American Struggle

by Veda Boyd Jones

  His question surprised her. “Yes, Papa. I like school fine.” For the most part that was true. She enjoyed learning, but sometimes her sick feelings kept her from doing her best.

  “Your mama never had as much schooling as you now have,” he went on.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “So you should be thankful for the opportunities that our school system gives us.” “Yes, sir. I am.”

  “Then you need to stop wasting time scratching out drawings and keep your mind on your schoolwork.”

  Meg wanted desperately to obey Papa and to please him. “I’ll try,” she said softly.

  Papa nodded. His soft beard tickled her cheek as he kissed her. Tears burned behind her eyelids. She squeezed her eyes shut to keep them from flowing. She loved her papa dearly.

  Meg released an inner sigh of relief when the front door closed behind Fred’s heels as he went off with Papa. It wasn’t really a bad thing to be sent to her room after the dishes had been washed and put away. However, the list from Mrs. Gravitt now seemed longer and more difficult than when she’d first looked at it.

  Goldie was curled on one corner of Meg’s desk. The coal oil lamp sat on the other corner. The aching in Meg’s shoulders and neck had moved to her temples. Periodically she stopped working and pressed her knuckles into her temples to ease the throbbing.

  By the time Julia came to bed, Meg had finished all the arithmetic problems and most of the sentences that needed to be diagrammed. The next day she would stay in during recess to finish the rest of her sentences. She was determined to have all the extra work finished by the end of the week, just as Mrs. Gravitt had ordered.

  The next morning, as Meg gathered the eggs, she realized that her bandage served as an excellent protection for her hand. After scattering the feed in the chicken pen, she thought about the situation. What if she wrapped cloth about her hand every time before shoving out the old stubborn hens? Better yet, perhaps she could stitch together a thick mitt much like the pot holders she used to carry the coffeepot. She wouldn’t tell anyone. She could keep the mitt hidden behind the nest boxes.

  It was a splendid idea. She stood at the door of the henhouse and marveled that she, Meg, had had such a clever thought all on her own.

  “You’re not going to best me ever again,” Meg announced to the two hens who remained on their nests. With the aid of a stick and her bandaged hand, she had them out of their nests in no time, and the eggs were gathered with not one being broken.

  Susannah was at the schoolyard gate to meet Meg when she arrived that morning. After Fred and Julia ran off, Meg told her friend about her idea for a protective mitt for her hand.

  “You’re much more clever than you give yourself credit for,” Susannah told her. “What if Mama and I sewed the mitt for you?”

  Meg thought about that for a moment. Although Susannah didn’t say so outright, she knew how strict Meg’s mama was. Mama might view the project as a waste of time and valuable fabric scraps. Somehow it seemed very important that Meg do this on her own.

  “I’ll sew it myself,” Meg said, “but if you and your mama could give me a few scraps, that would be a blessing.”

  That issue settled, Susannah wanted to know every detail of what had happened to Meg after she’d arrived home. Meg told about the punishment Mama gave and about Fred’s awful teasing.

  Susannah rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you smack that Fred a good one?” she said.

  Meg just looked at her friend. The thought had never occurred to her. “I wouldn’t want to hurt him. He’s just being a rowdy boy. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing.”

  “I don’t understand how you can let him get away with all that nonsense.”

  It was easy for Susannah to talk, but Meg didn’t see what she could do. She felt completely powerless against all the orneriness Fred could think up.

  “What did your papa say about it all?” Susannah asked.

  “He asked me to stop wasting time drawing.”

  The first-grade teacher came out on the steps to ring the handbell as Susannah replied, “Margaret Buehler, you’d just as easy stop breathing as to stop drawing. It’s in your very nature!”

  CHAPTER 7

  An Evening with the Hendrickses

  Meg was able to finish her extra assignments and her regular schoolwork by Friday, but the coal oil lamp burned late Thursday night for her to accomplish the task. For once, her body seemed to cooperate with her determination.

  On Saturday, she and Mama gathered the pumpkins and cut them up and canned them in large, blue-green glass jars. Large onions were brought in and the tops braided together and hung in the attic. The remaining old vines and plants were pulled up and laid in a heap at the edge of the fencerow. Only a few carrots were left in the ground and covered with straw to keep until the hardest freeze.

  Fred was at the factory throughout the morning. When he came home for lunch, Mama made him change into his nice trousers and jacket and his Sunday cap before he left for Oma’s house. Meg knew that although Fred never liked dressing up, he loved visiting Oma. He was her only grandson, and because of that, he was Oma’s pet.

  In the afternoon, Meg and Mama moved the heavy furniture in the front parlor and scrubbed the wooden floor with brushes and buckets of warm soapy water. Although Papa and his workers at the factory created fancy hand-carved furniture with scrollwork and inlays, most of the furniture in the Buehler home was plain. Sturdy, but plain. That was Mama’s request.

  Papa had asked Mama once if she wanted a nice rug for the parlor, but she replied that her handmade rag rugs suited her fine. “The cloth scraps are used up, and the girls’ fingers are kept busy,” she told him.

  Making rag rugs wasn’t one of Meg’s favorite pastimes, and she wished they could have a soft flowered rug like the Hendrickses did in their parlor.

  Julia helped some with the cleaning, but mostly she played in the bubbles. Taking a wooden spool, she dipped one end in the soapsuds and blew until she had a mass of bubbles, then giggled at the sight. Later, when the golden pine floor was dry and rubbed smooth, Mama put Julia to washing windows.

  By late afternoon, Meg felt light headed and dizzy, but she said nothing. She wondered if Mama ever became tired. Did she tire and simply say nothing, or was she truly as hardy as she appeared? It was difficult to tell.

  Once every part of the house was sparkling clean, Mama led the way to the wide front porch and it, too, was scrubbed—as were the steps. Mama didn’t even wear her shawl outside, and the wind had turned sharply colder.

  Every muscle and bone in Meg’s body ached. What was the need of so much cleaning anyway? One would have thought the president was coming rather than the Hendrickses, whom they saw several times a week.

  Papa and Uncle John had been friends for long years. Since they were boys, Meg had heard them say. And the two families often spent time at one another’s homes, especially on Saturday evenings.

  Before the guests arrived, Papa and Fred banked a roaring fire in the parlor fireplace. The leaping orange flames turned the room into a cozy sanctuary. After enjoying supper together, the two families relaxed about the room, sluggish from enjoying all the good food Mama had prepared.

  Uncle John complimented Mama on her good cooking, which made Mama’s cheeks turn crimson. Meg watched Mama and tried to imagine her as a young girl being courted by the quiet Ben Buehler. Had she blushed back then?

  Mama sat in her straight-back chair, mending Fred’s woolen stockings so they would be ready for the coming cold weather. Aunt Lucy sat near her. In her lap was a pretty pillowcase on which she was embroidering a colorful flower pattern. Meg petted Goldie and watched Aunt Lucy’s needle slide in and out. Goldie had made her rounds, rubbing the legs of everyone in the room, and had opted to curl up where Susannah and Meg sat playing cat’s cradle near the hearth.

  Papa and John sat in the bigger upholstered chairs in front of the fire, and Stephen had challenged Julia to a heated game of checkers. Sound
s of the clicking checkers came from where they sat at the small mahogany table near the bay windows.

  Fred sat on the floor between the two men, playing with a handful of small magnets. He never ceased to be fascinated by them and had several large ones in his bedroom.

  Uncle John never came to visit empty-handed. Usually he brought along the newest abolition pamphlets or copies of the Liberator newspaper. Meg loved his ways of joking and having fun with everyone. She’d heard Papa say many times that with Uncle John’s “gift of gab,” he should run for a political office.

  Uncle John pulled a paper off the top of the stack of papers he’d brought with him and shook it out in a display of mock importance. “Now, folks,” he said, “just wait until you hear what’s about to happen in our fair city. After all these years of hearing about and reading about William Lloyd Garrison, we may have a chance to meet the man.”

  Fred brightened at hearing the name of the famous abolitionist. “Mr. Garrison? Coming here? Why?”

  “It has to do with the boycott of slave-made products,” John said as he opened the paper, searching for an article. “Remember when I told you about the Free Labor Association in Philadelphia?”

  “They’re the ones who’ve contacted the small farmers in the South and offered to market their goods,” Fred said. “The farmers who have no slaves.”

  “You get an A-plus, Fred,” Uncle John said half in jest. “A star pupil in civic affairs. The association has agreed to purchase all the free-labor cotton that the South can produce. And now they’ve even bought a cotton gin and sent it to a group of Quakers in Mississippi. They plan to hire workers to run the gin.”

  From across the room, Stephen looked up from the checker game. “You mean they’ll truly have a product from the South never touched by slaves?”

  His father nodded. “That’s the idea. Garrison’s paper reports that the orders are mushrooming.”

  “I suppose some of those orders will come from England,” Aunt Lucy said as she clipped threads with her tiny sewing scissors.

  Meg knew it stood to reason that Britain would get in on the market since that nation was opposed to slavery. She turned to Susannah and attempted to take the complicated cat’s cradle from Susannah’s hands, but it fell apart. They both giggled. Goldie playfully grabbed at the dangling string.

  “But you haven’t told us about Mr. Garrison,” Fred said.

  “Hold your horses. I’m getting to it,” Uncle John said. “Garrison believes there are hundreds of small farmers and businessmen all across the South who are hurting financially because of the massive amount of slave labor.”

  Goldie stretched out and gave a wide yawn, her pink tongue curling as she did so. Meg rubbed the soft, furry tummy. Goldie held the stretched-out position, relishing the attention. Meg had never really thought about small farmers in the South who had to compete against large plantations with slave labor. That must be very difficult.

  “Garrison plans to come to Cincinnati and open a store that sells nothing but free-labor goods.” The newspaper rustled in Uncle John’s hands. “It doesn’t say whether he’ll remain here to operate the store. Perhaps he has other workers for that.”

  Papa shook his head. “Sounds impossible to me. No one can stock a store without having a few things made by slave labor. It’ll go broke in no time.”

  Fred looked up at his papa. “If anyone can do it, William Lloyd Garrison can,” he quipped.

  Meg marveled at the way her brother joined in on the adult conversation. Most boys his age would be off in a corner playing with tin soldiers. But not Fred. Not even Stephen spoke up as much as Fred.

  From over by the windows, Stephen called, “King me!”

  Julia let out a loud groan. “How’d you do that?” she asked, studying the checkerboard intently.

  “You don’t pay close enough attention,” Stephen replied.

  “Ben,” Uncle John went on, “it’s not so much a matter of a store like this turning a profit. Personally, I believe it’ll be profitable. But even if it fell apart after a year, its very existence will bring public attention to the plight of these poor people in the South who are suffering because of slavery.”

  Mama spread the trousers across her lap and studied the mend, smoothing it with her fingers. Meg wondered what her mother was thinking. Mama seldom if ever discussed civic or political matters with Papa. Meg watched as she took another garment from the mending basket and, finding the hole, began a new patch.

  Goldie pressed her heavy body against Meg’s side, purring noisily. Susannah began the cat’s cradle once again.

  “Your store handles scores of items made by slave labor,” Papa countered. “If you believe in this concept so much, why don’t you sell only free-labor products?”

  “Perhaps I shall someday. But I don’t believe in running ahead of where God is leading me at the time. It’s Garrison who has the conviction to launch such an undertaking. And I, for one, admire him greatly for taking such a bold step.”

  “Me, too,” Fred added. “I admire him. Do you think I’ll get to meet him, Uncle John?”

  “I don’t see any reason why not,” Uncle John replied, folding the paper neatly and putting it back on the stack.

  “We may be having a tea for him when he arrives,” Aunt Lucy said. “We’d certainly want all of you to be there.”

  “Gracious!” Fred exclaimed. “William Lloyd Garrison right in your house. Can we go, Papa? Huh, can we?”

  Meg noticed the troubled expression on Papa’s face. “I don’t know about all this, John,” Papa said, ignoring Fred’s pleas. “It appears to me that you’re all borrowing a passel of problems, trouble, and heartache. You’ll rile up the likes of those folks who dumped Birney’s printing press into the Ohio River back in the summer of ‘36. Are you ready for that kind of violence?”

  Meg tended to agree with Papa. Who wanted to stir up trouble?

  “Some things are worth standing up and taking a risk for,” Uncle John answered.

  “Fred,” Mama said. “Go fetch the popcorn and the popper. The flames, they are good now for popping.” “But, Mama, I want to hear this.”

  “I’ll go,” Julia piped up. “Come help me, Stephen.”

  Long-legged Stephen, who was nearly as tall as his father, stood up and lifted Julia and swung her around. Her giggles filled the room, seemingly contradicting the growing tension between Papa and Uncle John.

  “What good is it,” Papa continued, “to say you are against slavery, and do it with anger and violence?”

  John gave a shrug. “I’m not angry.”

  “I’ve read the Garrison materials enough to know he is angry. Stay around the likes of Garrison and his people, and soon it will rub off on you.”

  “Do you not believe in righteous anger?” Aunt Lucy put in, folding the finished pillowcase. “Jesus was angry when He drove the money changers from the temple.”

  Papa gave a wry smile. “I would leave the act of good anger in the hands of our Savior. I’m not sure many of us are able to emulate it well.”

  Stephen helped Julia to extend the long-handled popper over the hot coals. Soon the little golden kernels began exploding and giving off a delicious aroma.

  Mama rose and went to the kitchen, returning with a wooden bowl full of polished red and yellow apples. Meg was thankful for the diversion. How she wished adults wouldn’t fill the evening with such serious talk. She felt it was like a “sleeping sawyer.”

  On the river, the boatmen greatly feared a submerged bobbing tree trunk, which they called “sleeping sawyers.” It could rip a hole in even the largest steamboats. Though the discussion between Papa and Uncle John seemed friendly enough on the surface, Meg felt as though a sleeping sawyer lay just beneath the surface, threatening to do them harm. How she hated violence and disagreements. Meg wanted everything and everyone to be at peace.

  By the time the Hendrickses said good night, Julia was curled up asleep on a rug by the hearth. After telling Susanna
h that she’d see her at church the next morning, Meg helped her little sister get to bed.

  When Julia was all tucked in and sleeping deeply, Meg placed a small quilt at the base of the bedroom door. Never again would Fred see her light on late.

  With a clean sheet of paper, she began to sketch the scene in the parlor. Susannah with the firelight playing in her pretty curls, Papa and Uncle John embroiled in deep conversation, Mama and Aunt Lucy with heads bent over their sewing. Fred looking up at Papa. Stephen and Julia at the checkerboard. Goldie, of course, stretched out before the fire. Herself, she omitted. The pen and ink sketch was fair. She wasn’t sure about the shadowing. But it didn’t matter much. She’d keep on drawing even if every part were done wrong.

  Susannah was right. Meg would just as easily stop breathing as to stop her pen from drawing.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Accident

  At church the following morning, most of the adult talk Meg heard concerned the upcoming elections. In a few short weeks, the nation would know whether Polk or Clay was to become the next president, and the subject was not far from the minds of most folks.

  Because Cincinnati was situated just across the river from Kentucky, many of the citizens had strong sympathies with the South. Those who advocated the abolition of slavery were very much looked down upon. Meg was amazed that the Hendrickses were so outspoken about their feelings on the matter.

  It was somewhat like being made fun of because you were German and talked funny. As much as possible, Meg avoided putting herself in a position to be ridiculed. She received enough of that from Fred without asking for more. She couldn’t understand people going out of their way to do or say things that would make others laugh at them.

  The overcast day had turned quite chilly, but the stoves in the sanctuary were not lit so early in the season. Meg felt stiff and cold as the preacher preached on and on.