My breath escaped. I sank to the chair, my eye drawn to the calendar hanging on the wall. It was from the Domestic Sewing Machine Company. A mother oversees a daughter’s work on the newest machine, offering guidance and protection to the child. Protection. I looked at the date. March 8, 1906. Not even a year since our family moved as one to grieve with Lizzie so exposed and unprotected from a terrible loss. Hurt came without protection from any earthly source, no matter how much we loved.
“I … I can’t believe that Delia … and you … widows … Both my girls …” I couldn’t seem to finish a thought. “Come.” I opened my arms. Lizzie fell into them, the call from her sister renewing the wounds from the loss of her Fred.
“Oh, Mama. Delia’s going to hurt so much!”
“I know, I know.” I patted her back. No words formed. A sister’s ache was different than a mother’s, but no less painful; no less deep a hole to fill.
“Call your father,” I said after a time. “He’s at the creamery talking to Mr. Reed about the latest report. Tell him we’ll harness the buggy and pick up Fritz from school on the way to Delia’s. We’ll let Martha know at her classroom.”
Lizzie nodded, wiped at her face with a lace-edged handkerchief. She turned to the phone, and I stepped outside. People needed tasks in grief, and I was good at giving them but less wise at finding distracting work for myself. Tears swelled in my throat. The air felt clear and fresh with scuddy clouds chased away by spinning winds. Cranes chattered toward the Columbia while I longed for a breeze to blow away Delia’s loss, our loss, the absolute helplessness I felt. I was old, so old, and yet none the wiser for how to give my daughter and her baby the strength they’d need in the months ahead.
The horse was gentle and took well to the harness. Lizzie came out to help me finish, and then I scanned the yard. It was too early for my tree peonies with their flashy blooms. Tulips weren’t up yet. A few lavender crocuses stood at attention. We’d planted them on Fred Wilke’s grave. I didn’t want them to be a reminder for Delia. I snipped three daffodils with their yellow heads, not yet in full array, but at least they offered bright color. A sweet aroma as I passed the shady side of the house caught my nose. I planned to leave my apron and don my hat, but instead I marched to the bush that had begun blooming on Valentine’s Day, pulled the clipper from my apron again and snipped some of the pink-throated, alabaster blooms. I pushed my nose into the flowers and inhaled. Once long ago Frank had brought me a corsage of daphnes, when first he came to court me. I was so young, so uncertain. But Frank made me laugh, and he promised he would be there with me always. If I lost him, what would I do?
My throat opened with the aroma of daphnes, and the tears found their way to escape. I thought of Nell Irving and Delia’s baby. That poor child who would never know his father. I inhaled again and breathed out a silent prayer. Have I done enough to protect my children? Have I covered them like I would a plant threatened by a late-season frost? Two of my daughters, widows. Are You trying to tell me something? Have I not listened? I hadn’t brought a handkerchief, so I wiped my face with my apron, then cradled the blue and yellow blooms in my arm.
“Let’s go, Mama,” Lizzie said.
I went inside, put the flowers in a Ball jar with water, removed my apron, settled the hat onto my head, and grabbed my coat. The mist was familiar as air and nothing requiring an umbrella.
I handed the jar of flowers to Lizzie. I inhaled once more.
“The flowers will have to be the cheer today. And many a day ahead as well,” Lizzie said.
TWENTY-SIX
SHELLY
1906
At first, Shelly looked forward to the horticulture meetings merely as respite from her mother-in-law’s dominance. Soon, the camaraderie of the women and their enthusiasm for all things horticultural won Shelly over. Oh, Bill had enjoyed making her his student in the greenhouse, but at these meetings, she found a different kind of eagerness and perhaps competition for creating the most fragrant garden or choosing plants that attracted the most butterflies or hummingbirds. Shelly had her own ideas about a certain kind of garden plot, and she’d even picked out the section of the green lawn on their estate that would house the first one. But the occasion that would begin her garden campaign had not arisen. She still had not conceived. She was saddened by that and discouraged, deeply, an emotion she could not share with Bill as it was too revealing of the loss within her life.
At a meeting in May of 1906, the entire club had been invited to tour the gardens on the Hampton estate and view the exotic plants heiress Eliza Ridgely had brought back from her world travels. It was to be a two-day event, with the women riding in an autobus and spending the night at an inn in Towson, Maryland, just north of Baltimore where the estate lauded over the surrounding countryside. Shelly had never ridden in an autobus. Anticipation mixed with anxiety framed her morning.
As they waited for the vehicle to arrive, Shelly considered her mother-in-law and her pervasive influence over Bill. The woman couldn’t see that her son liked spending his weeks away in Annapolis just to avoid his mother. At least that was Shelly’s belief. His mother didn’t even call him Bill, his preferred name. He was always “William” to her, with an uplift at the end as though his name was just the beginning of a request, which it usually was. “William? Would you please bring me that lap robe? You know how cool it is in the evening” or “William? Don’t forget to take the documents to the attorney, you do remember I asked you to do that today.” And on it went.
The horticulture meetings were one of the few places Shelly was able to attend without her mother-in-law beside her—or often between her and Bill. At fine restaurants, Bill sat beside his mother to assist her, of course. The woman was a tactician who could plant a twelve-foot tree by herself but had Bill convinced she might need help lifting her silver spoon to her mouth at supper. Egad, egad! Shelly thought but would never say in front of Bill or his mother. She sipped her soup quietly and dreamed of someday having a child whom she’d raise differently than Bill had been raised.
Thank goodness the two-day trip had kept her mother-in-law behind. Shelly made certain of that by emphasizing the difficulties they might face, not being certain of the roads, having to stay at an unknown inn, and the possibility of bedbugs.
Shelly’s plan to leave her mother-in-law at home had caused a bit of friction with Bill. “She lived alone in that house before I married you,” Shelly said.
“But she was younger then. Now she’s frail.”
“Perhaps we should all move to Annapolis, then, where you can come home to us each evening. Every evening.”
“And leave the gardens here? The thing she loves?”
Of course not, Shelly thought but didn’t say. She didn’t say a lot she wanted to.
Shelly waited to hear the growling of the autobus. Instead, only the soft voices of the other women interrupted the birdsong. Her friends wore big hats with feathers that drooped like yesterday’s wash on the line. In the threesome that included Shelly near the corner of the library, conversation bubbled up as the younger women conversed about the “Hill of Difficulty” article Margaret Sangster had written in the latest issue of Woman’s Home Companion. “To climb such a hill of living,” the columnist wrote, “we cannot shirk the duty of standing on our own two feet while lending a hand to our neighbors and lifting a little ourselves, if we are to occupy the place God means us to, and do our part in service to the age in which we live.” Shelly liked the article very much and was surprised the Companion had printed it, as they were generally a traditional magazine not entertaining ideas that might offend the men of a household.
On the other hand, “standing on your own two feet” could be considered quite radical, and to a number of women in the Maryland Horticulture Society, Baltimore chapter, it was. Shelly awaited the Letters section next month, as she was sure there’d be wisdom falling like timbers on the editors. Mothers, Shelly decided, were vigilant; at the very least Maryland mothers were.
/>
“We’re a smaller group than usual,” Mavis noted that May morning as she looked around. Often twenty-five or thirty joined in the monthly gathering, many more when they had exhibits hoping to attract new members. Mavis was a matron with a wart on her chin that was difficult to ignore until one spent time with her and appreciated her intellect and goodwill enough to distract from the facial flaw.
“Their husbands might not have been as enthusiastic as ours,” Beatrice noted.
“Or they lacked proper negotiating skills,” Shelly said. “My husband wasn’t all that enamored with my going, but I guilted him into letting me.”
“Guilted him?” Mavis turned to her friend. “What sort of word is that?”
“A very useful one,” Shelly trilled. “Very useful. Oh, he knows what I’m doing when I ruffle his hair and tell him how sad I am that he’s always leaving me during the week to work, and then on the weekends, he has this ‘other woman’ he devotes his time to.”
“His mother.” Mavis patted Shelly’s gloved hand resting on an umbrella she might later need for shade.
“No, his lilacs. He’s always out there in the garden, and even when I’m right beside him in the greenhouse, he speaks more to the cultivars than to me. I call them ‘the other women,’ and out of guilt, he lets me do things he otherwise might not or that his mother finds foolish. Like this trip. Especially this trip.”
“I know a woman or two who secure fine jewelry out of their husbands’ guilt.” Beatrice was closer to Shelly’s age and was without children too. The three of them formed a cluster at the horticultural events.
“We’re standing on our own two feet,” Mavis said, bringing them back to the article by Margaret Sangster. “Being here, doing what we feel is necessary for our survival.”
“How does a woman actually do that?” Shelly’d been trying to strike out on her own as a wife, but it took enormous energy just to disagree with Minnie Snyder about a table serving. The interactions wore her down. If only she could have given Bill a child by now. She would have gained credibility with her mother-in-law and had a purpose in her life. “I sometimes feel lost in my efforts to stand on my own.” Shelly sighed.
“As do we all.” Mavis shaded her eyes with her hands, looking for the autobus.
Her companions quieted, allowing the noise of the engine of the approaching vehicle to fill the summer morning. Mavis fanned herself. Beatrice loosened the button at her neck.
“Margaret Sangster says, ‘Pluck counts more than luck,’ ” Shelly said.
“Did you see where she advised one young woman to consider pet-stock breeding as a way to earn a living? Angora cats were mentioned.” Beatrice had a slight lisp that caused Shelly to listen carefully whenever she spoke.
“Does the world need more cats?” Mavis asked. “I should think that to help one’s neighbors while standing on one’s own two feet would mean more than the nurturing of cats or thoroughbred dogs. I’d say a leader more like—”
“Mrs. Edward Gilchrist Low.”
“Who?” Shelly furrowed her brow. The name was unfamiliar to her.
“Imagine, starting a school of your own like that.” Beatrice shook her head in wonder, and the ostrich feather fluttered at her face.
“What school?” Shelly said.
“Oh, it’s a landscape architecture school, for women.”
“Truly?” Shelly turned away from the approaching bus to stare at her friend. “Where?”
“Massachusetts. Their graduates travel about and consult on the great estates as well as smaller gardens. I suspect at the Hampton estate we’ll see evidence of the Lowthorpe School.” Mavis seemed well informed. “Imagine bringing beauty into the lives of others like that.”
“And getting to travel and work with interesting people. From all over the country. Even Europe,” Beatrice mused.
“Yes, imagine.” The autobus pulled up in front of their meeting site. The driver stepped out. Their club leader scuttled to the front of the group and explained what would happen next, asking people to be calm. Calm would be difficult for Shelly, for she’d just had an epiphany, her anxiety no longer related to transportation but rather pushing her toward a plan to stand on her own.
The three women ducked their heads and hats as they stepped up into the vehicle. Shelly’s feet felt light at this new adventure as she made her way down the aisle, glad she didn’t have to manage a bustle as well as her carpetbag.
A school for women interested in landscape architecture. Shelly had hoped to design a garden when she had her first child and after that for each milestone of the child’s life: the day she started school, her first pony ride ribbon, her first grade of Superior, her first formal dance. It would be more than simply planting a tree or plant to honor someone; it would be a story of a life, told in flowers. A story of her child’s life.
But none of those gardens would occur without the child, and it looked like that wasn’t going to happen. She had lost two babies. She was barren.
The idea of designing gardens for others—consulting with a mother to create her stepping-stone landscapes in honor of her child’s growing—might be how she’d create and wash away the fruitless part of her existence.
“Isn’t this fun?” Beatrice settled into a seat.
“It surely is.” Shelly selected a leather seat facing the aisle.
“I wonder what we’ll take away from this trip,” Mavis said. “I always try to bring something back to use in my garden.”
“I’ve already found my wisdom,” Shelly said. “Now I just have to make it happen.” Make it happen, indeed.
TWENTY-SEVEN
PLANTING TRUST
Hulda, 1906
After the funeral, Dr. Alice told me that for a time we’d all have to be watched to be sure there were no early signs of that dreaded tuberculosis disease, since we’d all had time with Nell Irving before he went to the sanitarium. Some of us could be carriers and give it to others without our ever becoming sick ourselves. I thought that a double evil of a disease, making every one wary and watching one another every time someone sneezed over a hydrangea or magnolia bloom.
I was tired of grieving, tired of all it took to make sense of the vagaries of life. A terrible earthquake had struck San Francisco in April, and the churches in town had worked together to send bandages and medicine to that troubled community. I was grateful we had no relatives there, for there was distress enough right in our house. Lizzie’s ache had returned with her sister’s loss, and Delia, always quick to find a cheerful solution to a problem, couldn’t find the route to calm. The Lewis River flooded, and I had a change of grief by directing Frank and Fritz to build log rafts.
“Rafts?” Frank washed at the sink. “For what?”
“We’re going to pull the lilacs and put them on the rafts until the water goes down. Tie the rafts to the trees.”
“Pull them up by the roots, Ma?” Fritz said. “Won’t that kill them?”
“No. It’ll stress them, but it will also save them. We’ll have to replant.”
I knew it meant much work, but physical labor was good for the heartache pushing against my ribs. The rafts were built, and they worked, my lilacs like fragile children huddling on a churning sea as the rafts bumped against the tree trunks. The water receded, and the sun came out, so that before long, even the daphne, a plant that abhors wet soil, perked up. But still, I could not convince Delia that she should come home, that her baby should be born closer to the doctor’s office, not way out there on her farm. Frank brought a load of aged manure from the pasture on the Bottoms, and we mulched it in with the garden earth. We were replanting the lilacs when Ruth’s father, Barney Reed, stopped by to pick up Ruth for the weekend.
“Fair amount of work you have to do then, eh?”
“We saved the lilacs, though, Papa.” Ruth pointed to the log rafts now stacked beside the potting shed.
“God gives us challenges to shape our ways,” he said.
“And he gives us ne
w blooms each spring as a reminder He’s always with us,” I countered. While I agreed with him, I didn’t want him suggesting that those challenges were any more than a flood in spring or a neighbor’s horses running through the lilacs.
Barney nodded, but he chewed on his mustache, so I knew he had other thoughts. He adjusted his glasses.
“We should go, Papa. Mrs. Hulda has a lot of work to do.” I heard the horse at Barney’s buggy stomp its impatience and noticed Ruth’s subtle urging of her father to leave.
“You’ve had a fair number of sad challenges in these past years since you’ve been messing with creation.” Barney adjusted his glasses.
“All part of learning new things. Nothing troubling about that.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’re being taught a lesson.”
“About hybridizing? Oh yes, I’m learning a great deal about patience and persistence, keeping good records that my husband helps with and my girls. We’ve had a good time together, making this garden a place where people come now and again to be reminded of the refreshment creation brings. Not to mention the lessons of weeding before it gets out of hand or how each season requires new things of us.”
“The Bible teaches that gardens are places for wrestling with temptation, Mrs. Klager.”
“Oh, snakes are good things in a garden. They get after the insects and gophers.”
I wished Ruth would leave, as I didn’t want to argue with her father in front of her. I wasn’t sure how long I could keep my happy chatter voice, especially when each evening I wrestled with whether my fervor for lilacs, for “messing with creation,” might have brought on the pain my children suffered from.
“Mama will be waiting.” Ruth touched her father’s arm crossed over his chest.
“Suffering happens for a reason, Mrs. Klager. You best discover why it might be happening for you.” Ruth tugged at his sleeve, and they left.