A Bridge Named Susan

by Sharon Chase Hoseley

  I woke on my bed, confused. Where was I? How did I get here? Painting! I scrambled from my cot, ran outside, and began painfully brushing. I didn’t get my side finished before it got dark. Papa said, “It’s all right. Tomorrow’s another day. You worked hard. I’m proud of you.” I dropped into bed without supper or even putting on my nightdress.

  Papa woke us at daybreak again. “Ohh!” I groaned. I hurt all over. Did I let a complaint slip past my lips? I could do this. I headed for the barn, donned my gunny sack, and went to work. The four bottom boards on my side of the barn were bright shiny red at the end of the second day. I pulled off the gunny sack and danced all the way to the house.

  The next morning, as I rounded the corner of Johnny’s side, he was just finishing up—the bottom four boards! “You painted my boards,” I screamed. “Those are my boards! You’re s’posed to do the high ones!”

  Johnny grinned his crooked smile, “My arm got tired painting up there.”

  Pounding him with both fists, I screamed, “You painted my boards! My boards! Those were my boards!” He pushed me away like a horse swatting a fly while he giggled like a girl. Even I was amazed at my outburst. I’d been mad before but always let it boil inside like Mama’s cooking pot. Guess the pot just boiled over.

  I have to admit, my outburst felt good. The pot exploded. Anger instantly left me. I knew I’d have to apologize. Sad to say, that day launched a stream of temper eruptions, many embarrassing times, and hundreds of apologizes.

  Papa came ’round the corner to see what the commotion was about. “John Westley,” he said calmly, “looks like you’ve painted yourself into a problem. Now you’ve got the next four boards to paint all the way around. There’s no way Susan can reach those. What was you thinkin’, son?”

  Johnny hollered, “I won’t do it! You can’t make me!” He threw the brush at Papa and tore up to the house yelling, “Mama!”

  Not a word was said. Mama joined us in her old clothes. She brushed the upper four boards all the way around with powerful strokes. Johnny sat in his favorite dirt pile, playing with his homemade wooden cars. Mama and Papa didn’t speak until the entire barn was a shiny, clean red.

  Chapter 4

  Where I Found Love

  When Mama’s month of bed rest after my birth was over, she set to tending the garden. Three-year-old Johnny went with her. Papa worked the fields. Mama’s sister, Juna, often stopped by to help. Later, she shared stories of my early years with me.

  I was left alone, sleeping in my box by the stove. I slept most of the time, but by the third month, my growing body would wake in ravenous hunger and whimper to an empty farmhouse. The whimper turned to a pathetic cry, followed by a full-blown, demanding scream. How long it went on depended on what Mama wanted to finish in the garden. Eventually she came to feed me, put me back in my box, and return to her work, irritated at being interrupted. By this time, the garden was ready to be harvested: vegetables picked and canned, pickles started, and fruit canned or made into jams and jellies. The winter food supply depended on how much Mama accomplished with garden produce in the months of August, September, and October.

  By the beginning of September, I outgrew my sleeping box. Mama laid me on an old quilt by the edge of the garden under the shade of an apple tree where I could breathe fresh air and watched bugs, birds, and flowers.

  Aunt Juna claimed Mama was happiest working in the garden, picking the abundant crops that thrived in the black fertile soil of the Camas Prairie. I seemed happiest lying in the shade, listening to the birds twitter, the scritch, scritch of the hoe taking out unwanted weeds, and, of all things, being entertained by my own Mama’s passionate singing while she worked. She sang to no one in particular. Most of the time it was only my brother and me. “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” “Too Ra Loo-Ra Loo Ra,” and “In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree” were repeated over and over. The beautiful, sweet lilt of her Irish voice captivated me as I lay staring at the faded pattern on the old quilt. That was the beginning of my love for the outdoors. It held a side of my mother I never felt in the house.

  Johnny helped pick a few things in the garden. He was three, and his interests were eating beans or peas and watching bugs. Mama gave him the job of picking the yellow, black, and white striped potato bugs off the vines and dropping them into the can she tied around his waist. Even that didn’t hold his interest long. He’d sneak over to my blanket, take the bugs from the can, and drop them on me until I started crying or someone discovered what he was doing. He was jealous of the attention Papa gave me, so he clung to Mama. Mama tried to make up for lost Papa time by giving him whatever his heart desired. His heart certainly didn’t desire farming.

  It was Papa who held his baby girl close. He worked the fields up ’til dark each day, putting up hay for the animal’s winter feed, harvesting grain, plowing some areas, and harrowing for spring planting. Even though he was tired from his dawn-to-dusk day walk behind the horses, he washed and picked me up from the baby box by the stove. He gently cuddled me close to his chest and sat in the old chair, humming and rocking.

  He told me later this was the best part of his whole day. He carried on a conversation with me like I knew what he was talking about. “I worked with Kit and Bess on the South 40 today. Got about a third plowed. Probably two more days of plowin’ ’til we can start harrowin’. Kit seemed a bit lame today, so I put some liniment on her left front leg tonight. Got a good price for the oats I took to town yesterday. Sorry I was late and didn’t get to tell ya. It’ll buy all we need of that new kind of barley seed for plantin’ in the spring. Ya ought to see the taters your mama dug for supper. Real big and white through and through. Yes sir, that heavy rain we had in May certainly made a fine crop. We’ll have plenty to eat this winter. You’ll have your first taste of mashed taters come about Christmas. You’ll love ’em.”

  He tracked my milestones in his diary. It was Papa who coaxed the first smile on my lips. It was Papa who was rewarded with my first laugh. He brought out babbling from my small tongue at the age of four months. As I watched his mouth moving above me in our daily conversations, “Papa” was, not surprisingly, my first real word. It was Papa who encouraged my first steps at the age of ten months.

  From the time I could walk, Papa would take me into the fields. “Up you go,” he called as he lifted me onto his lap in the seat of the harrow behind our two big brown horses, Kit and Bess. I’d squeal with delight as Papa called out, “Gee,” and the horses threw their weight into the harnesses and began to move. “Whee,” I’d call to the horses as I watched the tines of the harrow below Papa’s feet dig into the ground, loosening it from its packed winter’s rest. Ah, the rich smell of good black dirt still damp from the melted snows. It was like the earth’s perfume calling out, “Come, work me, plow me, plant me, and I will give you a harvest of good things in return.”

  Papa’s penetrating, secure love constantly assured me that he adored his black-eyed Susan. I, in turn, grew to love this man deeply.

  Chapter 5

  Baby, Berries, and Hard Times

  In late June of 1918, I was picking strawberries. The patch was big, the berries were big, and so was my mama. She was going to have a baby. It was hard for her to get down to the ground, so I was the picker. I remember she had to lie down a lot. After all, she was forty-five years old. “That’s old,” I kept thinking. “Too old to have a baby.”

  Mama and Papa never told us about the baby. I guess things like that weren’t talked about with kids. I found out one night when Grandmama and Grandpapa Denney came over to visit while we were still in our preparing season of the year. I’d already gone to bed and was about to drift off to sleep when suddenly my ears pricked up at something Grandpapa was yelling. “Yer gonna have another baby? Well, it’s about time. Can’t run a farm with only two kids. Ya need another good strong boy to make this work.”

  My eyes popped wide open. I held my breath
and strained my ears to catch every word. I heard Mama go, “Shhhh! The children’ll hear.” Voices were lowered, and I could only make out bits and pieces of the rest of the conversation.

  My thoughts were going wild. “A baby? Why would Mama have another baby when she never wanted me? Oh, no! If it’s another boy, I’ll be sandwiched and tortured from both sides. Things are going pretty good right now. A baby’ll ruin everything.”

  Emotions swept through me like the train that roared through the edge of our land. It rumbled and shook the ground and threatened to run over me if I got in the way. Fear, jealousy, and worry threatened to stomp me over, and I could not get out of the way. I became invisible, pulling into a safe place. The news of a baby haunted me day and night.

  These berries I was picking weren’t just for us. I put them in big crocks that people dropped off, stored them in our cool dirt cellar under our house, and customers picked them up in the evening. I got five cents a day from the sale of our berries. Buyers would say to Papa, “I’d come ten miles just to get your berries, John. They’re the sweetest, biggest, juiciest strawberries in all the county.”

  About halfway through strawberry picking season, on the day before my eighth birthday, I started not feeling good. “It’s just the sun—too much sun,” I told myself. “My head is aching ’cause I’m turned upside down all day with this picking.”

  The next day I had to pull myself out of bed. I hurt all over. I knew those big red berries were lying out there waiting for me. I couldn’t even think of eating without getting nauseated, so I just kept picking all day. It was all I could do to drink a little water. That night I was shivering and sweating. When Papa woke me the next morning, he felt my forehead, looked at me with worried eyes, and shook his head, “Not today, black-eyed Susan. No pickin’ today for you.”

  “No, Papa. I’ve got to. There’s three crocks in the cellar.” Papa shook his head again and woke up Johnny, sending him off to Grandma Kole’s with a message to get Doc and have Papa’s youngest sister come help with the picking.

  I drifted back into a fitful dreaming sleep. I was picking … picking … picking. The smell of the berries was so powerful it smothered me. I tried holding my breath. I tried breathing through my mouth. It was like a huge strawberry blanket covered my bed. I woke gasping for air and found I was holding my nose. The nightmare didn’t leave when I woke. Yes, all I could smell was strawberries! The door to the cellar was right under my window; today’s picking was sending the aroma straight to my room. I began to retch and heave. Nothing came up.

  The doctor didn’t get there until after dinner. I was burning up. He took one look at me and told Papa, “Susan’s got yellow jaundice. Look at her skin and eyes. See how yellow they are? She’s running a mighty high temperature. We’ve got to get the temperature down.” He gave me something in a spoon, sent Johnny to the well to get fresh water, wrapped me in cool, wet cloths, and I fell into darkness. The fight in me to go back to picking was gone. I slept. Doc stayed for three days. Every time I opened my eyes, he was sitting by my bed. It dawned on me, I was a very sick girl.

  On the third day my fever broke. I stopped shivering and slept soundly. However, that didn’t mean I was well. “It’ll take months for her liver to heal. You’re lucky she’s alive. It’s one of the worst jaundice cases I’ve seen,” Doc told Papa and Mama. When he left, he gave directions for the medicine and promised to be back in four days.

  He was right. I was so weak, I needed help getting from bed to bedpan. My head felt like bugs were eating my brain. My yellow skin was a sharp contrast to the white, homemade muslin sheets. I couldn’t read. Getting up was out of the question. Eating was difficult. Talking seemed impossible; took too much effort. I slept. Doc came and went. I don’t know how often. I don’t remember much except my aching body and the horrible smell of strawberries.

  Three weeks into this jaundice thing, I heard the door open downstairs and Doc’s voice. I waited and waited, but he didn’t come upstairs. Strange, I thought, and propped myself up far enough on one elbow to see out the one small window in my room. Yep, that was Doc’s buggy and horse in the front yard.

  My attention was suddenly pulled to voices in Papa and Mama’s room directly below me. Mama screamed. What was wrong? Did Mama have the jaundice too? The doctor was giving Papa directions, Johnny was yelling and crying, and I was too weak to get more than a few steps from the bed. Fear invaded every part of me. What was happening?

  After what seemed like hours of lying there listening to Mama scream and yell, I heard footsteps outside my room. Papa came in wearing a tired, worried look. “Mama’s havin’ a tough time with the baby. Just thought you ought to know what’s goin’ on,” he muttered as he turned and went back down the narrow stairs.

  “Oh no,” my mind yelled. “What if something bad happens to Mama? It’ll be my fault ’cause I don’t want this baby.” I couldn’t do anything except lie there, cry, and ask God to help my mama.

  Night came and then again morning. Still the cries of Mama shot through into my room. They seemed weaker now, more like the whining of a hurt dog. Suddenly, they became intense. Doc called for Papa, and a scream pierced the entire house, followed by another and another and another and then—a cry from a … a … yes … it was a baby! Mama was suddenly silent, and I heard Doc yelling for hot oil. Papa must have gotten it ’cause Johnny had run out of the house the day before and not come back.

  My room was permeated with an overwhelming smell of cinnamon. It was ten times as bad as the strawberries. The odor sent my stomach into spasms. I was told later Mama bled profusely, and Doc used oil of cinnamon to stop the bleeding. Never have learned how.

  I’ve never been able to eat anything with strawberries or cinnamon. I’m not allowed to donate blood. Yellow jaundice is now called hepatitis. What a traumatic summer it was for an eight-year-old; yellow jaundice, overpowering smells, and now, I was a big sister.

  Chapter 6

  My Harvest Job

  The baby was a girl. They named her Agnes Edna. Guess there was enough money by then to give her two names. She had two traditional family names, just like John Westley. I was just plain Susan. Only one name—not even a family name. When I asked Papa why I only had one name, he explained, “Well, you see, when you were born we were too poor to give you two names. Your Grandpa Kole came over and the minute he saw you, he said, ‘Well, hello there, little black-eyed Susan.’”

  My aunts took turns coming to care for baby Edna, while Mama and I stayed in bed recuperating. I don’t know what we’d have done without family around. Papa had to work the fields, and the care of the garden fell to Johnny. He whined and complained about that and the baby. “When I grow up, I’m never gonna be a farmer,” he shouted at Papa. “I hate it, I hate you! And I’ll never have no dumb baby!”

  It turned out that 1918 was one of the most difficult years that Papa and Mama experienced on the farm. Hard times were expected back then. No quick fixes. Pioneer days had prepared them for anything. They never complained cause “that’s just the way things were, no use complainin’.” Papa would simply say, “The Lord’ll see us through.”

  Area farmers, armed with scythes, arrived with wagons and teams in early September. For two days the army of workers fanned across the fields, cutting stalks of grain, bundling them with twine, and setting them up like guards. On the third day, they fired up the community-owned steam threshing machine, which huffed and puffed in the middle of the fields while men fed it bundles of grain from horse-drawn wagons. Grain spewed out a pipe on the other end where men caught it in gunny sacks, leaving just enough room to sew the top shut. When a waiting wagon was full of sacks, the driver and his team hauled them eleven miles to the flour mill in Reubens. Papa provided gunny sacks, twine, and needles for sewing.

  From one hour after sunrise till one hour before sunset, the threshing crew toiled to get the crop in. It was long days for both humans and hor
ses. Harvest never happened on Sunday. That was the day farmers rested and thanked the Lord.

  By noon, the women of the host farmer had dinner ready to take to the field, where the workers ate in the shade under wagons. Seemed like farmers’ wives had a competition going as to who could serve up the biggest and best. Harvest was hard work and brought on big appetites. It was nothing for the crew to devour three hams, two sacks of potatoes, twenty quarts of beans, six dozen homemade rolls, and ten apple pies in just one sitting. As soon as they finished eating and the dishes were done, the women started cooking for the next day.

  Mama was up and working by then, but I was no help. I got downstairs by myself but didn’t have strength. “I’ll pull carrots and wash them,” I told Mama. I got them pulled but couldn’t carry them to the house. “Johnny! Come get the carrots,” I yelled. Everyone had to work during harvest and guilt laid heavy on me. It had been my job the past two years to take drinking buckets from the well to the field several times a day. Not this year. Mostly I was just in the way.

  On the second day of harvest, it dawned on me how I could help. “I’ll take care of the baby,” I told Mama.

  “You sure I can trust you not to drop her?” she questioned. I nodded. “Here, sit in the rocker.” With a pillow on my lap, I held baby Edna and sang every song I knew while Mama and two of her sisters cooked up a storm. Mama only stopped to feed her. I had found a place where I belonged—caretaker of my little sister. She loved me unconditionally.

  Chapter 7

  Back to School