These Healing Hills

by Ann H. Gabhart

  “Ma says that beauty is in the eyes of the beholder,” Jeralene said. “But that the Lord has put something pretty in everybody.”

  Fran smiled. “That’s a good thought, Jeralene. Thank you. And thank you too, Betty.”

  “Well, don’t get the big head. Looks don’t make a nickel’s worth of difference when it comes to being a nurse. Skill is what matters then.”

  “Yes.”

  They worked on the beans without saying anything for a few minutes. Then Jeralene spoke up. “But it is nice when somebody thinks you’re pretty. And Nurse Howard, Woody says his brother must like how you look. He seen him talking to you extra long the last time you went up to his house.”

  Fran could feel Betty staring over at her, but she kept her head bent over the beans. No need advertising the red rising in her cheeks. “He was just giving me a mess of his mother’s speckled beans. We talked some about where I was going because he thought I might get lost heading over the mountain again. I am prone to get off trail.”

  “That you are. You need to study those maps I gave you.” Betty reached for another handful of beans.

  “Yes.” Fran couldn’t argue with that as she tried to keep her mind on the beans.

  Jeralene poked the beans and pulled them down on the thread faster than both Betty and Fran could break off the ends.

  Later when the shucky beans were all threaded and hanging from the porch rafters and she was getting ready for bed, Fran stepped in front of the small square mirror on the wall. She generally only used it to comb her hair and knot her tie. But now she stared at the mirror until her image got fuzzy and her face didn’t even seem like hers any longer.

  Betty was right. She might not be pretty like young Jeralene, but her features lined up fine. Not a thing was wrong with her face. She wasn’t Cecelia from England with a cute turned-up nose and curly hair. She was Francine Howard, Frontier Nurse in the Appalachian Mountains. And Ben Locke did think she was pretty. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did.

  She turned away from the mirror with a smile. Sarge sat beside her, his tail thumping against the chair. She patted the round rag rug beside her bed. “This will have to do, Sarge.”

  She rubbed his ears after he circled three times to lie down. “And you know what? My face may just do too. What a day! Ushering a baby girl into the world this morning. Learning how to string up shucky beans. Getting a dog.” She trailed her fingers through Sarge’s fur again. “And finding out some people think I’m pretty. The capper would just be helping a baby boy into the world tonight.”

  Fran yawned. “I do hope that adventure waits for another day.”

  25

  September 28, 1945

  Sarge settled in at the center as if he’d always belonged there. He ate whatever Fran scrounged up for him, and before the week was out, Fran caught Betty slipping him a tidbit from her plate.

  Betty wiped her hands on her napkin. “The fact that we haven’t seen a snake on our porch since he’s been here is deserving of a crumb or two off my plate.”

  Fran saw no reason to point out the nippy feel to the morning air and how snakes went into hiding in cool weather. Betty knew it was fall.

  Later that day, Granny Em showed up at the center to warn Fran frost was on the way. “Best pick any sass left in yo’r sass patch ’fore the frost falls. It can come a nigh bit sooner up here in the hills than in the flat country where you’re from. ’Twon’t hurt the pumpkins, but best pick the beans and tomatoes, even the green ones. They’ll ripen in yo’r winder or they make fine eating fried.”

  “I’ve never fried tomatoes.” Fran went down the steps to stand on the walk beside Granny Em. Sarge followed to sit at Fran’s feet.

  “That’s ’cause you’s from the north, but I allow Ruthena can show you how to coat ’em in cornmeal and fry ’em in drippin’s next time you’re up that way.” Granny Em eyed her. “You been to see her girls lately?”

  “Betty checked on Becca last week. I had to go see the Tiptons.”

  Granny Em nodded. “I heared they had a rash of drippy noses. Frost’ll take care of that. Get rid of the ragweed. Till then they’ll just need extra snot rags.”

  “That’s what Mrs. Tipton said. About the ragweed. But she wanted me to check over the baby anyway.”

  “She must have jest been wantin’ somebody to talk to.” Granny Em made a face. “Dora Tipton knowed that baby was too new to have to worry ’bout him ragweed sneezin’.”

  “Could be.” She hadn’t seen Granny Em for over a week. “You want to come in and have a cup of tea? Jeralene’s mother sent us some molasses cookies.”

  “Ain’t got no time to be supping tea. I got to be gathering what I need ’fore winter blows in.” Granny Em raised up her basket. “And you need to be gathering in that sass. Be sure to get those yams out of the ground. Frost’ll ruin them quick as anything. Runs right through the vines down into them sweet tators.”

  “Well, let me get you some of the cookies anyway before we both get back to work. They’ll get stale before Betty and I can eat them all.”

  “I reckon I kin take time out for one of Wyona’s molasses cookies.” She stepped up on the porch. “Where’s that other one?”

  “You mean Nurse Dawson?”

  “That be the one.” Granny Em peered toward the door. “She’s liable to chase me off. Feared I might tell you some cure that works better’n hers.”

  “No, she’d glad to see you, but she’s gone to Wendover today. Some visitors Mrs. Breckinridge wanted her to meet.”

  “Good. Then I’ll sit whilst you fetch them cookies.” Granny Em settled down in one of the chairs on the porch.

  Fran wrapped up all but two of the cookies and sliced some bread and cheese to go along with them. Granny Em had a look about her that Fran had seen on other mountain women when she didn’t see much food on their tables. The men and children ate first. Granny Em didn’t have a houseful of children or a man to feed, but she still had a hungry look.

  Fran had never been all the way up to where Granny Em lived. She always ran across her on a trail or the old woman showed up at the center. So she didn’t know if Granny Em had a garden or chickens. She needed to ride all the way up to her place sometime to see.

  When she went back out on the porch to hand Granny Em the food she’d wrapped up in a tea towel, the old woman frowned. “I never knowed Wyona to make sech a big cookie.”

  Fran laughed. Even to her ears it sounded a little forced. “I added in a little more. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “I reckon not if’n you needed to get it out of yo’r way.” Granny Em stuffed the food down in her basket without looking inside the parcel. She kept the basket on her lap.

  Fran sat down on the top step and leaned back against the porch post. Sarge settled beside her with his head in her lap.

  “I see you’re already some attached to that dog Ben Locke give you.” She reached out her foot to poke the dog’s tail.

  “He’s a good dog.” Fran looked up at Granny Em. “Did Mr. Locke tell you he gave me the dog?”

  “Didn’t have to. I knowed already when he said he got three dogs and only come back up the mountain with two.” The old woman dug down into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a little bottle. “I brung you something for it. Most likely the critter needs a good worming and this concoction’ll do the trick.”

  Fran took it. She’d already wormed Sarge, but she didn’t have to tell the old woman that. “Thank you.” She peered at the brown liquid in the bottle. “What’s in it?”

  “Nothing that will hurt the animal. I promise you that. I give a slighter dose to Ruthena to give to them two pups Ben took home.”

  “That’s good.” Fran slipped the bottle into her apron pocket and smiled. “I wish I could have seen Sadie’s face when she saw those pups.”

  “I weren’t there, but Ruthena said she might near cried to see Sadie so joyful. And Ruthena don’t cry easy.”

  “You don’t ei
ther, do you, Granny Em?”

  “I can’t recall shedding tears for some time. Though I might near did last week when a fox carried off my fav’rite hen.”

  “Do you have other hens?”

  “None that lay regular like Hortense. I done threatened them others with the stew pot more’n once.”

  “Guess that would be better than the fox getting them.”

  “They’d be somethin’s meal either way.” She pushed up from the chair. “I best be on my way. Daylight’s wastin’.”

  Fran shoved Sarge off her lap and stood up too.

  “What’d you name the creature?” Granny Em poked Sarge with her toe again, but he didn’t seem bothered by her.

  “Sarge. Mr. Locke gave him that name.” Fran held her breath, waiting to see if Granny Em knew why. She always seemed to know everything, as though news traveled to her on the wind.

  “I reckon he brung that name home from the war.”

  Fran hid her smile, relieved at last to have some sort of secret from Granny Em. “That could be it. He did name his horse Captain.”

  The old woman turned a sharp eye on Fran, but she didn’t say any more about the name. She started away across the yard toward the creek and then looked back. “I reckon I’ll see you at the sorghum stir-off on Monday.”

  Fran hid her surprise. But she supposed Ben Locke had to tell his family he’d invited her. To join them. Not him, Fran reminded herself one more time. “It’s a possibility. If Mrs. Garnett doesn’t go into labor.”

  “Won’t be no worry then of you missin’ out.” Granny Em spat on the ground. “That woman’s gonna have a November baby. If she’s telling you sooner, she done messed up her notching stick.” She held up her basket a little. “Thank ye kindly for the vittles.”

  Fran watched her until she was out of sight. She couldn’t keep from wondering about the old woman. She didn’t seem to be related to anybody on the mountain, and that in itself was strange. Most of the families in their district had plenty of kin living nearby. But Granny Em seemed to be a solitary figure. Would that be how Fran ended up? A solitary figure. Always walking alone.

  As if sensing her thoughts, Sarge whined and touched her leg with his paw to remind her he was there. Even more, making her remember who had given him to her.

  She shook away that thought and touched the dog’s head. “My dog and me. And we’ve got work to do. Time to saddle up Jasmine and see how all our people are doing.”

  She didn’t feel lonesome as she turned toward the barn. She had purpose. A reason for being there. One of the Tyler boys needed the stitches taken out where he’d fallen off a porch and gashed his head. Chesley Smith had a gunshot wound from accidently shooting his foot. No telling what other needs she’d find today.

  She let her eyes feast on the beauty of the mountain behind the center with trees every shade of orange and red. A buzzard floated on the wind currents high overhead. Awkward on the ground but graceful as a ballet dancer in the air. A crow cawed as it flew past, and an orchard oriole sang out in the apple tree.

  Fran walked over to the apple tree to search for windfalls. Most of the apples had already been dried or canned, but she always seemed able to find a few more. Sarge nosed one out first and lay down to chomp it while Fran waved away the bees buzzing around the bruised apples to pick up a couple for her and Jasmine.

  Late that afternoon, after she finished her rounds, she milked Bella and then headed for the chicken house to gather the eggs for breakfast. With the days getting shorter toward winter, the hens had already gone to roost on the long poles across one end of the shed. In the shadow of the mountain, night fell like a curtain dropping. Fran was counting their hens and wondering if she could pack one of them up the mountain to Granny Em to replace the hen the fox had stolen when a hello sounded outside.

  In her head, she ran through the women expecting babies and came up with nobody due for weeks. But babies didn’t always stick to schedules. Or there could be other sickness or an accident to call her out. She ducked out the short door, careful not to jostle the six eggs in her basket.

  Woody was sliding off his horse in front of the center. Betty, back from Wendover, stepped out on the porch and pointed toward the henhouse. Fran breathed a sigh of relief. If something was wrong, Woody would have told Betty. Instead, he headed toward Fran carrying something wrapped in a dish towel. Maybe if Mrs. Locke had sent something good for their table, Betty might not be too upset about Fran giving away most of the molasses cookies. Betty liked her sweets.

  Sarge ran ahead to greet Woody, who petted him with one hand and balanced the dish with the other. Fran hurried to take the dish before whatever offering he was bringing ended up Sarge food on the ground.

  “It’s fried green tomatoes.” Woody pointed to the dish. “Granny Em said you didn’t know about frying tomatoes, so Ma fixed some up for you to give ’em a try.”

  “She shouldn’t have, but thank her for us.” Fran peeked under the towel at the crusty slices of green tomatoes. Didn’t look too appetizing, but looks didn’t always reveal taste.

  “She said to tell you they’re better hot, so you might want to warm ’em up in the skillet.”

  “Okay.” Fran put the towel back over the dish. “Everybody all right up your way?”

  “We’re good. Even Sadie ain’t punyin’ around. She’s been so busy thinking up new verses to that froggie song she’s forgot about being sick. She’s about to drive me crazy with it.”

  Fran laughed. “You don’t like singing?”

  “Not the same livelong song all the day long. Besides, I can’t sing a lick. Ma says I take after her pa that way, but that he played the harmonica. She give me Grandpa’s harp so I could give it a try.” Woody held his hands up to his mouth like he was blowing into a harmonica. “Maybe I’ll learn a tune you can jig to.”

  “I don’t know how to jig.”

  “Oh, anybody can jig. That’s just an itching in your feet when you hear the right tune.”

  “You learn to play that jig tune, then we’ll see.” Fran laughed again. Woody always brought on smiles.

  “That’s what Ben said too.” Woody gave her a sideways look. “Maybe you two could learn a jig together.”

  Her cheeks warmed. She tried to cover it up with another laugh. “I imagine he could find a better partner. Somebody who knew what she was doing.”

  “I reckon so. Guess I better get on home before the owls go to hunting. Them big old things flying out of a tree in front of you can spook your horse about as bad as a rattler.” He headed toward Captain, who was nosing around the yard for a sprig of grass. Woody looked back at Fran before he mounted the horse. “I about forgot. Ben told me to tell you we’d be by to get you Monday morning early. To go to the sorghum stir-off. Ma said for me to invite Nurse Dawson too.”

  Woody glanced toward the house. Betty had gone back inside and shut the door. “I don’t reckon she’d want to come anyhow. She ain’t much for studying on mountain ways.”

  “I’ll ask her for you.”

  Woody shrugged his shoulders. “If you want to. I reckon there’ll be room in the back of the truck.”

  Extending the invitation to include Betty might make it easier to say she was going. Plus that made Ben asking Fran merely a neighborly gesture. Nothing personal. She needed to remember that. Nothing at all personal.

  Fran touched Sarge’s head as she watched Woody ride off. She could still be grateful for a good dog by her side.

  26

  October 1, 1945

  Monday morning Fran was up well before daylight to milk Bella and take care of the horses. Even Sarge looked sleepy as he trailed after her. Fran had awakened every hour after midnight, worried she might oversleep.

  Just as Woody thought, Betty had no interest in seeing sorghum being made. “But if they offer you a jar, you take it. It’s delicious on a hot biscuit.”

  Fran was surprised when Betty didn’t name over a dozen reasons Fran shouldn’t go. All she did was i
nsist Fran wear her Frontier Nursing outfit of pants and vest along with the fetched tie.

  “I’ll stand out like a sore thumb,” Fran said.

  “Exactly.” Betty leveled unsmiling eyes on Fran. “That’s what you want. Even the roughest mountain men up here respect that outfit. That’s what lets us travel alone through these hills without the first worry anyone will bother us. But we have to dress so the home people recognize us as nurses.”

  “I’ll be with the Locke family,” Fran said. “I hardly think I have anything to worry about with them.”

  “Nothing but perhaps your own foolishness. I hear it was Ben Locke who brought you the dog.” Betty raised her eyebrows and gave Fran a disapproving look.

  “It was, but I told you he was simply trying to find a home for Sarge.”

  “Indeed that is what you said.” Betty waved her hand to dismiss any further argument from Fran. “You’re of age. Do whatever you want there. You wouldn’t listen to me anyway.”

  “Giving somebody a dog doesn’t mean a thing. Dogs are traded or given away all the time.” It sounded like a good argument to Fran, even though she didn’t consider Sarge an ordinary gift.

  “That’s certainly true. A dog on every porch. Sometimes a half dozen when there’s scant food for their children. If I stay in these mountains a hundred years, I will never understand these people.” Betty heaved a sigh. “But never mind that. I agree the Lockes are fine, upstanding people. I have no concerns about you going with them. Other than you getting too attached to that family. Maintaining a professional distance enables us to make decisions based on knowledge rather than emotions.”

  “Yes, of course.” No way could Fran argue with that. A nurse-midwife needed a clear head and eyes undimmed by tears.

  “Good that you keep that in mind.” Betty went on. “But the Lockes won’t be the only ones at this sorghum making. The Hoskins live in a different district where some of the people may not recognize you. So who knows what might happen if you didn’t have on your nurse outfit. A new woman in their midst. A new, attractive woman.”