Hello Everyone,
Here is chapter three in my Packhorse Librarian story, which is late getting posted. Life has a way of getting in the way with trips to Quilt Market, my Sew'n Wild Oaks retreat, and Thanksgiving. It's been a very busy six weeks.
Remember this is a journal that my fictional packhorse librarian is writing to her daughter. Month #1 is posted HERE. Month #2 is posted HERE.
Chapter #3 Month #3
November 1935
Dear Grace,
Twenty miles a day in a saddle
gives a woman a long time to think. I’m heading back to Cob Hill as it was my
first day delivering books, literacy, and dreams packed in my pillowcases to families and
individuals living out in the hollers of Cob Hill. My first day on the job was successful
yet taxing.
As I was getting ready to
leave the cabin very early this morning, I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom
mirror. I looked a bit distraught since
I had been rushing around the cabin getting myself and you, ready to leave for
the day and stay with your Grandma Millie.
I stopped in my tracks when I saw myself in the mirror and I wondered
just how many times your daddy looked at himself in this same mirror while
using the shaving mug I gave him for our first Christmas together. I just wish that mirror kept a record of
reflections. Maybe if I could look deep
enough and hard enough in the mirror, I could see your daddy’s handsome face hiding
somewhere in the depths of reflection.
He would have been so
proud of me as I’m trying to become independent and help us survive during these
hard economic times. I wouldn’t say that
we are thriving as I haven’t received my first paycheck for $28.00 yet. The check will arrive in December, just in
time for Christmas.
The book drive at the
annual Fall Festival was very successful thanks to the organizer, Mrs. Jerome
Reginald Steiniger, president of the Ladies Aid Society and the pearl-sucking
prude. Many books, several old Sears
& Roebuck catalogues and magazines were donated for all age groups. I’ve been told by other packhorse librarians
that the catalogs are very popular. To me, the catalogues seem very cruel to
hand out as the items for sale are well beyond the monetary reach of most of
the people in Cob Hill, including me.
I’ve also been told to be
careful who I hand out the catalogues to.
Some of the folks like to tear out the pages and use them for chinking every
nook and cranny in their cabins. Maybe
that was the origin of the phrase, ‘if walls could talk’. The cabin walls would be talking up a storm
in some of the cabins. Unfortunately,
over time, the mice shred the catalog pages for their nests. We have the most educated mice in our county
as they feast on words.
I headed over to the
packhorse librarian room at the back of the library right after I dropped you
off with grandma. I started selecting some items I would like to distribute,
but I also had to keep in mind the names on my route which ranged in age from 2
to 92. I only have two pillowcases to
carry the items and soon as I get enough
money, I plan on buying a used set of saddlebags for Starkey which will make
our travels so much easier.
My first stop was at
Nellie Welch’s cabin. Nellie is a widow
and has been living alone for the past few years. Nellie has snowy white hair parted in the
middle then wound around into a bun on the top of her head. The bun is held in place by a tortoise shell
comb, which I found out is one of her most prized possessions given to her by
her husband. I was so surprised when I
saw Nellie all dressed up in her Sunday finest.
Nellie is 92 and she said she expected to leave this world any day now
and she wanted to be all dressed and ready for her laying out.
Nellie’s husband was an
accountant for one of the largest mines in the area. His accounting may have been a bit creative
which allows Nellie to live in relative comfort after his passing. They came to Cob Hill from Lexington where
Nellie was a seamstress and made clothing for men. She told me she always
wanted children but that was not meant to be as she had miscarriage after
miscarriage. I felt that her body had healed but the trauma of a lost child was
still visible in her deep-set eyes. It
was evident that age and misery had settled on her shoulders like a worn-out
coat.
When I walked inside her
cabin, I was overcome by the excessive heat.
She had shades on every window which were yellow with age and cast an
earie yellow pall in her home. As I sat
on her horsehair couch, I watched the dust motes travel slowly before my eyes in
a dance that only the dust knows each choreographed step. I’m sure the shades
were drawn to keep her comfortable and safe inside her little cocoon of
memories. A Seth Thomas clock was in the
corner with an excessively loud tick. I
imagined the clock was ticking away the seconds of her life like a metronome, while
she waited for her end to come. While
she spoke, her lips kept perfect time with the ticking clock along with the
clicking of her ill-fitting dentures.
She worked her tongue around her lips in part to keep the dentures in
place, and as a habit while she spoke. She wore a large, elegant broach at her
neck which I could only catch an occasional glimpse of when she moved her neck
and her double chin wagged out of the way.
Luckily Nellie’s
neighbors took pity on her and shared some of the vegetables they grew. She also had a handyman who brought supplies
to her from town which she paid for with her creative funds from an
account her husband left her. She shared some of the purchased supplies with
her neighbors.
She was absolutely
delighted when I asked her if she would like to borrow a Good Housekeeping magazine
until my next visit to see her. Maybe,
as she looked at the pages in the magazine, she would see that housewives kept
their shades open and let the world inside and would give her the courage to
venture outside.
My conversation with
Nellie travelled with me to my next stop, the McKevitt’s, a family of five whose
life had hit a hard patch. The dad had been home healing from an injury he
suffered at the mine. Hopefully he could
go back to work soon as the family was really struggling to put food on the
table and clothes on the three growing boys, Harley, Donny, and Stanley. Mrs. McKevitt was the glue that held the
flock together. Worry was etched in her brow,
and deep lines in her face, but she greeted me with a hesitant smile. The boys quickly took my horse Starkey over
to the water trough, but they had no grain to offer her.
The boys looked like they
could be extras in the Spanky and Our Gang movies although they weren’t as well
fed or well dressed as the actors. They
were full of mischief and wore the scrapes on their knees and elbows as a badge
of courage. Stanley was too little to
join in the exploits and antics of Harley
and Donny, which was a good thing. Those
boys were a handful!
Mrs. McKevitt tried and
succeeded in teaching the rambunctious brood to read since she had a 5th
grade education. I had some easy primers
tucked away in the pillowcase, and her face lit up when she saw them as they
were books she had read with when she was in school. She promised to take good care of them until
I returned with other books for them.
Harley and Donny were
keen to look at the toys in the Sears and Roebuck catalog. The way they were tugging at the catalog, I
seriously wondered if there would be anything left of it when I returned. They quickly settled down on the floor and
started pouring over the catalog page by page.
Oh, how they giggled when they came to the pages of corsets and girdles. When they came to the pages of erector sets,
they begged their mama for one for Christmas.
A look of sadness crossed her face as she knew that request could never
be granted. Mr. McKevitt just rolled
over in bed and stared at the wall as he knew the family wouldn’t be able to put
anything under the Christmas tree this year.
Harley and Donny were the
kind of kids that would flourish with an erector set. It could be life-changing
for them to use their active young minds and create anything they could dream
about. My heart was heavy as I left the
boys on the floor still looking at the toy section in the catalog. I decided I would ask Mrs. Jerome Reginald
Steiniger if they had any funds to purchase an erector set for the boys.
I continued up into the
back country delivering books and dreams.
I was exhausted by the time I headed for home. My mind couldn’t stop thinking about the
people and poor living conditions I’d seen during the day. I know everyone was trying to make do with
what they had, but the future looked so bleak for many of them. I slowly road back to Grandma Millie’s house while the images of all that I’d witnessed and listened to during my first day
rolled around in the catacombs of my mind.
I stopped at a stream to
give Starkey a rest and a drink of water and saw the reflection of my face for
the second time today. This reflection
wouldn’t last as it would flow downstream and take the image of my travel-worn
worried face with it. No one would ever
see it but me…..it was gone forever.
When I got back to town, I
was greeted by Grandma Millie cleaning a turkey out on the back porch. Walt, the owner of the local gun shop, dropped
the turkey off for us. I’m not sure how
Walt was able to go out shooting after his tragic fall out of a tree when he
was much younger. Visions of Harley and Donny following suit worried me. Walt got along on his crutches while dragging
his legs behind him. He still loved to
shoot and would maneuver himself out into the woods and sit by a tree for the
day and wait for the game to come his way.
He was a turkey whisperer and always managed to keep himself fed with
small game. It was so sweet of him to
think of us in our time of need.
Grandma Millie planned to
make a pumpkin pie for us, and of course a pie for Walt. That’s what people do here in Cob Hill. We look after each other and try to share the
burdens we all carry with us. This is
Grandma Millie’s excellent pumpkin pie recipe.
I never knew how she was
able to keep the temperature of her wood burning stove to an even 475
degrees. She had a sixth sense when it
was time to add more kindling or open the door of the stove for the wood to get
more air and burn hotter. No matter what,
the pie was always perfect.
I’ll write more in my
journal to you soon, Grace. There is so
little time with you now that I’m gone during the day in my new role as a
Packhorse Librarian. It is such
important work that I must do. It’s a
though this is my calling to spread literacy and goodwill throughout my
area. Now I must go over to Mrs. Steiniger’s
house and see if there are any funds to purchase an erector set for the
McKevitt boys for Christmas. I’m not
hopeful, but I must try.
Soon,
Mama
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