The Midwife of Hope River
Page 80
“Why don’t you try it?” I nod toward her front.
“Suckle the baby? I’m mostly dried up.” She glances down at her rather flat chest and sees the wet spot, a sure sign of letdown.
“Milk will sometimes come back if you have a baby to nurse. It hasn’t been that long. I’m sure she knows what to do.” (I am definitely sure Angel knows what to do!)
“I’m so weak . . .”
“Not that weak. When there’s a baby, a mother finds her strength. You know what you would do for your other children.”
With hesitation the woman fumbles to open her gown, and I watch as the baby roots back and forth. Mrs. Mintz grins when the tiny girl latches on. For me, it’s like meeting the real Gladys for the first time. The other one was a husk of herself.
Suddenly there’s a commotion in the hall, the sound of hard boots, and the door swings open. Mr. Mintz stands there, his hands on his skinny hips, his worn patched overalls hanging from one strap. Albert, with the three little boys, follows. The youngest one worms up to the bed.
“What the hell’s going on?” That’s Ernest. He darts his eyes back and forth. “Haven’t you caused enough pain?”
“Where’d you get the baby, Mama?” “Can I see?” “What’s her name?” That’s the kids.
I move back out of the circle. Ernest glares, then turns to his woman. A few seconds ago, he was prepared to throw me out, the meddlesome midwife wandering into the shadow of his family’s tragedy, but his Gladys is breastfeeding with a Mona Lisa look on her face, pensive and sweet.
He reaches over and touches the gemstone on the ribbon around Angel’s neck. “What’s this?”
“A gift,” I answer.
“We ain’t beholden—”
“You won’t be. Someone gave the ring to me. It’s a real ruby, and I’m passing it on.”
“What’s her name, Ma?” That’s Albert.
“She’s called Angel,” Gladys whispers. “And she’s ours.”
September 12, 1930. Waning moon in a clear violet sky.
Another birth. Feast or famine. Julie Twiss, 8 pounds, second daughter of Ferris and Mina Twiss of Lick Fork. Born after eight hours of labor. Mina’s sister, who had come up from Charleston and had three babies with twilight sleep, was amazed to see a baby born so simply and easily. Mina did herself proud. She stayed out of bed for the whole labor, and then she lay down on her side and pushed her big baby out with no fuss.
I remarked to Bitsy that Mina sang the perfect birth song. Mrs. Kelly had taught me about that. If you listen, you will hear the laboring woman’s voice change. Normal and chatty at first, the pitch goes up as the womb opens. When the baby comes down, the voice drops. It’s universal. Italian, Polish, German, Negro, Irish, all sing the same song.
Present were Mrs. Bessie Richards, the sister from Charleston, Bitsy, and I. Paid five bucks and two whole chickens.
37
Harvest
A busy time for us, the last two weeks, as we pick and can beans, tomatoes, yellow squash and make applesauce, sunup to sundown. On frames of wood covered with cheesecloth, we also dry apples, rose hips, and corn. We’ve even picked and hung, under the porch, huge bunches of pennyroyal, mint, shepherd’s purse, tansy, comfrey, valerian, blue cohosh, and lavender.
The potatoes are the easiest to preserve and will keep in the root cellar, along with the carrots, beets, and onions that we’ll dig in a fortnight. The winter squash, acorn and butternut, will be stored in the attic along with onions and strings of red pepper, which need to be kept cool but dry.
It is my greatest pleasure to see our stores grow. Well, maybe not my greatest pleasure; there was that night with Hester, but the vet and I have not talked since the thunderstorm. The only times I’ve even seen him since were at Mrs. Potts’s funeral, though we didn’t talk then, and weeks later, when Bitsy and I went to Union County Fair.
We decided that we should enter some of our winter squash and rode Star, carrying our produce in gunnysacks over her sides. The trip was the longest we’ve taken, a break from our daily hard labor, and our butternut squash won a blue ribbon and a two-dollar bill donated by the Ladies Home Society. I told Bitsy she should enter her new batch of blackberry wine, but she said they don’t have a category for wine since Prohibition.
Hester was in the animal tent when we passed him, judging woolly lambs and half-grown goats. He nodded but didn’t come over. I don’t know what I wanted him to do: leave the group of men, gather me in his arms, and press his body against me? What was I thinking when I stood naked with him in the rain?
The trouble is, I wasn’t thinking! The whiskey and his kindness, after Kitty Hart’s horrible death, swept me away. “It is what it is.” That’s what Mrs. Kelly would say. “It is what it is.”
“Bitsy! Miss Patience!” I look all around. “Up here!”
Bitsy laughs and points up toward the Ferris wheel. Swinging precariously in a yellow gondola are Twyla with Sojourner and Harriet, the two pregnant girls from Hazel Patch. “What in the Sam Hill are they doing up there?” I ask my friend.
“Having fun.”
“But they are mothers, or almost mothers.”
“They can still have fun.”
“But where’s baby Mathew? The judge . . . the judge didn’t give him away, did he?”
Bitsy slips her arm through mine, and her warmth flows through me. She has never done that in public before. When I think of it, she’s never done it anywhere before, not even at home.
“Twyla and Mathew live with the Millers now. It was my idea. She cleans the church and works on the farm for her keep. Then Samantha takes care of Mathew in the mornings so Twyla can go to school. They visit Nancy every Saturday.”
My mouth is still open. Bitsy pushes my chin up and laughs. “It was my idea, and I took care of it,” she says and laughs again.
Horse Power
No breeze today. No rain at all for two weeks, and the already brown locust leaves rattle in the dry wind. When we were at the fair, we learned that farmers are already using this year’s hay, which is meant for winter, to feed their livestock. That news reminded me that I must get in a supply of feed for our own cows and Star. With the local shortage we can’t afford to buy it; the price will be too high. Of course, I still have Katherine’s golden moon pin, but it’s the old story, there’s no way to pawn it.
“Suckle the baby? I’m mostly dried up.” She glances down at her rather flat chest and sees the wet spot, a sure sign of letdown.
“Milk will sometimes come back if you have a baby to nurse. It hasn’t been that long. I’m sure she knows what to do.” (I am definitely sure Angel knows what to do!)
“I’m so weak . . .”
“Not that weak. When there’s a baby, a mother finds her strength. You know what you would do for your other children.”
With hesitation the woman fumbles to open her gown, and I watch as the baby roots back and forth. Mrs. Mintz grins when the tiny girl latches on. For me, it’s like meeting the real Gladys for the first time. The other one was a husk of herself.
Suddenly there’s a commotion in the hall, the sound of hard boots, and the door swings open. Mr. Mintz stands there, his hands on his skinny hips, his worn patched overalls hanging from one strap. Albert, with the three little boys, follows. The youngest one worms up to the bed.
“What the hell’s going on?” That’s Ernest. He darts his eyes back and forth. “Haven’t you caused enough pain?”
“Where’d you get the baby, Mama?” “Can I see?” “What’s her name?” That’s the kids.
I move back out of the circle. Ernest glares, then turns to his woman. A few seconds ago, he was prepared to throw me out, the meddlesome midwife wandering into the shadow of his family’s tragedy, but his Gladys is breastfeeding with a Mona Lisa look on her face, pensive and sweet.
He reaches over and touches the gemstone on the ribbon around Angel’s neck. “What’s this?”
“A gift,” I answer.
“We ain’t beholden—”
“You won’t be. Someone gave the ring to me. It’s a real ruby, and I’m passing it on.”
“What’s her name, Ma?” That’s Albert.
“She’s called Angel,” Gladys whispers. “And she’s ours.”
September 12, 1930. Waning moon in a clear violet sky.
Another birth. Feast or famine. Julie Twiss, 8 pounds, second daughter of Ferris and Mina Twiss of Lick Fork. Born after eight hours of labor. Mina’s sister, who had come up from Charleston and had three babies with twilight sleep, was amazed to see a baby born so simply and easily. Mina did herself proud. She stayed out of bed for the whole labor, and then she lay down on her side and pushed her big baby out with no fuss.
I remarked to Bitsy that Mina sang the perfect birth song. Mrs. Kelly had taught me about that. If you listen, you will hear the laboring woman’s voice change. Normal and chatty at first, the pitch goes up as the womb opens. When the baby comes down, the voice drops. It’s universal. Italian, Polish, German, Negro, Irish, all sing the same song.
Present were Mrs. Bessie Richards, the sister from Charleston, Bitsy, and I. Paid five bucks and two whole chickens.
37
Harvest
A busy time for us, the last two weeks, as we pick and can beans, tomatoes, yellow squash and make applesauce, sunup to sundown. On frames of wood covered with cheesecloth, we also dry apples, rose hips, and corn. We’ve even picked and hung, under the porch, huge bunches of pennyroyal, mint, shepherd’s purse, tansy, comfrey, valerian, blue cohosh, and lavender.
The potatoes are the easiest to preserve and will keep in the root cellar, along with the carrots, beets, and onions that we’ll dig in a fortnight. The winter squash, acorn and butternut, will be stored in the attic along with onions and strings of red pepper, which need to be kept cool but dry.
It is my greatest pleasure to see our stores grow. Well, maybe not my greatest pleasure; there was that night with Hester, but the vet and I have not talked since the thunderstorm. The only times I’ve even seen him since were at Mrs. Potts’s funeral, though we didn’t talk then, and weeks later, when Bitsy and I went to Union County Fair.
We decided that we should enter some of our winter squash and rode Star, carrying our produce in gunnysacks over her sides. The trip was the longest we’ve taken, a break from our daily hard labor, and our butternut squash won a blue ribbon and a two-dollar bill donated by the Ladies Home Society. I told Bitsy she should enter her new batch of blackberry wine, but she said they don’t have a category for wine since Prohibition.
Hester was in the animal tent when we passed him, judging woolly lambs and half-grown goats. He nodded but didn’t come over. I don’t know what I wanted him to do: leave the group of men, gather me in his arms, and press his body against me? What was I thinking when I stood naked with him in the rain?
The trouble is, I wasn’t thinking! The whiskey and his kindness, after Kitty Hart’s horrible death, swept me away. “It is what it is.” That’s what Mrs. Kelly would say. “It is what it is.”
“Bitsy! Miss Patience!” I look all around. “Up here!”
Bitsy laughs and points up toward the Ferris wheel. Swinging precariously in a yellow gondola are Twyla with Sojourner and Harriet, the two pregnant girls from Hazel Patch. “What in the Sam Hill are they doing up there?” I ask my friend.
“Having fun.”
“But they are mothers, or almost mothers.”
“They can still have fun.”
“But where’s baby Mathew? The judge . . . the judge didn’t give him away, did he?”
Bitsy slips her arm through mine, and her warmth flows through me. She has never done that in public before. When I think of it, she’s never done it anywhere before, not even at home.
“Twyla and Mathew live with the Millers now. It was my idea. She cleans the church and works on the farm for her keep. Then Samantha takes care of Mathew in the mornings so Twyla can go to school. They visit Nancy every Saturday.”
My mouth is still open. Bitsy pushes my chin up and laughs. “It was my idea, and I took care of it,” she says and laughs again.
Horse Power
No breeze today. No rain at all for two weeks, and the already brown locust leaves rattle in the dry wind. When we were at the fair, we learned that farmers are already using this year’s hay, which is meant for winter, to feed their livestock. That news reminded me that I must get in a supply of feed for our own cows and Star. With the local shortage we can’t afford to buy it; the price will be too high. Of course, I still have Katherine’s golden moon pin, but it’s the old story, there’s no way to pawn it.
