Finding Mary

         Riding pillion on the iron horse, we have the wind in our faces. The road winds along the Contoocook River. Called so by the Abnakis. Meaning "place of the river near the pines". We are indeed  "near the pines". Things have not changed so much, then in the years. Still we travel along the river, in the pines. The road winds up, ever up, twisting and turning beside the river. The river dashes, gurgling and splashing over the rocks. The coolness of it slips upward and we feel it as we go. The pines shade the road. The ferns are green and they wave in our wake-wind. We see nothing but the road and the river and the trees.  Some of the road is dirt, some paved. At the top we lose the river. Sometimes, there is a clearing, with a breath taking view. All around, stretching the horizon, there are the green New Hampshire hills. They roll away. fading into the distance. until your eyes can't see any more. The sky is blue above them.
          We ride past  a house then, shadowed by trees. An old house, its two identical chimneys visible, the windows catching the sun. I tap his shoulder, because the rumble of the iron horse and the whisper of the wind throw my voice off to the sky, and he can not hear me. He pulls over so we can talk. The silence overwhelms, for a split second. I tell him we need to go back. That house. I can feel it. My skin prickles. I feel I have been here before. I need to find my way back.

             When I am a girl, I am blessed with a love of reading, and a book mobile, that stops within a bicycle ride of home. I was a Lois Lenski fan, and if you were, too, you know what I mean. I hungrily read all of her books, checking out ones I had already read, if there was no new ones. Her drawings were delightful. Her stories spoke to my child heart. ( I still read them, if I happen to find them!) She wrote America, through a childs view. She wrote Ocean Born Mary. That was the first time I met Mary. I was almost as far away from New Hampshire as one could go, but I knew her, as girl, she in colonial New Hampshire, I in Washington State, centuries later, living her life through a book, while the Douglas Fir trees dipped rain drops and the Cascade Mountains thrust up on sunny days.
            Never had I dreamed I would one day live in her neck of the woods! There is a wonderful legend about Mary. And of course, legends are legends. Who can distill the truth from the romance? Who really wants to?
            In the year of our Lord, 1720, The Wolf came sailing across the great Atlantic Ocean to the new world. She came from Ireland, and her passengers had land grants in Londonderry. One young couple were awaiting their first child. The mother giving birth in the small wooden vessel, a girl child was born. But the dreaded had happened. Bold pirates had boarded the ship. A handsome young pirate he was, too, dark and mysterious, pretnding to be Don Pedro, but for real an Englishman, scouring the seas. He has just ordered everyone killed and all goods transfered to the pirate ship. He stops suddenly, listening. The cries of a newly born babe have reached his ears. Bring me the babe, he orders. Trembling the young mother stands before him. He gently pulls the blanket and looks at the child. " If you will name her Mary, then I will spare the ship", he tells her. So Mary she was. The pirates angrily going back, empy handed to their own ship. Don Pedro, too, goes back, into his rooms, and sends over a package to the babe with his first mate. 'Tis to be used for Marys wedding dress, he sends word.
           So those two ships sail away, in different directions. Angry pirates, and thankful settlers. A first hand account from Mary, in later years.."Indeed, I was born neither on this side or that side 'o the water, nor any where else on Gods green earth." So she grew up, in those hard days of the settling of America. She was described as magnificent, over six feet tall, with beautiful red hair, green eyes and a lovely Irish lilt when she spoke.
           Mary married Thomas Wallace, in a silken gown, given her by a pirate so long ago. Teal green brocade, from China, with small teal flowers  and white stripes. It was worn, too by several descendants of Mary, Pieces of it now can be seen in the DAR meuseum in Washington DC. Faded teal green silk, stolen by pirates and coming to raw New Hampshire  to save a small ship load of lilting Irish and gracing America yet today.
           That much we know is true. We also know for truth that her husband died, leaving her with five children.She also came to Henniker New Hampshire, and lived there the rest of her life. I found her again one day. Henniker calls itself "the only Henniker on earth" . So one doean't have any confusion about where she is. Center Cemetery is of course, in the old Henniker center. Its a small place, ringed in by a stone wall, mellow old spruce trees stand gaurd, and the intricate iron gate is rusty, and locked.

         I scramble over the stone wall. Ancient. The trees, the granite markers, crumbling and faded, the moss. the quiet peaceful air that hangs above. Twelve rows back, to the right. Those are my instructions. So I have found you again, Ocean born Mary. Widow Mary, says the stone, with dates. But only the dreamers and the readers know the rest of your story.

           Legend has the bold pirate giving up his life on the high seas, and getting a chunk of land in Henniker. His ships carpenter builds him a house, up a hill with beams  and detailing like a ship. Here he lives as gentleman with servants and books and fine food and clothes. But, he is lonely. When he hears that Mary is left a widow, he sends to ask her if she will come and be his housekeeper. Mary brings her family , then, and keeps his home, and hosts his guests and his parties. Some times. crusty old sailors come, too, and whispered talks, and walks out in the orchard, and angry silences come into the home. One day, the pirate is found dead in the orchard, stabbed by an unknown hand. Indeed, does your past wickedness come back to haunt you?
           Mary lives here the rest of her life, with her son and his family. Sometimes, when the mist hangs in the trees, a shadowy coach and four pulls up the drive, and the tall, beautiful red haired lady alights to walk up the granite step and go into the house with a rustle of silk. I suppose, why not? The house still stands, half hidden in the green trees. The orchard still behind it, the lawns and gardens kept smooth and lovely. The road still quiet and not much used still runs by. Now I can go past. I do, once a year or so. I feel her story, just an ordinary story 'bout an ordinary life. Time doesn't fade it. Dreamers like I can still conjure it. History is what makes today what is , and tomorrow what it will be. Every where you are, there are the old ones behind you. If you can find them, you have a richness that money cannot buy.

 

Charlottes Web

                                " "Come into my garden, said the spider to the fly....."

Walk on in. It's beautiful here.
      "If you have a garden and a library, you have enough."

 
   Full of summer.
        A sensitive plant
 in a garden grew,
        and the young winds fed it
 with silver dew,
      And it opened its fan-like leaves
 to the light
     And closed them beneath
 the kisses of night."
      Percy Byshe Shelley







.Patriot Hearts."Every heart beats true, for the red, white and blue.." My father was a veteran who cried every time he heard The Star Spangled Banner. My son in law, a more recent veteran has a hard time hearing the noise of fire works. Are we leaving a legacy to our future generations? Long may she wave!
   








I must go down to the sea again,
To the lonely sea and the sky.
And all I ask is a tall ship,
And a star to steer her by."

.





Linens on the line. Any laundry actually. Nothing smells so good. Nothing is more sleep inducing than sheets that are crisp and fragrant from sunshine and summer breezes.









This crab apple tree has a story. Looked like a puny twig, when we planted it. Grew into a fine shapely tree. Made lots of crab apple jelly, rosy pink sweetness, for toast. One slippery, slidey early morning there was a great pounding on our door. Sleepy eyed, we answer it. A very upset young man tells us he has just missed the curve, wiped out one of our cars and knocked down the tree. His car teeters on the edge of the hill, none the worse for wear. Thankfully, insurance takes care of the car. Tree, not so much. Insurance adjuster offers to buy a new tree. The iron horse cowboy sulks. No. He bought that tree for his young wife, its been a symbol of young love all these years. Money can't replace it. New trees can't replace it. So, he props it up, with stcks and baling twine. Lo and behold, it some how grows back together, and thrives. Beautiful, this tree. (If you ever see this, Matthew, thank you!)



Where the uncaged birds sing.
   "He will give beauty for ashes, joy for mourning, praise insted of heaviness, for the glory of God."
            Isaiah 61:3
Every morning I hear it, a great chorus of bird song, as the dawn breaks, and the sun sweeps over the hill.

                                                   Thanks for visiting. Come again!

Riding Around New England Part Two

        When you think Massachusetts, you think Boston, traffic, congestion, and other sordid things. Boston is not really sordid. It is a beautiful city and it is so full of history. You can feel it in the air. You breathe it when you are there. But getting there makes you sigh, just a little. Surprise! There is a lot more to Massachusetts! Head to the west and it doesn't take long to be in the wilderness. It is lovely. Hilly, forested, green. Rivers, wildlife, the works.
         We headed out to the Deerfield Valley. Here you will find no traffic, winding roads, peaceful scenes. Not much different than when the first brave settlers came here all those many years ago. After you cross the French Kings Bridge, you are there! It's a beautiful, high, arching white bridge, as far as bridges go. I am not a fan of bridges. We parked in the pull off after crossing. Brash teenager walked across. I stood near the towers, my heart doing flips as the semis rolled across and the big bridge trwembled and shook. Thats where I found this swallow tail, lying lifeless near the curb. It is still beautiful, soft and the wind flutters the delicate wings.

               The view from here is lovely, though, all rushing mighty waters of the Connecticut River. Green hill upon hills fading into the distance. Not much human habitation to be seen.

               I had conjured up ramantic reasons for the name. What wonderful things had french kings done in Massachusetts? But I find it is named for French King Rock, a formation near by. No one can tell me why they named the rock that, either!

          The road takes us along the old Mohawk trail. It is still here, the tress come right up to the edge of the road. I think some shadowy warriors still walk silently through this , their old traveling places. I think they hear the fluting song of the wood thrush, like I do. I think they hear the splash of falling water. I think they hear the whisper of the summer leaves. There is much history here, too. Once these woods were all cleared away, and farms filled the valleys. Cows grazed. Orchards bloomed. Corn grew. Mill wheels turned. Every small town you go through has crumbling old brick factory buildings by the rivers.

           Therer are still sweet little farms here and there. Farms with tractors, and cows and meadows and orchards. They sit snuggly in the valleys, still. Mostly there is no manufacturing any more. Thats the way of progress. The Deerfield River is wild and foamy after all the rain. The white water rafters and kayakers are out gleefully bouncing along.  Oh, I remember the stories I read. About the Indians who swooped down and burned and destryed, and brought their captives walking through the dark forests to Canada. That would be an awful long, weary hike.

              We come to the Hoosic Tunnel. Trains still come through it. Not like they used to, in its heyday, but they still do. You don't have to walk in very far, and it's DARK. Dark and dank and cold and clammy. It is four and three quarters miles long. It goes through Hoosic Mountain, called so by the Indians, meaning place of rocks. It was the only way to get through to Albany N.Y. They wrangled over it for years. The official ground breaking on the north end was in 1851. They began the east side in 1852. The official opening was not until 1876. Hundreds of men worked three shifts, blasting and pick axing through the mountain. Hundreds of them died. Some years nothing was done, because of money and changing government, and the Civil War. Lots of money was spent, and wasted. But it did get done. For awhile it was the longest tunnel in the United States. Lots and lots of trains went through it.

         Now only a few freight trains go through, The lonely track goes on, out of sight, winding across the country. Of course there,s plenty of Ghost Stories. It did have a bloody past. People hear horrible noises when they go deep inside. Why do they go? I wonder..the very rocks probably moan and the winds are frightened when they blow through that utter darkness! I'll stay on the outside, thanks.  Wild strawberries grow along the tracks, and thimble berries, and wild flowers.

        We wind along the river, past housed and hills. Past towns and bridges. Up into Vermont, and home. Someday, go to Old Massachusetts. Let your imagination run free. Feel the sunshine. Hear the birds. Smell the new mown hay. You won't be sorry.

              See you in the misty hills!

The Girl Who Loved Horses

 

  She came reeling in through the door. Her eyes were glazed. Her long hair was tangled and red with blood. Blood ran down her legs. She only wore one shoe. She cried, leaning into the wall. She didn't talk. Her mother took her into the wash room and cleaned her up. She staggered to the sofa and curled into a ball, crying silent tears. Her brother went looking for the horse. She was calmly grazing in the neighbors lawn. Farther on, he found her shoe, lying forlornly in the ditch. The ER finds she has a severe concussion. She lies in limbo for three days. Her heaad hurts. Her eyes can't stand any light. She's too dizzy to walk. Food and drink make her nauseous. She mutters gibberish about snakes, and the horse's legs, and her leg. The purple bruise on her calf looks just like a horse hoof.
   Her father paces the floor, and winces every time she cries. Her mother gets up every two hours in the nights to check on her. Her friend comes every afternoon. She sits patiently beside her, rubbing her hands, smoothing her hair, trying to get her to drink something, not talking, because noise hurts her head. She sits in the dark, because light hurts her eyes. One day she guides her, staggering to the kitchen. They try to get her to eat. Some icecream? A popsicle? No, nothing. She asks for some carrots. But when she gets them, she puts them in her pocket, and they stumble out to the pasture. They feed a carrot to each horse, and she touches them, blindly, her eyes covered with a dark mask. Satisfied, they make thier way back to the darkened bedroom. We cry,because such a true friend is so rare.
    She had wanted a horse all her life. Every night she had prayed the good God to find her one. "All girls go through that stage," they said. "She'll get over it," they said. They were wrong. She didn't get over it. She didn't just go through a stage. She wanted a horse. She found an old neighbor who needed help with her ponies. She helped. Faithfully, every day, learning how to love and care for the ponies. They were show ponies. They had traveled far and wide in the show circuit. Now the ponies and their owner were all too old for shows. Smoke was the girls special pony. He was dappple grey. His mane and tail were as white-gold as ripe wheat. As white-gold as the girls hair. Smoke was a little stallion. He loved getting his coat curried. He loved getting his mane and tail brushed, and braided and beribboned. He loved being hooked up to the pony cart, and trotting proudly around. He loved it when she drove the cart. He loved it when she gave the children rides. At first, she was small enough to ride on his back. All the proper things and manners, and grooming and carting, she learned from her small, old friend.
      Finally the old neighbor sold the other ponies, and gave Smoke to the girl. How unbelievably happy she was. How faithfully she cared for Smoke. How hard she worked to earn money for supplies, feed, hay. How much they loved each other, Smoke and the girl. But she was growing up. She could no longer ride Smoke, but she still cared for her faithful friend. And having seen the power of prayer, she prayed for a real horse. "They cost too much money," they said. They are too high maintanence," they said . "You have to wark hard on your schooling."they said. "you won't have time," they said.
      The girl did not hear them. She saw beautiful horses walking through her dreams. She searched ads in magazines and papers, and Caigs list. She believed a horse was coming her way. Lo, and behold, one did. She was a chestnut mustang. A wild mustang from Montana. Caught by the Bureau of Land Managment, United States Government, because the herd was starving during a drought. She was pregnant. She was chased by coyotes. She had lost her foal. She was afraid of all dogs because of this. The man who had bought her named her Missy. He had tamed her and taught her manners and trust. Then he became partially paralized and couldn't care for her. He asked at the feed store where the girls brother worked, if anyone knew of someone who would want a horse. The girls brother talked to the man about the girl. The man liked what he had heard, and called her to come meet him and Missy. It was love at first sight. The man worked out a deal with her to pay him some money every month until Missy was paid for.

     So Missy came home. The hot North Carolina sun beats down on the pasture. The two horses stand there, nose to tail, in the shade of  Crepe Myrtle tree, with its bare bones trunks and its high leaves , and its patch of shade. Their tails swish . They nudge noses. She towers above him. They nicker to eachother and whoosh into the grass. Some times they walk slowly, grazing side by side. Sometimes Missy lifts her head. She whirls and gallops along the fence. Her shiny chestnut coat ripples as she goes. For a moment you are in Montana. In the wild wind, hot and sweaty, the tall grass parting beneath her hooves. The shadow herd runs with her, wild and free, thundering unhindered by fence or folks. Is she remembering?  Is she breathing in once more the air coming down off the mountains?  She stops at the end of the pasture and walks slowly back. Smoke noses her affectionately.
      The girl lives in a little cottage here by the pasture. The windows smile and the doors swing open easily. Flowers spill down by the steps. Honeysuckle grows over the fence. There is an old barn. Its metal roof is saggy. It is rusty metal from years in the sun and the rain. You can see through it. The cracks in the walls are wide. No one uses it any more, except her brothers have painted a bulls eye target on one wall. The horses that stand in that barn are play horses, ridden by long ago children. A new barn shaped shed is there , too. She has painted the trim bright red. A hitching post stands by the porch. A hitching post with a black horse head, given to the girl by a far away friend.

      Every day the girl brings the horses out. They take their turn at the hitching post, while she grooms them, checks their hooves, washes them, sprays them with fly spray. When it is Smokes turn, Missy paws the ground, making the red clay fly. She whinnies and snorts. She doesn't like it when Smoke is out of her sight. True friends, that little dappled pony and the leggy chestnut mare, and the girl who loves horses.
    The girl is feeling better. She is not afrid to get back on the horse. She knows this: Dreams do come true. Horses come walking out of the mist. Little girls grow up to be strong young women. God is there, in every thing we do. The Girl Who Loves Horses.    
        Long ago a little boy loved this horse. Now it stands gaurdian between the barn and the pasture, looking longinly at the girls horses, day by day. Perhaps it still wonders where the little boy went, Perhaps it knows. It has aged gracefully, patiently waiting. The girls knows about him. Perhaps that is why she loves horses.

           

Riding Around New England, Part 1

            It's an old dirt road, that goes to nowhere. Really. It ends,with a muddy bump at an iron gate. You can go no further. It was muddy, in spots, and rough. It was narrow. The branches brushed against the sides of the car. Shy violets grew along side of it. "The worst road I have ever traveled on," wrote a revolutionary soldier in his diary. "All mud and ruts.." He was slogging through in September of 1777  with General John Stark, from New Hampshire, through Vermont, to fight the British in the Battle of Bennington. Perhaps some things haven't changed much!
          The sun shines. The sky is blue, with white fluffy clouds. The wind is chill. New England has turned green after the snow melted, we had some warm days, and then a few days of rain. The leaves are all unfurled, every different shade of new green that you can imagine. The dandelions bow and nod in the breeze. I konw they are just a pesky weed, but when you see a meadow flooded with those yellow faces, its  beautiful!

  
              The fruit trees are all a blossom. Even here out on a dirt road to nowhere, you see them shimmering in the sun shine, left over from days gone by.Days when this road went to farms and homes and pastures and barns and orchards. I see the stone walls, the granite foundations, the stray daffodils, the huge lilac bushes. A granite post says this was the town center. Here stood a church, a school, a post ofice. Here people walked and rode their horses and buggies. Here they worshipped, learned to read and write. Here they waited for a letter. An old, old cemetery sits in the sunshine. The walls around it are still straight and true. The gate is gone, but the path through it is still discernable. Here people mourned. I ponder the brevity of life. Once a thriving living town. Now a forest. Only a trace of humanity left behind.

                   A hawk soars and dips. Turkey vultures ride the wind with out moving their wings at all. The farmers have begun plowing. The crows hop in the newly turned earth. The river rushes white over the rocks, foaming and swirling.

      There is a tiny house, all made of stones. It's like a fairy tale house. The three bears could have lived here. It has sturdy wooden doors and windows that look out from deep with in the thick walls. I am enchanted. It half  hides behind the trees. You could drive by, and not see it.

            There's a fountain.Cold clear water slashes from it. How many years has it bubbled here? It's a memory fountain. Chiseled into the granite, it says " Barna A. Clark. A true friend and a good man. 1896." What a good report, of a man. Could we ask for more than that?
           A break in the trees reveals the mountain.Just standing there like it always has, patient and strong and beautiful. I know why people live here. And why people like me go riding around looking for these things.

            Did I say it was a road to nowhere? Look where it brought me! I rode into yesterday. I lived on it today. I could see tomorow. Give me a road to nowhere, any time.

 

 

 

  

Alabaster, the Elephant

         "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you."  Maya Angelou

            This is the story of Alabaster, the elephant. I can't bear to keep him inside of me. Out he comes! Can you see how beautiful he is? How the morning sun shines through him, making him transluscent and warm? He 's old. He's heavy, for not being very big. He looks a little clunsy. His legs are too short.His little belly almost hangs on the ground. He has holes on the top of his back.
            He was once a salt shaker, with a partner for pepper. Somewhere he has lost his friend, though. I spotted him in a junk shop. He stood forlornly on a high shelf, surrounded by myriad other glass, plastic, clay, ceramic, you name it, creatures of all sorts and kinds. I fell for him instantly. I reached up and took him carefully in my hand. He felt cool, but when he sat in my hand for a minute, he warmed up. He had a tag taped on him that said "alabaster elephant shaker."
            I had never actually seen, nor touched alabaster before. I felt curious about him. I turned him over and around in my hands. I put him carefully back on his shelf, among all those other inferior animals. I really thought I would walk away. But I turned back and stood looking at him. Sun streamed through the windows above us. I saw how he changed from solid off white to opaline. I suddenly wanted him. I had no use for him, I just knew that he needed me to get him off that crowded shelf.
           I took him back down, I took him to the cash registar, and I shelled out my hard earned cash for him. I refused a bag. "No thanks. I'll carry him." He rode home in the car with me, standing solid and sweet on my console. Half way home, I suddenly remembered where he belonged. I had gotten him for a reason, I just hadn't known it at the time!
          I savoured him for a while. He made me smile every time I looked at him. Then I wrapped him carefully and sent him off home, with the US Postal Service. I'm pretty sure he'll get there safe and sound. I'm thinking that he will be welcomed joyfully. I know he will then join a a happy herd of his own kind, and he'll be treasured, and loved. He made me happy when I found him, and happy when I sent him on his way. See you later, Alabaster!
         Well, I've heard of alabaster all my life. "Thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears." We all sang that many times. I always tried to picure it-a skyline of sky scrapers and church steeples all hard and gleaming white. I see now how it is . There would be a warm softness to those spires, a creamy melding of whites and off whites and  tans, and pearly nacre pastels. beautiful, lovely cities!
          That alabaster jar that Mary Magdalene broke to annoint Jesus with it's costly perfume. Probably it was quite small. Costly perfume today comes in small bottles.  The crowd around them watch in horror at such waste, and such surmising of how this woman would have gotten such a dear thing. But Jesus sees her heart, and the hearts of the others, his friends. He wants us to help the needy and the poor, but mostly He wants us to pour out our costly selves over Him and be humble, remorseful, and thankful that He will die and need this for His burial and ressurection.
         Alabaster feels hard, but it is easy to carve and can beshaped many ways. Cut thin enough, it was even used for window panes, letting in the light to those with in. It is ancient. Used from far back in time. A valuable commodity, even today.  There is even alabaster in the USA, in Oklahoma. Mostly it is used for lamp shades and vases and trinkets today. Before it lined entire buildings, walls, ceilings, floors. I can only imagine how that would look!
          Maybe worthless knowledge....but thanks, Alabaster Elephant, for helping me learn something new today, and putting a story inside me, that had to get out!

          

Coming Into the Country

           She comes on a ship, from the "old country," just a young woman alone, with her steamer trunk. The trunk holds everything she owns. She has turned her back on the sad, hungry years and faces the future with trepidition. Since her mother died, she is sent from house to house, where ever someone needed a helping hand. There is food and a bed of sorts and hand me down clothing. These things she does not lack. But is there love or kindness or empathy in a world so sparse and cold and sere? Little of these things has she seen. Her older sister has been in America for some years. She has sent for her. Now she will go to this land of plenty she has heard of so often. This far away place. Will it prove more of a home than what she leaves behind? Only time will tell.
         These people travel in steerage. It means the belly of the boat. It means crowded, stifling, noisy. It means a rough ride, sea sick people, being too hot, or too cold. It means days, weeks of travel. It means wondering if you will ever arrive in one piece. She climbs out to watch for New York City. Like Zacceaus she is too short to see above the crowd. She joins in the cheering and laughter, at least glad that she will soon be on land again. Hopeful that she will find her way and  understand what is going on.
          From long ago and far away, I see her. I feel her fear, her embarrasment, her loneliness. She looks young, she hesitates from with in the crowd, not really liking being shouldered along. Strange people brush against you. They are all in a hurry. It seems they would not notice if they knocked you down. She feels claustraphobic. She is fair skinned and fair haired. I know that. I have been told that I look like her. She is gentle. She doesn't push into situations, but hangs back. I see her, like me, at the end of the line, walking down the gangplank, going through the ropes at Ellis Island. How did she manage to communicate? To find her way to the train station, to travel the dirty long miles, the rocking, rolling ride, finding something to eat and drink. Sleeping with the rhythm of the rails, changing trains. I feel her relief when she arrives in the Copper Country.
           Does she make friends? Did she have friends she was traveling with? Was her sister there to meet her when she arrived? I'll never know, so I have to imagine, to live vicariously for her.  I see her travel weary, bedraggled, frightened. Still waiting patiently to get up at the end of the line. I see her searching the crowd when she exits the train. Will she know her sister? She has not seen her for a long time. She is married, has a home, has an American life. Perhaps she panics, just a little, wondering..
            I see a slow smile flit across her face. I see her tenative wave to a woman far down the walkway. I see them embrace, feel the deep relief, the lessening of stress, the welcome feel that she is home at last.  Do they go to her sisters home and freshen up, meet her new brother in law? Get a good nights sleep, in a bed with clean sheets and warm blankets? Do they feel like they have never been apart, or do they have to get reaquainted?
            Her sister lives a ways out of town. How soon does she go back to the town to find a job? I think not long. She has to earn herself a living. She probably used any money she had on traveling expenses. There is a lot of Finnish speaking people in the area. Not every one would speak it, though, so I picture her sister going with her to translate.
             She finally gets a job. It is not ideal for a young, single girl, but it is a job. She cleans a tavern at night, after the bar closes. She gets a room in town and stays there all week so she can sleep in the day and clean at night. She gets Sunday off, when she can walk out to visit her sister and maybe, get a ride back for Monday. Her name is Mary.
             This Michigan town is Boom Town in that day and time. The copper mines flourish. The landscape is dotted with them. The trains come and go, many each day, bringing people and goods. The trolleys run with in town and to surrounding towns. There are still horses, but automobiles are beginning to be common. There are stores and hotels and restaurants and bars. Things don't stop much, night or day.
              Oh, Mary. I see you going into the dimly lit bar, gathering your cleaning supplies and getting down to work. Is your golden hair braided and wound around your head, like a flaxen crown? Is your skin the same as mine, so easily blushing crimson when any one singles you out? I konw you wear long skirts and clean, crisp blouses. You probably wear sensible brogans. How do you do things? I think there was always a real mess left for you. Did your straw broom sweep easily over the board floors? Did you dust and polish the woodwork and stools and tables and chairs and mirrors until they were smooth and shimmery in the lamp light? Did you have to wash and polish the glasses and bottles, streak free? I know the last thing you did was scrub those wide pine floors on your hands and knees, wiping out the traces of debauchery and stain. Making them white and clean for the morrow.
              Were you weary , then when morning came? Did you stand and stretch and rub the small of your back? Did open the door, and let in the morning, and the fresh air and the birdsong? Did you turn back and look at your job, well done? Sometimes did you have to quickly go finish some small thing,straighten some thing, give something one final rub? Did you marvel at your first earnings, touching them , smoothing them in your hands, like I do? Did you go paying your debts, buying something you need, stashing some small amount, for a rainy day?
              I know you were still there, in the morning, scrubbing that floor. The burly delivery man coming in with his goods stops in surprise. He stares frankly at your fresh, young loveliness. "Holy Moly" he says, wonderment in his raspy voice.  "Holy Moly." You look up, surprised. You like the sound of the words, they way they roll off of his tongue. You smile and continue working, but you say the words over in your mind. You practice them, over and over. You are begining the english language journey.
              When you lay your tired bones on the bed and drift off to sleep you dare to whisper them aloud to the empty room. "Holy Moly." Did you surrender yourself to sleep with a smile on your face, then, Mary? How many times did you say it that week, smiling and greeting the folks that crossed your mornings?
                I feel how joyous your day off was, walking out of the noise and commotion of the town. Out to the country. Out to the farm, where you are welcomed in and fed fresh eggs, newly made bread, fresh clean milk, vegetables from the garden. How sweet to chatter in Finnish and be understood. "So, have you learned any english, yet?" they ask you. "Oh, yes," you so proudly tell them. I have learned to say "Good Morning".  "Holy Moly". You sing it out into the room! I am learning! I can say something in English! Do you hear me, rolling these strange words over my tongue? Do you?
                They explode into merry laughter. They gasp, and hold their arms over their chests. Are you stunned? Are you hurt? Embarrased? Your brother in law has tears, he is laughing so hard.  I feel the shrinking in your heart, the stubborn wish to just forget it and never learn english. The quick pain in your eyes. I know that you hid it, though. Like me, you smiled, and laughed along with them keeping the scar in your heart for a long time.
               You never do learn english very well. When I am a small girl, when I am a teenager, you can't really talk to me. Not in English. Your english is quaint and broken. But you have a love language that you speak to me, and we have our own silent chats. Chats that are touch, and teach, and smiles, and tears and laughter, and song. We know the same songs, we just sing them with different words. When you are old, and in a nursing home, I bring you my first born. He has a thatch of white hair and eyes of blue, blue. You hold him, and croon to him, the same songs you sang to me. I brush your hair, you always liked me to do that. Its is silver, thin, brittle. I braid it down the back, a thin silver strand. You ask for your 'lippers, and I bend down and put them on your feet and we shuffle over to your chair. We talk over this sleepy, golden baby, you and I, and we smile and we don't cry. We know that we won't see each other again. I am going far away, and you are only here for a small while longer. But "Holy Moly!" We will meet in the morning!

          This picture was taken about the time I was born. Notice...she has put her prettiest apron on for the picture? She still has the "everyday" apron on underneath !
                          From stories my mother told me on January afternoons.