American Struggle

by Veda Boyd Jones

  CHAPTER 16

  The Surprise Guest

  Courteous stewards assisted with the baggage and led Meg and Oma through the trees and up the walk. Meg was gawking about so much, she nearly stumbled on the small stone steps that led up to the lodge.

  As she climbed the steps, she could see that the veranda was much wider than it appeared from the bottom of the hill. The rustic lobby was set about with comfortable rough-wood furniture and bearskin rugs on the gray slate floors. One wall housed a mammoth stone fireplace.

  Their second-story room was open and airy with a view of the wooded hills and valleys that lay before them in a sunny haze. Meg stood staring out the bay window, hardly able to take her eyes from the magnificent scenery.

  Though Meg didn’t feel weary, Oma insisted she lie down and rest. Oma removed her veiled travel bonnet and her gloves and stretched out in the upholstered chaise. Within moments, the elderly traveler was sound asleep. Meg took her art supplies out of the valise, quietly opened the door, and escaped to the veranda, where she spent the better part of the afternoon.

  Yellow Springs Resort believed in healthy foods—mostly fruits and vegetables, very little meat, and plenty of good cold spring water. After several days of the healthy food and the refreshing mineral baths, Meg began to feel like a brand-new person.

  At the end of the first week, she received a letter from Susannah. Meg tore away the wax seal and unfolded the letter. Her friend reported that Fred was upset over news that Congress had passed the resolution to annex the Republic of Texas.

  “That, plus the fact that he never wanted Polk as president, has the boy in a dither,” Susannah wrote. Then she went on to explain how they’d given a tea for William Lloyd Garrison at their home, but Meg’s mama and papa failed to show up.

  There was that sleeping sawyer that Meg had been so worried about. She wondered how Papa’s decision had affected her brother. Susannah’s letter continued:

  Mr. Garrison is a fascinating man, full of passion and incredibly focused on one goal: to abolish slavery in our country forever. When I hear him talk, I fairly believe it could happen. His eyes spitfire when he talks of his dreams, but otherwise he is kind and gentle and extremely mannerly. I do hope Fred can meet him before he leaves. The free-labor store is nearly ready to open, after which Mr. Garrison will depart Cincinnati.

  At Oma’s request, Meg read some of the letter aloud, but Oma cared little about politics or the issues of slavery. When Meg finished reading, Oma said, “But nothing she says about my Emma. How is der family?”

  “I’m sure if they were not fine, Susannah would have told us,” Meg assured her, tucking the letter back into her bag.

  As they sat together on the veranda, a soft spring breeze wafted in from the wooded hills. Meg felt as though her lungs could never drink in enough of the sweet, clear air.

  The air in the city never smelled so good. What with the filth in the streets, smoke from the foundries, and smells from the packinghouses, the air in Cincinnati left much to be desired.

  As it did every afternoon, the stage pulled up at the bottom of the hill to unload the passengers. Meg enjoyed watching the well-dressed guests leaving and arriving. She craned her neck to catch a glimpse. As a tall, slender figure stepped down off the step of the stage with a little bounce, Meg gasped and accidentally stabbed her finger with her embroidery needle. “Ow,” she cried.

  “Careful you must be,” Oma warned her. “A spot of blood might set in the linen and never come out.”

  No, no, Meg’s mind was crying. It can’t be. But there he was, standing tall and serene, looking about him, and breathing deeply of the fresh air: Damon Pollard.

  She had to get out of there. Quickly. What if he saw her with her German oma? He’d know Meg couldn’t really afford to be at the resort. She didn’t belong in this elegant place with all its lavish provisions.

  “My pricked finger is bleeding,” Meg told Oma. “I’ll go take care of it with cold water.”

  Lodge stewards were hurrying down the steps to meet the new guests. Meg picked up all her work, shoved it into her bag, and stood to her feet. “You needn’t come, Oma. I’ll return later—if I feel like it.”

  Oma looked up now. “You feel poorly once again?” Meg put her hand to her forehead. “A little. I’m not sure. I’ll tell you later.”

  The guests were starting up the steps. Meg ran inside and up the stairs to her room as quickly as she could and collapsed into a chair, her heart pounding. Whatever would she do?

  “I believe I’ll not go down to eat this evening,” she told Oma when her grandmother came to check on her.

  “It is a setback you have.” Oma felt Meg’s forehead. “Mm. A little warm, as I thought. Lie down. Rest. Mineral water, perhaps it is not as good a cure as they thought.” She shook her head as she prepared to go down to dinner.

  After Oma was gone, Meg pulled the large rocking chair over to the bay windows and sat in pure misery. What a wretched turn of events. Why did he have to come here? Why?

  Meg never knew when she dozed off. The next thing she knew, Oma was coming in the door, talking as she came. “My little Margaret. Such a good time you missed at dinner. A boy, nice as any meatpacking boy I’ve ever met. He comes to our table and sits right at the side to me.”

  Seeing Meg’s sleepy expression, she said, “I woke you. I am so sorry.” She drew off her gloves and laid them with her fan on the marble-top bureau. “You have a nice rest?”

  “I think so. Now what were you saying?”

  “The boy at dinner.” Oma pulled up a chair next to Meg. “He arrives just today.”

  Surely Oma couldn’t be talking about …

  “He knows a little German. So funny it was to hear him say the words. Best as he can, though. He tries. He has nice manners. Courteous to me, an old lady. And a sense of humor as well. A lonely orphan he is. Lives with his uncle.”

  “Tell me his name, Oma.”

  “Damon. Damon Pollard. But no mind.” She reached over to pat Meg’s hand. “You will meet him at breakfast. I tell him my granddaughter is here. Now you will have a friend here your age.”

  Meg sat stunned. She could hardly believe what she was hearing.

  Damon had talked with kindness to Oma Schiller, a German woman? None of the boys in her class at school would have done such a thing.

  Oma had asked that the kitchen help send up a plate of fruit for Meg, of which she ate every bite before retiring. Her mind, however, wasn’t on food, but on a million other things. How could she have been so wrong?

  After Oma was settled into a deep sleep, Meg sat gazing out the window at the moonlit hills. How silly she’d been. And how selfish. She’d been so caught up in fear of what Damon might think of her, she hadn’t even given him a chance. She’d not considered that the boy might be lonely. That he might need a friend.

  Fear. A paralyzing thing. She’d been fearful of so many things. Afraid to stand up to Fred’s attacks. Afraid to admit to Mama that she was truly ill. Afraid to ask for permission to visit the art gallery. Afraid to stand up for what she believed. Afraid, even, to enter the art contest.

  Why, she’d even been ashamed of her own grandparents because of fear of ridicule. How foolish she’d been.

  Suddenly, Meg saw things so clearly. She remembered her fear of the old hens and how the mitt—her own idea—had helped her conquer that fear. God surely wanted her to conquer the other fears in her life as well. Susannah had constantly encouraged her to stand up for what she believed. With God’s help, Meg was determined to do just that.

  The next morning at breakfast, Meg wasn’t surprised when a dark-haired, dark-eyed young man approached their table. Before Oma could introduce them, Damon said simply, “Hello, Meg. Good to see you again.”

  Oma’s eyes grew wide. “You know my Margaret?”

  “We’ve met briefly,” he said, his eyes dancing. “May I sit down?” “Please do,” Oma said, waving to a chair.

  Turning to Meg, he s
aid, “I found this on the veranda when I first arrived yesterday.” He reached into the pocket of his coat. “Somehow I think it might belong to you.”

  Damon unfolded a piece of paper on which, among other sketches, was a likeness of Damon.

  Meg’s face grew hot as she realized it must have dropped from her things in her hurry to go inside. But before she could speak, Oma said, “Margaret did this?” She took the paper from Damon’s hands. “Why, drawing is good.” She looked at Damon. “This looks much like you.”

  “I agree. Much like me.” He smiled at Meg, putting her at ease and making her forget her embarrassment.

  “I didn’t know I dropped it. Thank you,” she said, taking it from Oma.

  “I could show you a few techniques to improve if you’d like.” Meg brightened, then stopped. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to put you to the bother.”

  “No bother at all. Uncle Jack sent me up here to rest, and I don’t think I even need a rest.”

  “The young man’s uncle runs some art institute,” Oma said as the steward brought another dish full of cheese and fruit to their table.

  “Yes, Oma,” Meg said. “I know. Our class visited the institute, and I saw him there.”

  Oma nodded and went back to her breakfast. Meg hoped Damon would say nothing about the day of the blizzard. He didn’t, but as they ate, Damon asked questions about their family. Oma added bits and pieces here and there, inserting the fact that none of the Buehler grandchildren could speak German and what a shame that was.

  Once the rising sun had warmed the veranda, many of the guests chose to spend the morning hours out there or on the front lawns or strolling through the gardens.

  Damon suggested they go to a table at the far corner of the veranda where they could spread out paper and work. Oma served as their very proper chaperone. The hours flew by as Damon showed Meg techniques with pen, with the pastels, and even a few tricks with the colored pencils. Meg was delirious with joy. And all the while they worked, Damon talked. He talked as though he’d not had someone to talk to for ever so long.

  “Uncle Jack brought me to Cincinnati to mentor me in painting, but also to tutor me in my studies. Though I love Uncle Jack and he’s very kind to me, I would much rather attend a public school.”

  Meg began to realize that Damon was a boy very much like Stephen. Why had she been so afraid of him? Fear, she could see, shut her off from so many things.

  That evening as she and Oma were preparing to go to supper, Meg opened her heart and shared with Oma her deep love for art. Then, taking a deep breath, she told how she had slipped away to the institute in the snowstorm. That she’d gone specifically to see Damon’s showing.

  “Emma, she tells me the blizzard catch you. It was clear to me you didn’t go right home. I trusted you to tell me in your own time.”

  “But there’s more. Being in the storm made me sick, and being sick has put a hardship on everyone on the family. Even you. I feel terrible about all of it.”

  Oma came to Meg and patted her shoulder. “Little Meg. Like the bending willows. Some bending is good, my little fawn, some is bad. You bend too much!”

  A willow? Meg wondered if that was like the bruised reed that Aunt Lucy talked about.

  “Doctor tells your mama and your papa you have been sick for a long time. Not just from time in a blizzard.” “A long time?”

  Oma nodded. “Tell me if it is not so.”

  Meg thought a moment. Was that why she was weak and headachy so much? “Yes, Oma. Perhaps it is so. But I never wanted to admit I felt bad. It seemed wrong.”

  “Is never wrong to be honest. Your mama hurts deep inside that she did not know.”

  “Mama hurts because I’m sick?” Meg could hardly believe it.

  “She loves you very much, as do I.”

  Meg put her arms about Oma and hugged her tight. What a wonderful trip this was turning out to be.

  Through the remainder of their stay, Meg had her own private art lessons each day. Her confidence in her work grew as Damon praised her efforts. Each day she and Damon came to know one another better. Oma had been right about his humor. His wit was lively and he loved a good joke. Meg found herself laughing more than she had in a very long time.

  One afternoon as she was describing Fred to Damon, she mentioned his love of science and his admiration for inventors such as Samuel Morse.

  Damon nodded. “Sam Morse, the artist? Yes, I know him.”

  “No, no. I’m speaking of the man who invented the telegraph. Fred admires him greatly.”

  “He’s one and the same.”

  Meg laughed at the irony. “You mean the scientist is also an artist?”

  “Morse was a personal friend of two of my uncles, and one uncle tutored him in portrait painting. I’ve met Mr. Morse on a number of occasions. Sam Morse has painted the portraits of Eli Whitney and Daniel Webster and many others. Does that seem strange to you?”

  “Strange? Not to me. But it will help me greatly in dealing with my younger brother.” She went on to explain about Fred and his relentless teasing, saying drawing was a waste of time. “Something like this could change many things back home.”

  “I’d be glad to tell Fred all about old Sam. Think that might help?”

  Meg laughed. “I think it would help a great deal. It would take some of the wind out of Fred’s sails.”

  By the time Meg and Oma were ready to leave Yellow Springs to return home, Meg could hardly believe she’d ever been afraid of Damon Pollard. Now she couldn’t wait to get home and tell Susannah and Stephen all about her new friend.

  Meg wanted to tell Susannah that she was ready to enter the art contest as well. And that she was ready to stand up for what she believed.

  CHAPTER 17

  A New Meg

  Upon Meg’s first day back at school, she went to Mr. Gallagher to ask for a form to enter the art contest. Susannah was thrilled. “Something’s happened to you, Meg,” she said. “You look healthy again, but it’s more than that.”

  Meg just smiled. “You’ve been trying to tell me to stand up for what I believe, Susannah. With God’s help, I’m doing just that.”

  Dr. Logan was pleased with Meg’s progress. His further orders to her were, “In the future, when you feel bad, you must rest.” To Mama he said, “Emma, you may be able to work relentlessly, but your daughter cannot. God created her a little differently.”

  Mama nodded and looked at Meg. “I know now, Dr. Logan.” Meg and Mama had already had a long talk in which Mama had asked Meg to forgive her for not realizing she was truly sick. Then Meg asked Mama to forgive her for going to the institute without permission. They had hugged and wept together.

  After being pronounced well, Meg asked Mama to have a dinner for the Hendrickses and Damon. To Meg’s delight, Mama agreed.

  Meg had been right about Fred. He was impressed beyond words that Damon personally knew an inventor. Damon helped him see that art was not all that far removed from science. Meg was sure Fred would never tease her again about her drawings.

  And to her delight, Damon and Stephen became fast friends. Within a couple of weeks of meeting the Hendrickses, Damon was spending afternoons helping out at the mercantile.

  Spring returned to the city with a flourish. Flowering trees were transformed into pink and white explosions of color. The oaks and maples were budding, and flowers bloomed on every corner. Meg wanted to paint everything she saw.

  One evening Meg mustered the courage to ask Papa if she could speak to him alone. Papa raised his craggy brows. “This sounds important. Shall we meet in the parlor?”

  Once Papa had closed the door and they were settled in the overstuffed chairs, Papa said, “What is it, Meg? What did you want to talk about?”

  Taking a breath and fighting down fear, Meg said, “Papa, your craftsmanship in your furniture making is very important to you. But my art is important to me as well. Would you allow me to study art? To take lessons?”

  Papa thought a mo
ment. “Meg, people need beds and bureaus and secretaries. These are necessary items.”

  “But doesn’t a work of art enhance a lovely piece of furniture? Think of how the two go together in the fine homes where your furniture is found. As you say, there may not be a need for art, but God created exquisite spring flowers. Can you think of a need for them?”

  Papa said nothing for a time, but Meg could tell he was thinking.

  In the silence, Meg thought of Fred and his dreams. She added, “And Fred’s dream of a steam-driven lathe is as important to him as my art is to me. I know that hand-carved furniture is your trademark, but does it have to be one or the other? Couldn’t it be both? Couldn’t there be a part of the factory that is mechanized and a part where the hand carving is done? Wouldn’t it be better for you to utilize Fred’s wonderful talents than have him work for someone else?”

  Meg could hardly believe she’d said that much and said it so clearly. Papa must have been surprised as well. “I’ve always known you had a good head on your shoulders, Margaret. Tell Fred to come in here, and let’s all have a good, long talk.”

  As Meg went to fetch her brother, she knew Aunt Lucy had been right. There was more than one way to be strong.

  Daria Solves a Mystery

  Norma Jean Lutz

  A NOTE TO READERS

  While the Fisk and Burton families are fictional, the situations they find themselves in are not. Because Cincinnati was so close to the South, there were many spies who worked in the area during the Civil War.

  The families of men who went to fight in the war struggled to survive. Because soldiers had left their regular jobs, their families didn’t get money from that source. Soldiers weren’t paid much, and often their pay never reached their families. Many women and children went hungry. Cities like Cincinnati hurried to form soup kitchens so that their people wouldn’t starve.

  The threatened attack on Cincinnati by Southern troops during the summer of 1862 became known as the Siege of Cincinnati. Businesses were closed, and everyone was asked to help build defenses around the city. For weeks during that summer, people lived with the fear that the city they had worked so hard to build was about to be destroyed.