American Struggle

by Veda Boyd Jones

  “If your lathes were turned by machine rather than by hand, why you could turn out bedposts and chair spindles and legs more quickly than ever. Think of how production would increase.” Fred fairly spouted the words.

  Papa smiled and shook his head. Taking up the blue china bowl of cooked pork and cabbage, he spooned out another large portion. “I know that steam engines can turn lathes, Frederick,” he said, “but not in Ben Buehler’s factory. Nothing can surpass the careful hand and sharp eye of a man.”

  “But, Papa,” Fred began.

  “Besides that,” Papa continued, “steam engines are dangerous. There was another boiler explosion on a steamboat downriver just yesterday. The idea of blowing my factory apart doesn’t appeal to me.”

  “Hundreds of steamboats travel up and down the river—some carrying Buehler furniture,” Fred reminded him, “but only a few have accidents. What if no one ran a steamboat just because of the danger? Then where would our furniture be?”

  “I have no say about the safety of a steamboat,” Papa declared. “I have much say about my factory.”

  Mama rose to fetch the Rehrücken, a loaf cake that was Papa’s favorite dessert. As she did, she glanced at Meg’s plate. “Finish your meal, Margaret,” she said. “Work is yet to be done before bedtime.”

  Fred glanced over toward his sister. “Meg always gets to feeling puny when there’s work to be done,” he said.

  His words cut Meg deeply, but in a way he was right. It did seem that she grew sick a lot lately. Perhaps something inside her didn’t like to work. Could a thing really be so? She sat up straighter and attempted to eat, but the pork seemed heavy. She forced down a few more bites. When no one was looking, she slipped a piece of meat to Goldie.

  Papa finished his cake and rose to leave.

  “You will be late?” Mama asked.

  “Joe and I must finish the inlays on the carved headboard for the order going out tomorrow. I will be late.”

  Mama nodded. She never argued about the hours Papa worked.

  After supper was cleared away, Mama set up the kraut cutting board over a large wooden bowl on the table. In the center of the board was a razor-sharp blade that rose a fraction above the board. On this they would shred the cabbages to make kraut.

  But first the heads were washed in a tub of water, then quartered. Meg and Mama and Fred took turns running the sections of cabbage over the blade. The work made Meg’s shoulders and back ache. The shredded cabbage was then packed into the crocks and covered with brine. The kitchen was filled with the sharp smells of cut cabbage and brine.

  Julia helped some, but eventually she curled up in the corner and fell asleep with Goldie pressed up close by her side. How Meg envied her.

  It was late before all the cabbage was shredded and the crocks filled. Mama laid large plates over the tops of the crocks to hold the cabbage down. While Fred and Mama pushed the crocks out onto the back porch, Meg woke Julia and helped her up to their bedroom. Setting the glowing coal oil lamp on the desk by the window, she then helped Julia change into her nightgown. Julia was asleep again almost before her head hit the pillow.

  After changing into her own worn flannel gown, she knelt down at the trunk at the foot of their bed. Riffling through her sketches, she pulled out a clean sheet of paper. Curious, Goldie came and rubbed against her. While the weariness pulled at her, Meg fought it.

  “I’m not sure I remember him, Goldie, but I’m going to give it a try,” she whispered.

  Quietly, she pulled out the chair and sat down at the desk. She thought a moment before dipping the quill into the ink. Closing her eyes, she recalled the scene at the institute. She saw the light pouring in the windows and saw the boy standing there with his hand slipped into the pocket of his morning coat. She saw the straight nose, the small mouth, the dark curls.

  Goldie jumped up on the desk and curled up on the corner. Meg rubbed the cat’s head and ears and listened to the gentle softness of her purring. “You won’t tell my secret, will you, Goldie?”

  Bending her head over her work, she began the sketch. The sound of the quill scratching on the page was as comforting as the sounds of soft purring. How she would love to spend hours and hours drawing and painting. What joy it would be to use oils to make a storm scene explode on the canvas. But she wouldn’t even know where to begin.

  Slowly the face on the page came to life. When it was finished, Meg was somewhat surprised. “Look at this, Goldie. It truly looks like him. Like the boy named Damon.”

  She could hardly hold her eyes open another moment. Satisfied, she cleaned the quill and returned the sketch to the trunk. Lifting out the quilts, she placed the sketch on the bottom of the trunk with the other drawings. Then she crawled into bed and fell asleep wondering about the boy named Damon.

  CHAPTER 4

  In Trouble with Mrs. Gravitt

  The next morning broke sunny and warm. Meg relished every warm day, because she dreaded winter. The cold of winter seeped into her bones and remained there until spring. In geography they studied about tropical islands way out in the ocean where the sun shone and flowers grew year round. Meg was sure she would love to live in such a place.

  As she jumped out of bed and put on her work dress, the sun was transforming the gray eastern sky into a pearl pink. Mr. Cock was crowing his heart out in the backyard.

  After washing up and braiding her hair, she shook Julia awake. It was her job to make sure Julia was up and dressed. Then she hurried downstairs to begin the morning chores. She was expected to help with breakfast and to feed the chickens and gather eggs before leaving for school. Aromas of kochwurst and potatoes sizzling in the iron skillet blended with the smell of hot, strong coffee. Papa was already at the table reading a copy of the Daily Gazette.

  “Good morning, Papa, Mama,” Meg said as she came into the large kitchen.

  “Gute morgen,” Mama replied.

  Papa looked up from his plate. “Morning, Meg. You’re certainly chipper this morning.”

  She nodded and grabbed for the apron on the hook by the back door. “I slept well.” She always slept better after she’d had time to sketch and draw.

  Hurrying outside, she breathed deeply of the brisk morning air as she passed the garden and opened the door of the henhouse. She stepped back quickly to allow the birds to come running out. Sharp smells of chicken manure met her sensitive nose.

  As always, Meg fed the chickens first in hopes that all the hens would come out of the henhouse. But it seldom worked. At least two of the cranky old birds wouldn’t move no matter what. Taking up the wicker egg basket from the storage room, she moved from nest to nest, gently lifting the eggs from the hay. Some were still warm. Papa had built the sturdy chicken coop and all the nesting boxes that were mounted on the walls in straight rows.

  “So,” she said to the two hens that remained stoically upon their nests, “you aren’t going to move.” They glared back at her with beady black eyes. Some hens allowed her to reach right under them and take the eggs, but not these two. She stretched out her hand slowly; and quick as a striking rattlesnake, the hen pecked at her. She jumped back. “Grumpy!” she said.

  Perhaps a stick would help. Setting down her basket, she went out looking for a stick beneath the apple tree in the far corner of the yard. Using the stick, she poked and prodded and shoved, trying to get the two old hens to move, but they continued to squawk at her and refused to budge.

  “What would Fred do?” she muttered aloud. Neither he nor Julia were afraid of the old hens. Maybe she could use the stick as a distraction. Deftly, she moved up to the nest and waved the stick at the hen’s head rather than her backside. As the hen pecked at the stick and kept squawking, slowly Meg reached out to slip her hand beneath the hen’s backside. She felt the warm eggs. There were two of them. Could she grab both at once?

  But before she could get hold of the eggs, the old hen turned and gave Meg two sharp, painful pecks on the hand. She jumped back, dropping the stick and gra
bbing at her bleeding hand. As she did, her feet became entangled in the wicker basket. The basket overturned, and Meg went tumbling.

  Now the other stubborn hen joined the first one as they sauntered slowly out of the henhouse. Meg wasn’t feeling too chipper any longer. Her hand was bleeding, and broken eggs were everywhere.

  Just then, Fred appeared at the henhouse door. Through a thinly veiled smirk, he said, “Mama sent me to see what’s taking you so long. But I guess I don’t need to ask now.”

  Meg wrapped the corner of her apron around her hand. It stung like fire. How she hated those contrary old hens. One part of her wished Fred would come and help her up. The other part of her wanted him to go away and leave her in her misery.

  “What’s the stick for?” he asked, still leaning against the doorframe.

  Meg tried to wipe egg off her legs. “I was trying to push the hens out. When that didn’t work, I tried to distract them with it. But that didn’t work either.”

  She silently righted the basket and retrieved the eggs that had not broken.

  “I’ve told you,” Fred lectured, “all you have to do is reach up behind their necks and pull them out. I’ve done that, and they never peck me.”

  “I wish you’d been out here to help.” Meg tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

  “I’ve been splitting wood for Mama.”

  Meg nodded. “I know.” Of course he had his own chores to do.

  Fred propped the door open with a board so the hens could go in and out freely throughout the remainder of the day. Then he turned to go back in the house. Meg slowly followed.

  Mama frowned when she saw Meg’s messy skirt hem. “The laundry is not done till Monday. Pour a little water in the basin and see if you can rinse der egg out before it dries. How many break?”

  “I didn’t count,” Meg replied as she poured the water and proceeded to rinse her hem. The cool water felt soothing to her pecked hand. Now the awful weariness and dizziness were back again.

  Julia came close to peer at Meg’s hand. “Ooo, she really gotcha, didn’t she?”

  “Julia,” Mama said, “come to bring platters to the table.” “If you just grab those old hens by the back of the neck—” Julia started.

  “I know, I know,” Meg interrupted.

  “They know you’re scared of ‘em,” Julia went on.

  “Julia,” Mama said more sternly.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Fred opened the stove and shoved in another stick of wood. “Meg says she was so tired last evening, but I saw a light coming from beneath her door late.”

  “Meg?” Mama looked at her sternly.

  Meg tried to find words. “Just a few school things,” she said lamely. She wanted to ask what Fred was doing up so late, but he would only say he was making a trip to the privy.

  “Drawing is more like it,” Fred countered. “I bet she was sitting up drawing silly pictures. And after making like she was so tired. No one can believe a word she says.” Behind Mama’s back, Fred made an ugly face. Meg turned away.

  Papa folded the newspaper and returned thanks for the food. As he filled his plate, he said, “The newspaper is still full of talk about the annexation of Texas. The presidential candidates keep arguing whether it should be a slave state or free.”

  Fred joined Papa at the table. “Do you think Polk would make a good president, Papa?”

  Papa shook his head. “I have no idea. Don’t know much about him.”

  “He was governor of Tennessee,” Fred spouted, obviously proud of his knowledge. “And that probably makes him pro-slavery.”

  “Since everyone’s heard of Henry Clay and knows him, I suspect he’ll win,” Papa said.

  “Well, I don’t think he should let Texas become a slave state,” Fred stated. “That’s not fair. That just makes the slave states that much stronger.”

  Mama carried a basket of hot bread to the table. “Should not the day start before politics start at our breakfast table?”

  Papa chuckled. “I guess politics goes on twenty-four hours a day, Emma.”

  Meg agreed with Mama. She didn’t care to hear frightening talk about how the states disagreed. She wondered how her younger brother could be so sure of his own opinions. There were times when Meg wasn’t quite sure how she felt about anything. She wrung out her hem and stepped outside to empty the basin. It sounded as though the clucking hens were laughing at her.

  Mama rubbed salve on Meg’s hand, then wrapped it in a clean piece of white cloth, tying a little knot to hold it fast. “You will please use more carefulness from now on,” Mama said.

  Meg wanted to say that she had been careful. But she didn’t want to give Fred and Julia another chance to tease her about her fear.

  Papa gave each of his children and his wife a kiss before leaving for the factory; then Meg had to hurry and eat since so much time had been wasted. Julia was already in her school dress.

  “Mama,” Meg said, “there’s not enough time for me to help clean the table.”

  “Julia can help,” Mama said.

  “But Mama,” Julia whined, “that’s Meg’s work. And besides, I have on my school dress.”

  Mama handed her an apron. “Not to be whining. Do as you are told.”

  Good, thought Meg as she hurried upstairs. It was about time young Julia helped out more. The thought made her feel guilty. After all, Julia was only seven.

  She glanced out her window a moment at the bright sky that had set ablaze the gold and crimson trees. She’d almost forgotten how happy she’d been when she first awoke. Could that have been only two hours ago?

  Standing before the mirror, she tucked loose strands of her blond hair into the braid, then fastened the braid up in the back with hairpins. She took her bonnet from the hook, put it on, and neatly tied the bow. Grabbing her shawl and schoolbooks, she hurried down the steps as Fred called out, “Hurry up, slowpoke, or you’ll make us all late.”

  On the way to school, Fred continued to talk about the elections, and Julia chattered about her friend Nettie. Julia and Nettie wanted to be friends with Amy, but Amy didn’t want to play with them. Meg wished her problems were as simple as Julia’s. She walked quietly between her two siblings, wondering how she could listen to both.

  As they neared the school, two of Fred’s chums called out to him. Fred left his sisters to join his friends. Meg didn’t mind. Julia was always easier to be around when Fred wasn’t there.

  Susannah was waiting for Meg at the schoolyard gate. “I thought you were going to be late,” she said. “It’s almost time for the bell to ring.” Spying Meg’s bandaged hand, she said, “My gracious! What happened?”

  “Meg broke all the eggs,” Julia piped up, as though she were telling the most wonderful news. “She had to scrub out the hem of her work dress.”

  Meg glanced around the schoolyard. “Julia, isn’t that your friend Nettie over there by the swings?”

  “That’s her! Nettie!” Julia called. “Hello, Nettie.” And she was gone.

  “Those awful chickens again?” Susannah said in a sympathetic voice. “I’m glad my mama doesn’t want to keep hens.”

  “You should be. They’re frightening creatures.” Meg told about her adventure the evening before, rounding up Mr. Cock. “And Julia, young as she is, isn’t one bit afraid. It makes me feel so silly.”

  “You’re not silly, Meg, you’re just … Well, you’re you.”

  Meg looked at her friend. “If that’s so, it’s certainly not easy being me.”

  “Why doesn’t your papa hire a domestic? I don’t know what we’d do without our Bella. Mama goes to the store early with Papa, and Bella fixes our breakfast and cleans up.”

  “You know the answer to that, Susannah. Mama would never allow another woman in her kitchen. She says if she can’t do it, it doesn’t need doing.”

  Susannah shrugged. “And my mama says if there’re eggs for sale at the market, why bother with the messy creatures?”

&nbs
p; “How can parents be so different?” Meg mused.

  The clanging bell interrupted their conversation. “Let’s bring our copybooks out at recess and pronounce spelling words,” Susannah suggested. Meg gave a nod of agreement as the teacher shushed the children and had each class line up in a row before marching in.

  While Meg considered herself a fair student, she certainly didn’t excel as some of her classmates did. Often her headaches and dizziness kept her from paying attention. Other times, she simply stared into space, dreaming. Usually she dreamed about capturing beautiful things on paper with the stroke of her quill.

  As she listened to Mrs. Gravitt drone on about conjugating verbs, Meg’s pen scratched out swirls and curlicues at the edge of her copybook. Could curlicues like the one she’d drawn become an ocean wave like the painting she’d seen yesterday? She glanced up from her scribbles to look again at the teacher.

  Mrs. Gravitt’s graying hair was parted in the middle and pulled severely back into a twist, with not one small curl in sight. Meg often thought that the woman must have been pretty when she was younger. But now the dull eyes and grim mouth erased that beauty.

  At the throat of her black silk dress, the teacher wore a brooch with a small daguerreotype of her deceased husband. Mrs. Gravitt must have loved her husband very much to wear his likeness all these years. On her shoulder was pinned a small gold pendant watch on a chain.

  Using a long rod with a hook at one end, Mrs. Gravitt pulled down the map of the United States. For the past few weeks she had woven the subject of the upcoming presidential elections in with their geography lessons, often pointing to the large Texas Republic, which was colored brown on their map.

  “The candidate for the Democrats, James Polk,” she explained, “is pushing to annex Texas and bring it in as a new state.” Her face clouded as she continued. “However, Mexico has made it clear that she will never let Texas go without a fight. That could mean war.”

  Mrs. Gravitt went on to explain the problems of the issue of slavery. Some wanted Texas to be a slave state, and others wanted it to be free. But Meg had stopped listening. She sketched Mrs.