by Al Lacy
This book is dedicated with love to Brenda Jacobson
my friend
my sister in the LORD
and the quiet strength behind her husband’s
dreams and accomplishments.
I love you, Bren.
Jo Anna
PROVERBS 17:17
“[God] knoweth the secrets of the heart.”
PSALM 44:21
THE ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA REPORTS that the mail order business, also called direct mail marketing, “is a method of merchandising in which the seller’s offer is made through mass mailing of a circular or catalog, or advertisement placed in a newspaper or magazine, and in which the buyer places his order by mail.”
Britannica goes on to say that “mail order operations have been known in the United States in one form or another since Colonial days, but not until the latter half of the nineteenth century did they assume a significant role in domestic trade.”
Thus the “mail order” market was known when the big gold rush took place in this country in the 1840s and 1850s. At that time prospectors, merchants, and adventurers raced from the East to the newly discovered goldfields in the West. One of the most famous was the California Gold Rush in 1848–49, when discovery of gold at Sutter’s Mill, near Sacramento, brought more than 40,000 men to California. Though few struck it rich, their presence stimulated economic growth, the lure of which brought even more men to the West.
The married men who had come West sent for their wives and children, desiring to stay and make their home in the West. Most of the gold rush men were single and also desired to stay in the West, but they found there were about two hundred men for every single woman. Being familiar with the mail order concept, they began advertising in eastern newspapers for women to come west and marry them. Thus was born the “mail order bride.”
Women by the hundreds began answering the ads, wanting to be married and to make the move west. Often when men and their prospective brides corresponded, they agreed to send no photographs. They would accept each other by the spirit of the letters rather than on a physical basis. Others, of course, exchanged photographs.
The mail order bride movement accelerated after the Civil War ended in April 1865, when men went west by the thousands to make their fortune on the frontier. Many of the marriages turned out well, while others were disappointing and ended in desertion by one or the other of the mates, or in divorce.
As we embark on this fiction series, we’ll tell stories that will grip the heart of the reader, bring some smiles, and maybe wring out some tears. As always, we will weave in the gospel of Jesus Christ and run threads of Bible truth that apply to our lives today.
IT WAS FALL IN ILLINOIS, and each day the winds off Lake Michigan loosened the dry russet leaves and sent them swirling through space until they fell in the yards and streets of Chicago, giving a touch of bright temporary color wherever they settled.
Chicago’s 27th District was on the west side of the city, a predominantly Irish settlement. In the two-story house at 139 DeKoven Street, the sunny kitchen was redolent with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee as the Shaemus O’Malley family finished up a hearty breakfast.
Shaemus set his Irish eyes on his wife. “Well, Mama,” he said, “we’d best be thinkin’ about startin’ to commence to begin makin’ plans to head for the store.”
Maureen O’Malley, who was short and a bit round like her husband, looked somewhat younger than her thirty-nine years. She smiled at Shaemus. “You’re right, Papa. We’ll have irate customers standin’ at the front door of the store a-wantin’ in if we don’t shake a leg.”
Fourteen-year-old Patricia, who was the spitting image of her mother, laughed. “Papa, why do you always say that?”
“Always say what, darlin’?”
“You know… ‘start to commence to begin…’ Why do you always say that?”
“Because it always makes you laugh.” Shaemus had the mischievous grin of a fabled leprechaun. “And if there’s anythin’ this ol’ Irishman wants, it’s to see his children happy and laughin’.”
“Well, you’ve certainly made your son happy today, Papa,” said the family’s oldest child, Kathleen, who would soon turn eighteen.
“Made me happy?” gusted Donald, who was two years younger than Kathleen. There was a sly grin on his lips. “Why, Kathleen, how can you say that? You know I absolutely hate to miss school!”
“Mm-hmm. About the way you hate to eat chocolate cake.”
“How come us girls can’t go with you to get the potatoes, Papa?” Patricia asked.
“‘Cause girls aren’t strong enough to lift the sacks,” Donald said before his father could answer.
“Kathleen and I could handle sacks together,” Patricia said, giving Donald a look.
Shaemus chuckled. “Handlin’ spuds is for the male species, Patty, and besides, the railroad yard is no place for females. I know you’d like to skip out on school, but life isn’t always set up to be what we want it to be.”
Patricia shrugged. “Oh, well. Someday I’ll grow up and marry a real rich man. Then I can do anything I want, and I can have everything I want.”
Kathleen shoved her chair back and stood up. “But until then, little sister, you and I still have to do the dishes and clean up the kitchen before school.”
The rest of the family rose to their feet.
Donald was already almost a head taller than his father, and he liked to tease him about it. Laying a hand on his dad’s shoulder, he said, “Well, Shorty, I guess we’d better get going.”
Shaemus chuckled, looked up at Donald, and said, “Shorty, eh? Well, anytime the tall one, here, thinks he c’n handle Shorty, let ‘im try it.”
“Our son isn’t about to do that, Papa,” said Maureen, laughter showing in her eyes.
Donald grinned sheepishly. “You’re…ah…right about that, Mama.”
“Tall isn’t everything, Donald,” Patricia said. “No, it isn’t, half-pint. But being short isn’t either. And you ought to know.”
“I’ll grow some more,” Patricia said.
Donald took his cap off a peg. “You might, but lots of girls already have their height by the time they’re fourteen.” “Kathleen didn’t. She grew till last year.”
“Yeah, but Kathleen was taller than you are when she was your age.”
“Not by much. I’ll be at least as tall as she is.”
Donald looked down at Kathleen and grinned at her. “Which isn’t saying much, is it?”
“My feet reach the floor, and that’s all that matters,” she retorted.
The older O’Malleys and Donald put on their coats before stepping out into the brisk fall air. Kathleen and Patricia hugged their parents good-bye, then turned to Donald, mischievous grins on their faces. It embarrassed Donald—now that he was all of sixteen years—to be hugged by his sisters. He began edging his way toward the kitchen door as Maureen O’Malley said, “You girls do good in school today.”
“We will, Mama,” Patricia assured her.
“I’ll be at the store right after school lets out, Mama,” said Kathleen.
“And I’ll come home and do some housework,” said Patricia.
Donald had his hand on the doorknob. Before he could step outside, Kathleen glided up, smiling from ear to ear, and threw her arms around him, saying, “You have a good time loading and unloading the potatoes, Donnie.”
Donald’s face turned beet red, and his arms hung at his sides.
As Kathleen stepped back, Patricia moved in to hug him. “Bye, Donnie,” she said. “See you later.”
He opened the door and allowed his parents to pass through ahead of him, then fell in behind them as they walked toward the barn where the horses were already hitche
d to the wagon.
Though the air was brisk, the girls stepped outside onto the porch.
“Donnie…” Kathleen called.
The boy paused. “Yes?”
“If you don’t hug me back when I hug you, I’ll fix you good.”
“Oh? And just how will you do that, Miss Smarty?”
“I’ll hug you at school in front of your friends.”
Donald O’Malley’s face paled. “You…you wouldn’t do that.”
“I’ll do it too,” Patricia said.
Kathleen laughed. “So if you don’t want the supreme embarrassment of having your sisters hug you at school, you’d better hug us back when we’re at home.”
“All right, all right,” he said, turning to catch up with his parents.
“Starting right now!” Kathleen’s brilliant sky blue eyes danced with merriment, and a dimple flitted in and out of her right cheek as she set her mouth and fought to control the smile that threatened to break across her lips.
Donald shook his head, muttered something indistinguishable, and returned to the porch. He hugged both sisters then hurried away.
Moments later, the family wagon pulled out of the yard with Shaemus, Maureen, and Donald waving to the girls.
The girls rubbed their arms from the cold and returned to the warmth of the kitchen.
“Aren’t brothers fun to pick on?” Patricia said with a giggle.
“If they’re all like Donnie, they are.”
Shaemus and Maureen O’Malley were hardworking immigrants who had left Ireland in October of 1851 for the shores of America. The Great Potato Famine had struck Ireland in 1845 and lasted until 1850. By 1851, some two million people had died, and the economy was devastated. Shaemus and Maureen, who got married the year after the end of the Famine, decided to emigrate to the United States. There they would build their lives together and start their family.
They dearly loved their new country. Eventually they had put together enough money to open a corner grocery store in Chicago’s 27th District, and after three or four years the store was providing a nice living for them. Now it was 1871, and they had been living in Chicago for twenty years. They would not have been considered wealthy, but they were quite comfortable and felt exceptionally blessed.
Their home was a happy one, filled with love. And even though sisters and brother teased each other unmercifully, underneath it all were genuine affection and respect.
While Kathleen washed the dishes, Patricia cleaned the table and cupboards. The younger girl admired her sister very much and hoped that one day she would be as pretty and graceful.
All three of the O’Malley women had the same shade of dark auburn hair. To Patricia, however, Kathleen’s hair seemed more beautiful with its shimmer of red-gold highlights.
On that Wednesday morning, October 4, Kathleen had the sides of her hair pulled up and fastened with a bow. The back hung down in rippling waves, almost to her slim waist. Patricia understood why many of the boys at school had eyes for her sister.
“Honey, will you open the door for me?” Kathleen said as she picked up the small tub they used to wash the dishes.
Patricia hurried to open the back door, and Kathleen carried the tub to the far end of the porch and poured the dirty water on the ground. Her peripheral vision caught movement in the yard next door. She turned to look and saw Katie O’Leary carrying a bucket of milk from the barn at the rear of her property.
“Good morning, Kathleen,” Katie called.
“And a good morning to you, Katie,” replied Kathleen, smiling warmly. “Milking the cows again?”
Katie, who was in her midtwenties, paused on her way to the back porch. “I don’t mind. Besides, it’s just every other day.”
“Well, I admire you for doing the milking when Patrick is away.”
“Thank you, but I really don’t mind. A wife’s supposed to help her husband in any way she can, and the milk sales from our cows to your father’s store really help with the bills.”
Patricia drew up beside her sister. “Good morning, Mrs. O’Leary.”
Katie nodded with a smile. “‘Bout time for you girls to head for school, isn’t it?”
“Sure is,” said Patricia. “We best be off.”
Katie climbed the steps of her back porch, holding the milk bucket carefully, then disappeared inside the house.
Kathleen glanced at her younger sister. “Patty, I hope I can be half the wife and mother Katie is when I get married and have children.”
“When you get married? Hah! No man will ever want to marry you, Kathleen O’Malley You’re too ugly!”
Kathleen playfully whacked her sister’s posterior and said, “The school bell’s going to ring in less than fifteen minutes, Miss Smart Mouth! Let’s get going!”
At 1:45 that afternoon, Company Six Fire Chief, Bill Murham, finished his inspection of the station, the fire wagons, the barn, and the horses, in that order. He felt a measure of pride as he returned to the station, where his firemen from both shifts were gathering. Chicago’s Chief Fire Marshal, Robert Williams, who was inspecting every station in the city, would arrive at Company Six at approximately two o’clock to talk about the city’s present fire hazard.
Company Six—affectionately called the “Little Giant” by the other companies throughout Chicago—was in the heart of the 27th District. Every man in Company Six was Irish and quite proud of it.
A low hum of conversation floated throughout the room as the firemen seated on wooden folding chairs waited for the meeting to begin. As soon as Chief Murham stepped before them, the room went quiet.
“Men, the Little Giant company has done an excellent job. You’ve cleaned and polished the station house, all three fire wagons, and groomed those six nags in the corral to perfection. I am sure Chief Williams will be pleased. I didn’t like to have to ask you men who are off duty to come in, but Chief Williams said that what he had to talk about was of utmost importance, and he wanted all of you here.”
“Glad to do it, Chief,” said fireman Frank O’Brien. “For sure we need to know what’s on Chief Williams’s mind.”
Murham pulled out his pocket watch. “Well, men, looks like the chief is going to be late. Go ahead and visit if you want. Hopefully he’ll get here pretty soon.”
Murham entered his office, and the men picked up conversations where they had left off.
Company Six’s newest man, Mick Delaney, pricked up his ears when he heard one man say to Patrick O’Leary, “How’s the milk business doing?”
“Really good, Murph,” O’Leary replied. “It serves us well in providing extra income.”
“How’s this milk business work, Pat?” Delaney asked.
O’Leary looked at him with mock solemnity and said, “Well, first you have to have at least one cow.”
Delaney laughed. “Okay. I think I understand that. So how many cows do you have?” Five.
“Jerseys? Guernseys?”
“Holsteins. Their milk isn’t quite as rich as Jerseys’ and Guernseys’, but they give a lot more.”
“And how do you market the milk?”
“Do you know where the O’Malley Grocery Store is?”
“Oh, yeah. Corner of Fifth and Bolton. That’s where my wife does her grocery shopping. I’ve been in there a few times since we moved here.”
“Then you must know Shaemus and Maureen O’Malley.”
“Sure do.”
“They’re my next-door neighbors. We sell our milk to them.”
“I see. So my wife and I have probably bought some of your milk.”
“Probably have.”
Delaney rubbed his chin. “How do you milk those five cows on the days you’re here at the station?”
“I don’t. My wife, Katie, milks them.”
“Well, whattya know! She milks five cows twice a day?”
“That’s right. And does she ever have a grip! If you ever shake hands with Katie O’Leary, brace yourself She’ll give your hand a good
squeeze!”
The men sitting around Mick and Pat had a good laugh.
“I don’t think my wife could milk cows, Pat, but I might be able to get one of my neighbors to do the milking for me on the days I work,” said Delaney. “I’d really like to look into the milk business. Would you care if I come by your house sometime soon and take a look at your setup?”
“Be glad to have you,” said O’Leary. “You know where DeKoven Street is?”
“I don’t think I’ve seen it.”
“Well, from O’Malley’s Grocery, you go one block west on Bolton. That’s DeKoven Street. Turn south on DeKoven and go to the second block. Almost in the middle of that second block you’ll find 137. That’s our house. Come by on any off day. Be glad to have you.”
A carriage pulled up in front of the station house and got the attention of the firemen. While Chief Fire Marshal Robert Williams alighted from the carriage, Company Six’s chief hurried from his office to meet him.
Chief Murham guided Williams in a tour of the station, starting with the barn, and ten minutes later brought Williams before the firemen and introduced him to those who had never met him. “All right, Chief Williams,” he said, “the floor is yours.”
Williams, a medium-sized man in his late fifties, looked sharp in his dark blue uniform with badge and small-billed cap. “You men are to be complimented,” he said, smiling. “The place looks very good.” A serious look came over his features when he said, “Gendemen, I am very much concerned about the dry spell were in. Since the first of July we’ve barely had two inches of rain. Ordinarily in this same three-month period, we get somewhere between nine and twelve inches. Grass in the vacant lots is tall and dry, and with the leaves falling from the trees and lying in heaps all over the city, we’re vulnerable to some real problems if a fire should get out of hand.”
“Chief,” said one man, lifting his hand.
“Yes, sir?”
“Couldn’t something be done about all the leaves in the yards and streets? And couldn’t whoever owns the vacant lots at least cut the grass?”
“I’m working on it,” said Williams. “I’ve been trying to get the city fathers to put pressure on the people to clean up the leaves, and to do the same thing about the vacant lots. But even if the city fathers tell the people what to do, most of them pay no attention. The leaves will stay where they are, and the grass will remain tall. It’s hard to get the populace to see the potential fire danger.”
