Hattie Big Sky Part 24

Back home again, I went through my things to find the perfect going-away presents for Perilee and her family. Not that I had much to give but, after some last-minute quilting, I was satisfied.

The gifts in a basket over my arm, I stood at the bottom of Perilee's steps.

"I believe there's something in here for you," I teased Chase. "Maybe an ap.r.o.n or frilly handkerchief?" Tentatively, he took the proffered package.

He tore off the wrapper. "Oh! Your books!" He cradled my Stevensons to his chest. "This will keep me company the whole way to Seattle. Thanks, Hattie. Thank you." He patted the books. "I hear there's not just one library in Seattle, but three. Won't that be something?"

"Looks like you got your wish," I said. "The one you made the day of the big storm." I reached out to shake his hand. After all, he was now a young man of nine. But he slipped in close and gave me a hug. I hugged back. Hard.

I handed a small packet to Perilee. "For the girls, when they're a bit older." Inside, I'd wrapped my mother's tortoisesh.e.l.l combs, one for Fern and one for Lottie.

"They'll treasure these, you can be sure." Perilee placed them in her pocketbook.

"Karl, this isn't much, but I hope you enjoy it."

Karl smiled when he opened his package. "Danke. Thank you, Hattie." I figured he could use Uncle Chester's Zane Grey collection to help him learn to read English.

"Sugar, this is too much." Perilee shook her head.

"Wait a second." I pulled out one more package. "There's something in here for you."

Perilee tore off the brown paper. Her eyes lit up like starbursts when she saw what was inside. "Your quilt!" She stroked the fabric.

"A brand-new pattern." I blinked back tears. "Mattie's Magic."

She studied each and every inch of it. I didn't mind the scrutiny; this was my best effort. Every st.i.tch was tiny and true. The center of each block was a square of chambray, for Montana's never-ending sky. That square was bordered with sawtoothed triangles, forming smaller squares. There I'd used some of the brown gingham to capture this broad prairie. Opposite each brown triangle was a splash of color, something that reminded me of our little magpie, all bright and full of life.

"Why, here's your dancing dress." Perilee smoothed her fingers over the quilt top. "And Chester's work s.h.i.+rt, and that calico I gave you." She opened her mouth as if to say something else, then crumpled the quilt close to her heart and rocked in place for a moment.

Karl sounded the horn on their new automobile. "Time to go!" he called.

Perilee stepped toward the car. I threw my arms around her and hugged for all I was worth. She stroked my back for a while, then gently pushed me away.

"Hon, when someone's a true friend, there's no need to miss 'em." She patted her chest. "'Cause they're always right here."

We both wiped our eyes.

"You'll come," said Karl. It was more order than invitation.

"Yes, sir!" I laughed.

"I'll drive him crazy if you don't," said Perilee. "You might even find a good job out there. You know there'll always be room for you with us."

"Maybe after the new year," I said. I had wrestled and wrestled with this. Something kept me from saying yes to going with them. Something unfinished that I couldn't name.

"No piecrust promises, now." She shook her finger at me.

"No, ma'am." I hugged her again. "Perilee-"

"I know. I know." Perilee took Lottie from Karl, grabbed Fern's hand, then closed her eyes briefly. I wondered if she was thinking of a sweet little magpie then; I was.

She straightened her shoulders. "Karl's going to leave without me," she said. She climbed in and closed the door, and off they drove, without one backward glance.

I packed my things in Uncle Chester's trunk. Thanks to the auction and the things I was leaving behind, most of my belongings-except what was left of my books-fit inside. I closed the lid with a satisfying whump and did up the latches and straps. Rooster Jim had offered to cart it to the train station in Wolf Point for me. I'd answered an ad, after all, and would be starting in two weeks as a chambermaid at Brown's Rooming House in Great Falls. I had to laugh. Here I was heading off to the very same kind of job I'd left Iowa to avoid. The Lord certainly does move in mysterious ways. This time I was thankful for the job. In six months I'd have my debts paid off and could make a fresh start. I didn't know yet where that would be.

Uncle Holt sent me money for the train fare. It's enough to come east again, he'd written, but I suspect your future is not here in Arlington. Use this to head as far west as you care to go. I am thankful the ocean will stop you from traveling too far from us.

When Jim came for my trunk, he also brought my mail. There were three letters from Charlie. I read each one slowly. I didn't realize until I was finished with the last letter that I'd been holding my breath.

Looks like I made it. There are far too many that weren't so lucky. I s.h.i.+p out in a few weeks. Uncle Sam's been good enough to let me save up a few bucks. Thought I might come see what's so great about that sky you're always bragging on. Write me in care of Mother's to let me know if you are up for a visitor.

Your Charlie P.S. Mildred Powell got herself engaged to Frank Little. Mother hesitated to write me of it, for fear a broken heart might lead me to some front-line heroics. I don't know why everyone thought I was sweet on her. Anyone with two eyes could tell I was sweet on a southpaw pitcher with big dreams. Is she sweet on me?

I picked up a pen to answer Charlie's letter.

CHAPTER 23.

December 12, 1918

Dear Charlie, When you get to Wolf Point, stop in and see Mr. Ebgard. He has offered to drive you down to that spot I wrote you from so often-three miles north and west of Vida, Montana. He has the most stylish new Luverne automobile, so I would accept his offer if I were you. I wish you could've seen my acres in the spring, all green fuzz creeping along the prairie, or in late summer, when the flax turned the fields deep sea blue.

Maybe, just maybe, if you stand on the steps of my home-if Traft hasn't carted it away so that his Tipped M cows can run free-you will catch loose memories on the breeze. Listen-do you hear Chase rescuing me from the pump handle? Mattie scolding Mulie for tearing her new dress? Leafie nursing this neighbor or that? Do you hear Rose and June cackling in Rooster Jim's yard? Perilee's angel voice soaring above the mishmash of voices at the Vida church? It won't take you long, standing there, to understand what I mean about that sky, the endless and aloof Montana sky.

I have to laugh at myself, already looking at that time through rose-colored gla.s.ses. Don't think I could ever forget the s.m.u.tchy odor of a burned barn, or the vinegary scent of fear of folks born in the wrong country, or the achingly clean perfume of paraffin-dipped crepe paper flowers. The blessing is that these heartbreaks are but a few of the patches in my prairie year quilt.

You asked me an important question. One I can't answer yet. Perhaps you could step off the train at Great Falls. I can't say that I'd be disappointed to have dinner together. That would be nice. My only plans now are to work at Brown's until my debts are repaid. Though I should feel a total failure, my time on the prairie has branded this hope on my heart: next year it will be better.

My new job didn't allow pets, but there were no complaints from Mr. Whiskers about that. He'd made it clear he was in Vida to stay. At least one of us had found a home. And Leafie was pleased as punch for the company.

"It's going to be lonely around here, what with both you and Perilee gone." She shook her head. "I'll be able to slice up the quiet and serve it on toast!"

I handed over Mr. Whiskers' travel case. "Not that he'll need it anymore," I said. "But he likes to curl up in it once in a while on a cold night." I tried not to think about all the nights he'd kept me warm.

Rooster Jim welcomed Albert, June, and Rose back to the fold. Martha had quit laying; she'd been the main dish at my farewell party. Though I'd auctioned off most everything else, I gave Plug to Elmer Ren Jr.

I didn't want anyone to see me off at the station. I'd arrived alone and wanted to leave that way. Settling myself on the train seat, I couldn't help but smile. My traveling companions could've pa.s.sed for the twins of those with whom I'd ridden out to Montana. Now, the rough ways and clothes seemed cozy and familiar. And, I had to admit, that fat man had been right. There was too much promised of eastern Montana. She gave all she could, but she couldn't support so many homesteaders. Honyockers! That's what he'd called us, and that's what we were.

The train left the station with a jolt. A letter crinkled in my skirt pocket. I'd nearly memorized it. The Boeing Airplane Company is looking for mechanics, and I happen to know a good one-me! Charlie had written. Maybe we will both end up in Seattle.

I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes. So much had happened in one year's time! Now here I was, headed to Great Falls. What next, I didn't know. I wanted to keep writing. Perilee's last letter had noted that there was already one woman reporter at the Seattle Times newspaper. Maybe there was room for two.

The train lurched over a patch of rough tracks, jarring me out of my woolgathering. Outside, the blue Montana sky stretched forever. Come to think of it, Montana had kept her promise. I did find a home in my year on the prairie. I found one in my own skin. And in the hearts of the people I met.

Leafie had been amazed at all that I packed up to take with me. "Do you need all them books?" she'd asked. But there was one thing I'd left behind: Hattie Here-and-There. I wasn't going to miss her. Not one bit.

I settled myself in and faced west.

Perilee's Wartime Spice Cake

1 cup brown sugar, firmly packed

1 1/2 cups water 1/3 cup shortening or lard 2/3 cup raisins 1/2 teaspoon each ground cloves and nutmeg 2 teaspoons cinnamon 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon salt 2 cups flour 1 teaspoon baking powder Boil brown sugar, water, shortening, raisins, and spices together for 3 minutes. Cool. Dissolve baking soda in 2 teaspoons water and add with salt to raisin mixture. Stir together flour and baking powder and add to raisin mixture one cup at a time, beating well after each addition. Pour into a greased and floured 8-inch square pan and bake at 325 F for about 50 minutes.

(Adapted from b.u.t.terless, Eggless, Milkless Cake, in Recipes and Stories of Early Day Settlers; and from Depression Cake, described in Whistleberries, Stirabout and Depression Cake: Food Customs and Concoctions of the Frontier West.)

Hattie's Lighter-than-Lead Biscuits

3/4 cup cooked oatmeal, cooled

1 1/2 cups wheat or rye flour 4 teaspoons baking powder 3/4 teaspoon salt 2 tablespoons lard, shortening, or b.u.t.ter 1/4 cup milk Mix oatmeal with sifted flour, baking powder, and salt. Cut in lard, shortening, or b.u.t.ter. Add milk and mix, forming a soft dough. Do not overmix. Roll out on lightly floured surface to 1/4 to 1/2 inch thick. Cut with floured biscuit cutter (or drinking gla.s.s) and bake on an ungreased cookie sheet at 425 F for 12 to 15 minutes.

(These are what Hattie served to Rooster Jim in Chapter 17.).

Author's Note.

When I heard that my great-grandmother Hattie Inez Brooks Wright had homesteaded in eastern Montana by herself as a young woman, I found it hard to believe. Tiny and unprepossessing, she was the last person I'd a.s.sociate with the pioneer spirit. But I was intrigued and played detective for several weeks, without much luck, trying to find out more. One day I stumbled onto the Montana Bureau of Land Management records. The thrill I felt when I discovered a claim number with her name attached! A query to the National Archives soon put into my hands a copy of her homestead application paperwork. I was hooked.

Though my great-grandmother didn't keep diaries or journals, other "honyockers" did. I ordered them up through interlibrary loan (G.o.d bless our librarians and our library systems), reading them by the dozen. The reasons for heading west were as varied as the homesteaders themselves. But common themes st.i.tched their way through these stories: endless work, heartache, loss, and, incredibly, fond memories of those hardscrabble homestead days.

Before I even realized what was happening, I had a book started, thinking it would be "just" a story about homesteading in the days of Model Ts rather than covered wagons. My research quickly showed me I could not set a story in 1918 without speaking to the issue of anti-German sentiment. Many of the incidents in Hattie Big Sky were based on actual events, including the mob scene with Mr. Ebgard.

This book and the Iraq war started at nearly the same time. On the very day that I read of merchants renaming "sauerkraut" and calling it "liberty cabbage" in 1918, I heard of restaurants changing "french fries" to "freedom fries" in 2003. The more I studied life in 1918, the more I saw its parallels in the present.

After all is said and done, however, I wrote this book to share a woman's homesteading story. What dreams did the real Hattie hope to fulfill in leaving Arlington, Iowa, for a homestead claim shack near Vida, Montana? I wish I knew. But I was ten years old when she died; at ten, I couldn't imagine that frail white-haired ladies had lives beyond baking snickerdoodles for their great-grandchildren.

My great-grandmother proved up on her claim, but I couldn't let "my" Hattie keep hers. Most honyockers went bust; the railroad men did promise too much of eastern Montana, as the fat man on the train complained. Though one succeeded and one failed, both Hatties found something priceless during their time on the Montana prairie: family. And what happier ending could there be than that?

Further Reading.

For those interested in reading more about the Montana of Hattie's story, here are several favorites from my research: Bad Land: An American Romance, by Jonathan Raban, Pantheon Books, 1996.

The Generous Years: Remembrances of a Frontier Boyhood, by Chet Huntley, Random House, 1968.

Homesteading, by Percy Wollaston, Penguin, 1997.

Photographing Montana 18941928: The Life and Work of Evelyn Cameron, edited by Donna Lucey, Mountain Press Publis.h.i.+ng, 2001.

Riders of the Purple Sage, by Zane Grey, Grosset and Dunlap, 1912.

The Stump Farm, by Hilda Rose, Little, Brown, 1928.

A Traveler's Companion to Montana History, by Carroll Van West, Montana Historical Society Press, 1986.

When You and I Were Young, Whitefish, by Dorothy M. Johnson, Montana Historical Society Press, 1982.

Wolf Point: A City of Destiny, by Marvin W. Presser, M Press, Billings, Montana, 1997.

Learn more about World War I at www.firstworldwar.com.

Learn more about your own family and state history at www.usgenweb.com.