American Struggle

by Veda Boyd Jones

The evening before, Susannah had secretly delivered the scraps for Meg to use in making her egg-gathering mitt. Now Meg planned how she would cut it out and stitch it together when she was alone. She could see herself giving those big old hens a hefty shove with her protected hand. It almost made her laugh aloud to think of it. She hoped it wasn’t vain to be so delighted with her own invention.

  Sounds of rain slashing against the windows of the church competed with the preacher’s voice as he drew his sermon to a close. Often when the weather was bad, the Hendrickses gave them a ride home in their carriage. Uncle John kept a team and a carriage, but Papa did not.

  Meg was thankful for her sturdy bonnet and her parasol, which kept her from being drenched as she hurried to the waiting carriage. Uncle John took them home and then returned to church to pick up his family because there wasn’t room for all of them at once. By the time they arrived home, Meg felt chilled to the bone. Uncle John joked that the first snow of the season was coming down as rain. It certainly felt cold enough for snow.

  Meg enjoyed quiet Sunday afternoons. Her body, which could never keep up with Mama’s strong, hard pace, received a well-deserved rest. For Julia and Fred, however, sitting still that long was terribly difficult. Mama and Papa had strict rules about the children being quiet throughout Sunday.

  At dinner that day, Fred was once again talking to Papa about building and setting up a steam-driven lathe in the factory. One thing Meg could say for Fred—he was persistent.

  Papa quietly, but politely, again told him no. No steam engines in his factory, he said. Meg could tell it made her brother most unhappy that Papa dismissed the idea so quickly.

  “I’ll be learning even more about steam engines this next week,” Fred said between mouthfuls, “when our class goes back to the institute to view the industrial and mechanical exhibits. I plan to observe closely and learn every detail.”

  Meg had nearly forgotten about the second field trip. She wondered if she would see the boy named Damon again. Probably not. The building was very large, spreading over a good city block. And, of course, they wouldn’t be in the art galleries this time. Still …

  “Meg,” Papa said.

  “She’s owling about again,” Fred said with a smirk. “Her head is always in the clouds.”

  “Yes, Papa?” Meg answered. “Did you say something?” “I asked you to please pass the schmierkas.” Julia, too, began giggling.

  “Yes, Papa.” Meg handed him the bowl of a German cheese, much like cottage cheese, that he loved to slather on his bread. Papa hadn’t scolded her for not hearing him the first time, so why did Fred have to pretend it was so terrible?

  As they were finishing, a loud knock at the front door startled each of them.

  “Who could that be on a rainy Sunday?” Papa rose from his chair and strode down the hallway to answer the knock. From the voices, they could tell it was Uncle Bernhard, the husband of Mama’s youngest sister.

  Papa returned to the kitchen. “Fetch your cloak, Emma,” he said to Mama. “Oma has taken a fall. We need to go.”

  Mama’s face went pale as she hurried from the kitchen.

  Fred was out of his chair in a flash. “Is Oma all right? I want to go. May I go along, too? Please?”

  Papa shook his head. “Stay here and keep the wood boxes filled, son.”

  There was a flurry of activity for a few moments as Mama and Papa bundled up to go out into the cold.

  “All work together to finish cleaning the kitchen,” Mama instructed. “The rag rug I was braiding needs to be finished. Cold wind blows under our kitchen door, and the old rug is threadbare.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Meg answered. Braiding a rag rug wasn’t how she’d planned to spend her quiet Sunday.

  “Fred and Julia, help tear rag strips.”

  Fred groaned. “Mama, that’s woman’s work.”

  Papa gave a warning look. “You will do as you’re told,” he said. “Be sure the henhouse is shut up.” Looking at Fred and Julia, he said, “You two mind Meg now. We’ll try to be back before dark.”

  With that, Mama and Papa hurried down the front porch steps into Uncle Bernhard’s waiting one-horse buggy. Suddenly the house was very quiet. Meg couldn’t remember ever being left in the house without either Mama or Papa there.

  In a tone as bright as she could muster, she said, “Let’s get that kitchen cleaned up, shall we?”

  “Go right ahead,” Fred said with a scowl.

  “Mama said ‘all work together,’” Meg reminded him.

  “You can’t make me,” he retorted.

  Julia’s eyes widened at this stand of defiance from her beloved older brother. “Fred, Papa said for us to mind Meg.”

  “You want to take orders from a pokey old dreamer?” he asked Julia.

  Meg sensed Julia’s confusion. She knew she had no power over either one of them. Returning to the kitchen, she took down the big dishpan and set it on the butcher-block table. She lifted the heavy hot water kettle off the stove and filled the dishpan. With a paring knife, she shaved a few pieces off the bar of lye soap and began washing the dishes.

  Julia came into the kitchen and began helping as well. Meg could hear Fred grumbling in the hallway, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  Once the kitchen was clean, Meg removed her apron, hung it on the hook, and thanked Julia for her help.

  “You’re welcome,” Julia said softly. “Do I have to help rip up the rag strips?”

  “You heard what Mama said just as well as I did. Let your conscience be your guide.”

  Meg went to the small front room next to the parlor, where Mama’s work on the rag rug lay waiting. The parlor was kept closed off, except for when they had company. Meg went to the wood box, took several smaller logs, and put them on the fire. Just then, Meg heard a pitiful cry from Goldie. Running out to the hallway, she saw Fred pulling the cat’s tail.

  “Fred!” she cried. “Don’t torment poor Goldie.”

  “I wasn’t hurting your old cat. I was just petting her and she pulled away.”

  Goldie came running toward Meg, and Meg scooped her up in her arms, cradling her and comforting her. How could her brother be so spiteful?

  “I’m shut up in a house with two girls and a girl cat,” Fred muttered. “What did I ever do to receive such punishment?”

  Returning to the front room, Meg began work on the rag rug. She felt as angry as Fred did. If Sunday was a day of rest, why did she have to finish the rug? Julia sat on the floor beside her ripping the rags into long strips. Meg then stitched them end to end and braided them. The braids were then added to the rug that Mama had nearly finished.

  By midafternoon, Meg’s neck and shoulders ached terribly. Periodically she stopped work and stretched her arms and drew up her shoulders tightly, then released them again. The work was fairly swimming in front of her eyes.

  “There are enough strips done now,” Julia stated. “It’ll take you awhile to catch up. I’m going to go play.”

  “You can help sew the strips together,” Meg suggested.

  “Mama didn’t say I had to sew,” Julia protested. “Only tear strips.”

  She was right. That’s what Mama did say. Meg knew it was useless to argue. How Meg wished she weren’t the oldest.

  She rose to put another log on the fire. Soon it would be time for Fred to fill the wood box. Lifting the heavy rug, she spread it across her lap and continued the work. Another hour, perhaps, and the rug would be all finished.

  The room was quiet except for the bits of wood falling and settling as the logs settled down into the soft ashes. Meg squeezed her eyes shut to stop them from stinging. It felt so good to let her eyes rest.

  Suddenly, Fred and Julia leaped up behind her, growling, squealing, and making a horrid commotion. Meg nearly flew out of her chair, which sent them into fits of giggles.

  “How can you make a rug with your eyes closed and your chin lolling on your chest?” Fred asked.

  Julia could
hardly talk for laughing so hard. “You really jumped, Meg. We scared you bad, didn’t we?”

  Would her pounding heart ever be quiet again? How long had she dozed? A glance out the window told her it would soon be dark. She felt ashamed that she’d not been able to stay awake.

  “The wood boxes will need to be filled now,” she said to Fred. “And while you’re at the woodpile, please shut up the henhouse.”

  “I’ll get the wood,” Fred announced, “but the henhouse is not my concern. The chickens are woman’s work.”

  Meg shook her head, trying to clear her mind. She was still shaken from the bad scare they gave her. “You will be at the woodpile, close to the henhouse. You’ll already be outside and bundled up. It will take only a moment longer to be sure the door is secure.”

  Fred acted like he didn’t hear. “I’m getting my heavy coat, and I’ll bring in the wood just like I was told to do.”

  What was the use? She might as well argue with a fence post as argue with her stubborn brother. In the distance, she heard the back door slam.

  “Help me spread this out,” she said to Julia. “I want to see where I’m at.”

  Julia took the other end of the rug, and they spread it out on the wooden floor. Meg would perhaps go around twice more, then finish it off, hopefully before Mama and Papa returned. If only she could keep going. Her whole body felt blanketed in tiredness.

  “Julia, while I go out to close up the henhouse, please put on the teakettle and lay out the cheese and bread for our supper.”

  Julia nodded her agreement.

  Pulling on her clogs to protect her feet from the mud, Meg made her way carefully across the garden. The rain had turned to sleet, and the wind pulled and tugged at her cloak. Her breath formed little white puffs in front of her face.

  The chickens were smart enough to stay inside, but the door still had to be secured. Otherwise little varmints could easily get in and kill the egg layers. Meg pushed the door shut, securing the board over the metal hooks.

  Coming out of the chicken pen, she saw Fred going in the back door with his arms full of wood. At least he was doing that much. Pulling her cloak more tightly about her, she hurried back to get out of the wet and the cold. A cup of hot tea sounded mighty good.

  But when she stepped across the back porch and reached out to turn the knob, the door wouldn’t open. She felt her heart lurch. What was happening? She rattled the knob and pushed. Nothing. A key was always kept in the lock of the front and back doors, but seldom were they ever turned. Then she heard Fred’s laughter.

  “Can’t come in,” he sang out. “Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.”

  Now she could hear Julia’s laughter as well. She tried not to panic. What would she do? How long would it take him to decide the bad joke was over?

  “Unlock the door, Fred. It’s cold out here!” Meg called, rapping at the door with her cold knuckles. She’d not even thought to pull on her gloves. She hadn’t planned to be outside that long. “Julia, unlock the door and let me in. Right now.”

  But Fred and Julia were having fits of giggles. Meg stepped to the window. Fred was holding a yowling Goldie over his head as he danced about the kitchen table, whooping.

  Poor Goldie. Meg looked about her, wondering what to do. She had to keep her head. Waves of weakness swept over her—whether from the intense cold or from fear, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps she could slip around to the front door and get in while Fred whooped and hollered in the kitchen.

  Carefully she stepped down from the back porch and made her way around the side of the house, taking measured steps to keep her clogs firm in the mud, while keeping her skirts up.

  To her dismay, when she arrived at the front door, the giggles could be heard distinctly at the front door as well. What would Mama and Papa say if they arrived and saw her like this? Shame overwhelmed Meg. Knowing what she would find, she reached for the knob anyway. Locked.

  Suddenly it was all too much. Her body shut down, and merciful blackness closed in over her. The last thing she remembered was a sharp pain shooting through her head and Julia’s scream.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Exhibition

  Meg opened her eyes to see two sets of frightened eyes looking back at her. Blinking a couple times, she realized she was on the floor of the hallway. Together, Fred and Julia must have dragged her inside. Her cloak was spread out beneath her. A cool cloth was on the side of her head. Julia was holding it there. Pain began to register. Sharp pain shot through Meg’s temple.

  “Margaret,” Julia said in a quavery voice. “I thought you were dead!”

  “Aw, I told you she wasn’t dead, silly.” Fred’s blustery front covered the fear in his voice. “Just like all women, she faints to save herself. If you can’t get what you want, just faint. Poof!” He snapped his fingers. “Takes care of everything. All except for the knock on the noggin.”

  Meg assumed she must have hit her head on the porch post as she fell. She reached up to touch the side of her head, and her fingers felt something warm. She was bleeding.

  “It’s all right,” Julia told her. “We got the bleeding stopped. I’ll help you finish the rug. Are you gonna tell Mama and Papa?”

  “What’s she gonna tell?” Fred demanded. “We were just having a little fun. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Meg struggled to prop herself up on one elbow. She had to get up. She couldn’t be lying on the floor when Mama and Papa returned. Sitting up, she saw the drops of blood on the floor, as well as stains on her cloak.

  “Let’s get this cleaned up,” she told them.

  Julia jumped up. “I’ll get the scrub brush and some water.”

  “Clean it up yourself,” Fred fairly spouted. “I didn’t make the mess.” And off he went.

  After they’d gotten up the blood from the floor and rinsed it out of the cloak, Julia suggested they take their supper into the front room and finish the rug as they ate. And that’s where they were when Mama and Papa arrived home well after eight that evening.

  Oma had fallen and her ankle was broken, but it was much better. The swelling was down, Mama told them as she removed her sleet-speckled cloak. Then she looked at Meg. “Margaret Buehler. Your head, it is wounded.”

  “I was shutting up the henhouse,” Meg said. “I guess it was slicker than I thought. I took a tumble.”

  Not often did Meg have Mama’s sympathy, but now Mama moved to inspect the wound closer. “Come, my little fawn. Salve and a bandage will make it better.” Mama put her arm about Meg’s shoulder, patting her in comfort.

  Meg felt wretched that she’d not told the whole truth. That plus the fact that her head was still hurting. Mama’s arm about her was such a comfort that she couldn’t stop the tears that began to flow.

  “Does it hurt?” Mama asked gently.

  “A little.” Meg hated crying in front of the entire family. Why couldn’t she be strong? “The rug is finished,” she said through her tears.

  “Three willing workers make the task easier. I’m proud of you all.”

  Julia, who had followed them into the kitchen, gave Meg a funny look but said nothing.

  The next day when Meg told Susannah about the incident and how Fred had behaved, Susannah couldn’t understand why Meg didn’t tell on him.

  Meg gave a shrug. “He has a way of twisting things around. I was afraid if I told, he would make it sound as though I’d done something wrong.”

  “He picks on you more because he knows you won’t fight back. You know that, don’t you?”

  Meg nodded. “I suppose you’re right. But I’m not sure I know how to fight back.”

  Susannah put her arm about Meg’s shoulder. “You’re just too sweet for your own good,” she said with a laugh.

  The first day of November, Election Day, was cool but sunny. The newspapers were full of speculation about the election outcome, but the final count would not be in for at least two weeks. Fred was still holding out for Clay to be the winner. When Pa
pa went off to go to the polling place, Fred reminded him to be sure to vote for Clay.

  A few days later, Meg’s and Fred’s classes took a field trip back to the institute, this time to see the industrial exhibits. Fred, of course, was thrilled. As the students walked in pairs along the sidewalk up to the building, Susannah said to Meg, “At least now I won’t worry about you hanging back looking at all these exhibits. That is, unless you find something worth drawing.”

  Looking at all the colorful leaves strewn about their feet, Meg replied, “Almost everything is worth drawing, Susannah. Even some of the things I see in copies of Fred’s Mechanic’s Magazine.”

  While neither of the girls was particularly interested in inventions and science, still there were fascinating exhibits. They learned how Samuel Morse’s telegraph worked and how a steam engine was able to drive a big steamboat up the river. A scale model of a railroad locomotive attracted all the students.

  Meg found herself looking down hallways and around corners for a glimpse of Damon. She didn’t really expect to see him again. After all, she knew absolutely nothing about him. But as she was passing by one of the tall windows on the second floor, she chanced to look out and there he was! Her breath caught as he emerged from a small cottage on the grounds. She’d learned from her last visit that the cottage was the home of President Foote.

  She watched as the boy walked with purposeful strides down the sidewalk through the garden. He walked as though he knew who he was and where he was going. How Meg admired people who knew their own mind. Hers seemed so muddled at times.

  She felt a hand on her arm. “I thought I’d lost you. Mrs. Gravitt told me to come back and fetch you.” It was Susannah. She looked over Meg’s shoulder toward the garden. “Did something out there capture your attention?”

  Meg gave a sheepish grin. “I did it again, didn’t I?” Thankfully the boy had disappeared from view. “The gardens are so beautifully laid out.” She hooked her arm into Susannah’s. “We’d better catch up before I get you in trouble.”

  As they moved into a large room and caught up with the group, Mr. Gallagher was explaining the McCormick reaper that was displayed there. “This machine can easily cut twelve acres per day,” he was saying. “The machine is already changing the way the farmer reaps his wheat crops. We are looking at a glimpse of the future, when machines will do the work faster and more efficiently than men.”