplin.”
“Thanks,” Erma slid on her jacket, “ya have the uncanny knack of always making me feel good about myself.”
“What are best friends for?” Ida said, as she glanced around the large living room. Her eyes stopped on a tall pile of crates that were filled with oranges. “Why do you have hundreds of oranges stacked up in your living room?”
“Oh,” Erma flippantly waved her hand, “with this flu epidemic goin’ around I figured some Vitamin C might just do the trick. So if anyone calls on me with flu symptoms, at least I can offer them a few oranges. They’re packed with nutrients and most folks don’t get enough citrus in their daily diet around these parts. I aim to store them in the barn but didn’t have time to tend to it today.”
“You constantly amaze me, Erma.” Ida motioned toward the door, “If we leave right now, we should have time to stop at Camp’s Drug Store, on the west side, and grab a couple of fountain drinks.”
“Mmmm, that sounds so good. I haven’t had a fountain drink in a coon’s age.” Erma admitted, as she followed Ida out, letting the screen door slap shut behind her. She hopped into the passenger seat, feeling her plumes dusting the ceiling of the Ford, which Ida so affectionately referred to as Tin Lizzie, and anxiously began to adjust her hat as they bumped down the rutted mud hollow.
“While I was in New York,” Ida began to share her adventures, “I learned about a horrible incident that occurred when a women’s suffrage group was picketing outside the White House. Thirty-three women were peacefully carrying signs requesting the right to vote, and ended up getting arrested for obstructing sidewalk traffic.” Ida glanced toward Erma, “All they were doing was standing up for what they believed in,” she wagged her finger to emphasize her point, “which is what we have been taught to do for years.”
“When did this happen?”
“Less than two years ago,” Ida paused, as if trying to remember the exact date, “it was in November of 1917.”
Erma tried to pull back her knowledge of suffrage, “Ya know the last time women attempted to get the right to vote in West Virginia it was defeated.”
“Which is why we still can’t vote! Erma, this makes me hotter than a firecracker. I am smarter than most men I know.”
“You’re smarter than everyone I know.”
“Well, thank you,” she accepted in the most charming southern tone of voice she could muster. “So, why shouldn’t I be allowed to vote?”
“You’re preachin’ to the choir,” Erma devoted a quick wave to the heavens.
Ida continued with her story, “During this protest, one woman named Lucy Burns, was beat and then they chained her hands to the cell bars above her head and left her hanging all night, bleeding and gasping for air.”
“Ya don’t think we’ll have any trouble tonight, do ya? I really can’t afford to spend the night in jail.” Erma took in a deep breath, “Even though I’m supposed to keep my doctorin’ to animals with this flu pandemic goin’ on, I’m weedin’ a pretty wide row.”
“I know you’ve been busy, Erma, and I hope there’s no problems tonight.” Ida bit at her lower lip, “But I can’t manage to get everything I learned about those brave women off my mind.” She continued, “Another woman, Dora Lewis, had her head smashed against an iron bed and her cellmate thought she was dead all night long.”
“That’s horrible!” Erma gasped with disgust, “What is wrong with people?”
“They’re crazy. But, don’t get yourself riled up. That’s just the way people are and there’s not a thing in the world we can do to change them.” Ida replied matter-of-factly. “Even worse, Alice Paul, who was one of the leaders, decided to go on a hunger strike so they tied her to a chair, forced a tube down her throat and poured liquid into her until she vomited. They tortured her for weeks like this until the word leaked out to the press. Do you know they even tried to persuade a psychiatrist that she was insane so they could lock her up in an institution?” Ida sighed as if she had taken on all the worries of the world, “Fortunately, the doctor refused to agree with the men who were trying to institutionalize her and publicly stated ‘Courage in women is often mistaken for insanity.’”
“Well, Lord have mercy!” Erma rolled the window down a notch to get some fresh air.
“This confrontation I’ve been telling you about became known as the Night of Terror, and the entire time they were in prison they gave the women only water from an open pail, and food that was infested with worms.”
Erma gulped, “No! I had no idea.” Erma was so nervous listening to Ida’s story that she began twirling her hair around and around with one finger, all the time realizing she would end up with a wad of knots on one side of her head.
Sure enough, she did.
By the time Ida parked on the street near Camp’s Drug Store, Erma could feel a baseball size mess of hair hanging below the brim of her new hat that had been hand-delivered straight from New York City.
“Ida,” she finally suggested after they had found a table, “I agree that we should choose a cause and stand up for what we believe in because it’s the only way we can make this world a better place. We both know Mrs. Jones taught us to be brave, but I’m not convinced that suffrage should be my fight with all the injustice still goin’ on in the world today. I still think about losing my daddy in Red Ash coal mine – just like you did, and I don’t know…” her voice trailed off as she started picking a hole in the checked oilcloth on the table.
“You want to make unionization and safe working conditions more of your focus?” Ida suggested, “Just like Mother Jones?”
Erma nodded wistfully, “Yeah, I suppose.” She slanted her head thoughtfully, “Or maybe my purpose is just tending to the animals up the holler.” She flipped her hand in the air, “What if it’s God’s plan for me to stay up Black Hollow Road and take care of the animals and folks up there?”
“I understand what you’re saying. Bloom where you are planted – by helping as many people as you can.”
“And animals,” Erma interjected.
“And animals,” Ida concurred, “but we can help one person or thousands of people.”
“When ya help one person at a time, it becomes thousands over the course of a lifetime,” Erma reminded her friend.
Ida disinterestedly stared at the Coca-Cola clock hanging on the wall. “We only have about fifteen minutes before we need to head out.”
“I’m drinking this pop as fast as I can,” Erma slurped at her soda.
“Just listen to what Lenna Lowe Yost has to say about the suffrage movement tonight and then make a decision. Okay?” Ida proposed as she raucously scooted her chair backward.
Erma rolled her eyes as she sucked up the last droplet from the bottom of her glass.
The women scurried back to the car and made the short drive into Charleston, where Ida steered sharply onto McFarland Street and began searching for a parking space. “I’ve been thinking about what you said a few minutes ago, and I will go anywhere to fight for the miners, if you will accompany me when I attend meetings or protests to try to get voting rights for women. Deal?”
Erma considered her proposition for a long moment before consenting, “Deal.”
Then they sealed their promise in their usual manner – with a good ole pinky pledge.
Sissonville, West Virginia
April 9, 1981
{{3}}
I woke up from the dream cherishing the reality that I was safely snuggled on the sofa in the comfortable warmth of Erma’s living room. Unfortunately, I was nestled in beside Hank, who stunk to high-heaven, and who was also dribbling liberally on my arm. I nudged him, “Hank, get off the sofa and quit slobbering all over the place! I can’t believe Erma allowed you on the furniture.” I briefly imagined that I was much more lenient than Erma had ever been with Hank, “Which is disturbing.”
When I heard a knock on the front door, I placed Erma’s journal on the table and looked up to see Will’s silvery head peeking through the rectangular glass blocks of the door. Will was a widower, a bit overweight and lonely, and had a knack of striking up a chat with most anyone who would listen, all innocent enough, but he sure enough could talk your leg off. After Erma had passed away, a few months earlier, he and I had become friends. “Come to think of it, not only had I inherited the ole hound dog from Erma, I apparently inherited Will, too.” I reflected, as I unlatched the chain lock from the door.
