The Diary Of Mattie Spenser (9 page)

That very afternoon, Luke took out the sod plow and began cutting strips for our little house. The plow tearing through the grasses filled the air with a sound not unlike that of ripping yard goods. On our ride home, I had insisted he start the work immediately, for the portal is no protection against the savages. Luke gave me no trouble on that score. I helped him lay the strips, staggered like bricks and sod side down so that the prickly grass grips the dirt on the layer of prairie grass beneath.

Within three days, our house was finished. It has a window frame of lumber (which awaits its glass), for when Luke sets his mind to a thing, he does it proper. We will make do with the dirt floor until there is time (and money) for boards. Packed hard and swept each morning, a dirt floor is every bit as nice as a carpet. And it won’t wear out! I am glad that Husband has already fashioned us a bedstead, for I do not relish making up my bed with rake.

I asked Luke what would become of Mrs. Himmel. The poor woman is a foreigner, with none of her own people in this country. Mr. Amidon had asked her to go home with them to help his wife with the babies, but the grieving widow refused, and so remained at the station, where Jessie said she could give a hand with the work there. I think Jessie is softhearted, and a good woman, despite her unsavory past.

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about Mrs. Himmel. There are plenty of old bachelors about. She’ll be married within the month,” replied Luke. I was shocked, and told him so, but Husband said gruffly, “This isn’t a land for weaklings. It’s root hog or die. If you can’t understand that, you shouldn’t have come.”

My eyes stung at the reproof, especially after his loving words of a few days before, but I said nothing, blaming Luke’s ill temper on his own emotions at the danger we had just passed through.

October 4, 1865. Prairie Home.

Luke was wrong about Mrs. Himmel. She did not marry an old bachelor as was expected. The Earley boys have just brought the news. A week after her husband’s death, Mrs. Himmel went into the stable in Mingo and hanged herself from the cross beam.

November 10, 1865. Prairie Home.

Luke has taken the horses to help Mr. Smith pull a stump, though why anybody would care about moving such an item, I cannot understand. Out here, the remains of a tree is a landmark to be ranked with the the United States Capitol. Mr. Smith asked to borrow our horses, as his are poor, and Luke said he would go along to help. He feared Mr. Smith had something more in mind than stump pulling, and Luke did not trust him not to overwork our animals. Since observing the Smiths at Mingo, I am not so fond of them. Borrow, borrow, borrow, and never repay—that is the Smiths. With so few neighbors, we dare not refuse, however, and we hold our tongues. Luke said I might go with him, but I did not care to spend a day gossiping with meddlesome Missus in her soddy with no window. She does not wash her teeth, and she smokes and spits the day long.

Helping each other is the way of the country, as none can afford to hire workers except, perhaps, the Amidons. Emmie Lou confided her people are well-off, and they had sent her funds to build a proper house, which was begun right after the latest babe was born. Both her mother and father said a dugout was not a proper house, though whether they would consider her new home to be “proper,” I do not know.

It is a soddy, but it has two stories, and Mr. Amidon ordered doors from Denver, made to his specifications. What is more, there are six glass windows, and one of them opens! O, we are becoming first-rate on this prairie. Included are a large parlor and kitchen with buttery on the first floor, four bedrooms up, wooden floors on both levels, windows on all sides, and muslin pinned to walls and kitchen ceiling to keep the dirt from falling into the soup. That makes quite a mansion for Colorado Territory! A sod house is as snug as brick, though I discovered one drawback. Last evening as we ate our supper, I looked up, to see a rattler making his way through our wall. Luke struck it with a griddle, and Mr. Snake was no more.

Before the Amidons moved into their sod castle, they held a roof raising, and all were present. Luke and others brought tools, and the roof was done in short order. Miss Figg, our lady homesteader, was longing to join them, I think, but she stayed on the ground with the women and helped set out dinner. The repast was presided over by Missus, who tasted each and every dish before heaping her plate. Along with a vegetable stew, I brought my chess pie, which all pronounced tasty, especially Mrs. Garfield, for it is a Southern recipe.

Emmie Lou says Sallie Garfield came from a family in Georgia that owned Negroes to do all their work, and Mrs. Garfield even had a darky to fan her when she got hot. She has no one to help her now, however, and must be a trial to Mr. Garfield. She does a pretty job with fancywork, and indeed, she is rarely without her tatting, but she cannot do plain sewing, nor does she know anything of keeping a house or working a farm. Emmie Lou reports Mrs. Garfield could not cook anything but mush with milk before she left Georgia, and I say she cannot cook now. She made a mess of a pan of fried sage hen, burning it badly, though I told her that Luke preferred it well cooked, as he didn’t like a chicken that was too raw. I was sorry for the falsehood, because Mrs. Garfield pestered Luke throughout the meal to take another piece, and nothing would do but that he must oblige her. She is a terrible flirt, but I do not think he will be tempted. After all, I won Luke from Persia Chalmers, the worst trifler I ever saw, so I need not fear the Rebel girl.

I had hoped for a chance to know Mrs. Osterwald, as she seems in need of friends. The poor woman fell again, this time against a table, and her eye is blackened. At least, that is what she said, but I studied her closer, and I think it is something else. I believe she has fits. I would like to ask Emmie Lou but do not want to start the gossip. Mrs. Osterwald is too timid for society, and she keeps close to son and husband, so we had little chance for a chat. I mean for Luke to take me to call on them, because I think she would enjoy a visit if she does not have to put herself out too much. Her contribution to the meal was little meat pies, which she called pasties, and they were much commented upon.

As it is a pleasant day despite a hard frost last night, I sit outside, where I can look out across the prairie, which dons a golden cloak in fall, not at all like the brilliant red mantle of maples at home. I am wrapped up snug in my paisley shawl, with my little confidante in hand. Instead of writing the past hour, I have been reading this book. The events of these months have changed me from a silly girl into a woman, and one who is able to handle the trials Providence chooses to give her, I think. Pray God, it shall always be so. If Luke is not aware of my change for the better, well, I am. And I am just a little proud of myself.

I am aware in rereading my journal that I write too much. Luke would think so, too. One evening whilst talking of enjoyable pursuits, I said many thought a diary to be a pleasant pastime, as well as an efficient way to remember events of note. Luke said if one had to write down such happenings, they weren’t worth remembering, and that diary keeping, like writing poetry, used up time that might be put to better use. So now I know I was right in keeping this little book from him. I don’t agree with Husband, of course. I think a journal causes one to reexamine the events of one’s life and find ways to improve oneself. Still, I am sure I spend entirely too many hours with my pen, and I vow to be more judicious in the use of my time. That means I shall write less often.

First, however, I must put down the events since my last entry.

We have got us in a poor crop. I never worked as hard as I did helping Luke in the fields. Luke believes a woman should not unsex herself by doing a man’s work, but he could not finish the harvest without my help, and as I have a good arm with a sickle, I told him there was nothing wrong with a woman performing honest labor. Whilst I aided him in “bringing in the sheaves,” Luke did not unsex himself to help in my domain, but what man does? I was as weary as I have ever been.

The wheat crop was not good, the corn even worse. Luke was told ’twas folly to plant corn in this country, but he does as he pleases. So he put in a field of it, thinking he knew more than the naysayers. For a time, he appeared to be right. One morning, he called me to come for a stroll to see how tall and green and fine our corn was. In the forenoon, a hot wind came, and by nightfall, all that was left was a field of withered stalks.

I said he had no cause to reproach himself, because a man must take risks if he wishes to progress, but Luke refused to be comforted, and for several days he acted almost as if the charred crop was my fault. When things do not work out for Luke, he wishes to place blame, and as I am convenient, I come in for more than my share. I do not think that is right—after all, I scarcely control the wind—but it seems to be the role of the wife. I have learned to ignore his strange moods, which cause Luke to stand off by himself, staring at nothing. If I ask the reason, he replies in anger, whose cause I do not understand. I wish I knew more about men.

Well, despite my promise to write less, I have filled up several pages. Now, surely, I must put you away, little friend, and hope you understand if I do not see you soon again. My bread has raised well above the pan and now calls to me.

December 31, 1865. Prairie Home.

Now that the winter storms keep Luke inside our snug home, I have little privacy in which to write. Just now, I am alone, however, the only sound, the scratch, scratch of my pen as it scribbles on the paper. I never saw such snow. At first, I thought ’twas cozy, as the flakes looked as if someone were shaking a feather tick. But I quickly tired of the howling winds and swirling snow outside my window, and I do not look forward to many months of white ahead.

Luke has tied a rope twixt house and barn so he will not become lost in a blizzard. When he feeds the animals in bad weather, I place a light in the window as beacon, in case he should let go the rope and lose his way. Although Luke complained at the cost of the pane, I am glad we spent the money, and Luke is, too, for he has remarked at how cheery the light seems, shining through the snowflakes. He is in the barn, caring for the animals now, so this entry will be short.

As the year ends, I count myself specially blessed. I have both Husband and Prairie Home, and in the summer, we will welcome a little stranger! I have known for several weeks but wanted to make sure of the blessed event, so I did not inform Luke until Christmas Day. He is much pleased!

We had no tree for Christmas, as we did not care to chop down one of our precious two, but I piled together several Russian thistle, which the Earley boys, who shared our Christmas feast, call “tumbleweeds.” Decorated with ribbons and scraps of yard goods, the result was said by all to be far more dazzling than the standard item. Our brilliant company dubbed it a “Christmas bush” and declared that, henceforth, it would be part of our traditional festivities. I placed the presents from home around it, including the pen wiper Carrie made for Luke and the slipper tops of plush that she embroidered in Hen’s Foot for me. I wrote her that they are too elegant for a dirt floor and that I shall save them for my confinement.

Dinner was served on our humble table, which is made of four posts driven into the earthen floor, with a very large provision box turned upside down and set upon them. It is a sturdy piece of furniture indeed. Luke and I sat on bed and washtub, giving our only two chairs to our guests. I had prepared a hearty holiday meal of sage hen, but as I had not had the fixin’s for a plum pudding, we finished off with a cake made from the last of the precious chocolate brought from Iowa. I mourned to see the end of it, as I have a passion for chocolate, favoring it above all things. Just when we thought we could not eat another morsel, the Earleys presented us with a jar of pickled walnuts, which we agreed must be sampled instantly.

Our gift to the boys, as we call them, was a box of divinity, made with black walnuts I gathered in the spring when we passed through Missouri. I gave Luke a tie that I had made from a silk waist of mine, which looked specially nice when he put it on with the embroidered vest I had made as his wedding present. Luke gave me a fine stirring stick, fashioned with his own hands from a pole that had been part of the head frame of our Conestoga wagon. Made of the best hickory, the stick has one end flattened just enough to allow me to beat the cake batter properly. It is as well-designed a stirrer as I have ever seen.

That evening, after the Earleys left, Luke and I finished the Christmas syllabub, which I had prepared from wine and sugar, without benefit of eggs. (Nonetheless, it was as tasty as the authentic item.) I am an abstainer, but I do not believe Our Lord would disapprove of a taste of wine at Christmas to celebrate the birth of His Son, and the anticipation of our own.

Luke and Self talked of all that had happened to us in the year just ending, and we sang together several favorite Christmas songs. Then I told him his most important Christmas gift was yet to come—an heir, who is due late in the spring, early June, if I have figured it correctly.

Luke hugged me hard, then drew back, asking if he had hurt me. I laughed and told him both baby and I enjoyed hugs. I find Carrie was right, and I am not quite so adverse to the matrimonial bed as I once was. Still, I shall be glad enough to dispense with it until after Baby’s arrival. My condition only intensifies my feelings for Luke. On impulse, as we sat talking, I took Luke’s hand between mine and told him how glad I was we had joined our lives together, that I loved him dearly and considered myself the luckiest girl in the world. Luke squeezed my hand in way of reply. I had expected to be fond of my husband, but I did not know that love of him would give me such a terrible ache in my heart. Perhaps I love him too well, too passionately. Luke does not talk of such things, so I can only wonder if he returns my ardor.

Husband is stamping his feet outside, and so I must bid adieu to the old year and its many blessings and welcome 1866, wondering if it will hold as many joys and surprises as did its predecessor.