All She Left Behind

  She was indeed elected unanimously as vice president of the Oregon Medical Society and might well have become president had her life’s trajectory taken her a different way. She was forty-three years old when she died August 10, 1887. She is buried in the Lee Cemetery in Salem.

  Jennie’s Herbs and Oils

  These oils and aromatics were used during Jennie’s lifetime by homeopathic physicians for the treatments listed; they should not be used today without proper education and instruction.

  Arnica—aches and muscle pain

  Barley—stomachaches

  Belladonna—poisonous; with care, used for scarlet fever, acute fevers, infection with inflammation; relieves ear infections and boils and assists with breastfeeding

  Black currant seeds—oil; Blackfeet Indians used to stave off cravings of liquor

  Calendula cream—(marigold) treatment of breast during breast-feeding; tincture and cream

  Cayenne—abdominal pain and stomach pain; Aztec treatment for intoxication

  Chamomile—liver cleansing and calming bruised muscles

  Dogwood root tea—substitute for quinine for malarial fever (Tillamook)

  Elderberry—expectorant (Blackfeet/Blackfoot)

  Ferrum phosphoricum—fevers from infections

  Lavender—hives, insomnia, blisters, boils, bug and spider bites, burns

  Licorice root—induce vomiting

  Marjoram—bruised muscles

  Nux vomica (Strychnos nux vomica)—poisonous in certain dosages; sedative, pregnancy cramping, labor pain, indigestion

  Pasqueflower—an expectorant for treatment of poisons (Blackfeet remedy); speeds labor; treats syphilis (Shawnee)

  Peppermint—spider and bug bites

  Periwinkle—headaches

  Pulsatilla—treating cataracts, ulcers, tooth decay, depression, gynecological complaints

  Quinine—malaria, ague (also cedar root tea)

  Rosemary—liver cleansing, muscle cramps, spasms

  Rose ointment—blisters

  Saleratus—leavening agent; treating stomach upset

  Shooting star leaves—treatment of cold sores

  Skullcap tincture—mild sedative

  Sulfate of cinchona—substitute for quinine treating malaria, ague

  Violet root—liver; bringing on milk for nursing mothers; roots act as expectorant when poison swallowing is suspected

  Reader’s Guide

  Jennie says, “Some things are worth doing regardless of how they turn out.” Do you share that view? Did Jennie’s life portray that philosophy?

  What were the supports Jennie found that enabled her to pursue her dream? What were the barriers? Did she achieve her dream? Why or why not? How have friends or colleagues assisted you on your journey?

  Was Jennie responsible for her son’s addiction? Were there steps Jennie could have taken that she didn’t to stave off the disaster of Douglas’s and his father’s lives?

  Jennie says that spending time blaming others for tragedy takes one from their purpose. Do you agree with that? Why or why not?

  Ariyah tells Jennie that guilt “is a fiend” and urges her to make a personal change to ward it off. Has there been a time when guilt held you back? How did you find a path through it to a new hope?

  How did Josiah support his wives on their journeys? How did Elizabeth and Jennie support him? Was Jennie justified in the arrangements she made in her will for guardianship?

  Jennie returned often to the image of the fox. What meaning did she ascribe to that encounter? Do you share her Einsicht, her insight?

  “Pleasure disappoints, possibility never,” writes Kierkegaard. Did Jennie discover this? Do you agree?

  Jennie notes that carriages are safest in the barn, but they are built for the unknown roads. Think of a time when you took a risk. Was the result what you had imagined? Did the possibility give you hope?

  The author wanted to show that our inability to bring healing and peace to the lives of those we love does not mean we should deny the joys of pursuing our own calling to make a difference in the world. Did she succeed?

  1

  Tabby’s Plan

  1845

  ST. CHARLES, MISSOURI

  Tabitha Moffat Brown read the words aloud to Sarelia Lucia to see if she’d captured the rhythm and flow. “Feet or wings: well, feet, of course. As a practical matter we’re born with limbs, so they have a decided advantage over the wistfulness of wings. Oh, we’ll get our wings one day, but not on this earth, though I’ve met a few people who I often wondered about their spirit’s ability to rise higher than the rest of us in their goodness, your grandfather being one of those, dear Sarelia. Feet hold us up, help us see the world from a vantage point that keeps us from becoming self-centered—one of my many challenges, that self-centered portion. I guess the holding up too. I’ve had to use a cane or walking stick since I was a girl.”

  “How did that happen, Gramo?” The nine-year-old child with the distinctive square jaw put the question to her.

  “I’ll tell you about the occasion that brought that cane into my life and of the biggest challenges of my days . . . but not in this section. I know that walking stick is a part of my feet, it seems, evidence that I was not born with wings.” She winked at her granddaughter.

  “When will you get to the good parts, where you tell of the greatest challenge of your life, Gramo? That’s what I want to hear.”

  “I think this is a good start, don’t you?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Just you wait.”

  Tabitha dipped her goose quill pen into the ink, then pierced the air with her weapon while she considered what to write next.

  “Write the trouble stories down, Gramo. So I have them to read when I’m growed up.”

  “When you’re grown up.”

  “Yes, then. And I’ll write my stories for you.” A smile that lifted to her dark eyes followed. “I want to know when trouble found you and how you got out of it. That’ll help me when I get into trouble.”

  “Will it? You won’t get into scrapes, will you?” Tabby grinned. “We’ll both sit and write for a bit.” The child agreed and followed her grandmother’s directions for paper and quill.

  The writing down of things, the goings-on of affairs in this year of 1845, kept Tabby’s mind occupied while she waited for the second half of her life to begin. Tabby’s boys deplored studious exploits, which had always bothered her, so she wanted to nurture this grandchild—and all children’s interest in writing, reading, and arithmetic. So far, the remembering of days gone by had served another function: a way of organizing what her life was really about. She was of an age for such reflection, or so she’d been told.

  Whenever her son Orus Brown returned from Oregon to their conclave in Missouri, she expected real ruminations about them all going west—or not. Perhaps in her pondering she’d discover whether she should go or stay, and more, why she was here on this earth at all, traveling roads from Connecticut southwest to Missouri and maybe all the way to the Pacific. Wasn’t wondering what purpose one had walking those roads of living a worthy pursuit? And there it was again: walking those roads. For her it always was a question of feet or wings.

  Sarelia had gone home long ago, but Tabby had kept writing. Daylight soon washed out the lamplight in her St. Charles, Missouri, home, and she paused to stare across the landscape of scrub oak and butternut. Once they’d lived in the country, but now the former capital of Missouri spread out along the river, and Tabby’s home edged both city and country. A fox trip-tripped across the yard. Still, Tabby scratched away, stopping only when she needed to add water to the powder to make more ink. She’d have to replace the pen soon, too, but she had a good supply of those. Orus, her firstborn, saw to that, making her several dozen before he left for Oregon almost two years ago now. He was a good son. She prayed for his welfare and wondered anew at Lavina’s stamina managing all their children while they waited. Well, so was Manthano a good son, though he’d
let himself be whisked away by that woman he fell in love with and rarely came to visit. Still, he was a week’s ride away. Children. She shook her head in wistfulness. Pherne, on the other hand, lived just down a path. And it was Pherne, her one and only daughter, who also urged her to write her autobiography. “Your personal story, Mama. How you and Papa met, where you lived, even the wisdom you garnered.”

  Wisdom. She relied on memory to tell her story and memory proved a fickle thing. She supposed her daughter wanted her to write so she wouldn’t get into her daughter’s business. That happened with older folks sometimes when they lacked passions of their own. She wanted her daughter to know how much being with her and the children filled her days. Maybe not to let her know that despite her daughter’s stalwart efforts, she was lonely at times, muttering around in her cabin by herself, talking to Beatrice, her pet chicken, who followed her like a shadow. She was committed to not being a burden on her children. Oh, she helped a bit by teaching her grandchildren, but one couldn’t teach children all day long. Of course lessons commenced daily long, but the actual sitting on chairs, pens and ink in hand, minds and books open, that was education at its finest but couldn’t fill the day. The structure, the weaving of teacher and student so both discovered new things, that was the passion of her life, wasn’t it?

  Still, she was intrigued by the idea of recalling and writing down ordinary events that had helped define her. Could memory bring back the scent of Dear Clark’s hair tonic or the feel of the tweed vest he wore, or the sight of his blue eyes that sparkled when he teased and preached? She’d last seen those eyes in life twenty-eight years ago. She had thought she couldn’t go on a day without him, but she’d done it nearly thirty years. What had first attracted her to the man? And how did she end up from a life in Stonington, Connecticut, begun in 1780, to a widow in Maryland, looking after her children and her own mother, and then on to Missouri in 1824 and still there in winter 1845? Was this where she’d die?

  “‘A life that is worth writing at all, is worth writing minutely and truthfully.’ Longfellow.” She penned it in her memoir. This was a truth, but perhaps a little embellishment now and then wouldn’t hurt either. A story should be interesting after all.

  His beard reached lower than his throat. Orus, Tabby’s oldest son, came to her cabin first. At least she assumed he had, as none of his children nor Pherne’s had rushed through the trees to tell her that he’d already been to Lavina’s or Virgil and Pherne’s place. It was midmorning, and her bleeding hearts drooped in the August heat.

  “I’m alive, Mother.” He removed his hat, and for a moment Tabby saw her deceased husband’s face pressed onto this younger version, the same height, nearly six feet tall, and the same dark hair, tender eyes.

  “So you are, praise God.” She searched his brown eyes for the sparkle she remembered, reached to touch his cheek, saw above his scruffy beard a red-raised scar. “And the worse for wear, I’d say.”

  “I’ll tell of all that later. I’m glad to see you among the living as well.”

  “Come in. Don’t stand there shy.”

  He laughed and entered, bending through her door. “Shyness is not something usually attached to my name.”

  “And how did you find Oregon? Let me fix you tea. Have you had breakfast?”

  “No time. And remarkable. Lush and verdant. The kind of place to lure a man’s soul and keep him bound forever. No to breakfast. I’ve much to do.”

  “So we’ll be heading west then?”

  For an instant his bright eyes flickered and he looked beyond her before he said, “Yes. I expect so.” He kissed her on her hair doily then, patted her back, and said he’d help her harness the buggy so she could join him at Lavina’s. “I’m anxious to spend time with my wife and children. Gather with us today.”

  “I can do the harnessing myself. No tea?”

  “Had some already. Just wanted the invite to come from me.”

  “An invite?”

  He nodded, put his floppy hat back on. “At our place. I’ve stories to tell.”

  “I imagine you do. Off with you, then. I’ll tend Beatrice and harness my Joey.”

  “That chicken hasn’t found the stew pot yet?”

  “Hush! She’ll hear you.” She pushed at him. “Take Lavina in your arms and thank her for the amazing job she’s done while you gallivanted around new country. I’ll say a prayer of thanksgiving that you’re back safely.”

  “See you in a few hours then.”

  “Oh, I’ll arrive before that. What do you take me for, an old woman?” Beatrice clucked. “Keep your opinions to yourself.”

  Orus laughed, picked his mother up in a bear hug, and set her down. “It’s good to see you, Marm. I thought of you often.” He held her eyes, started to speak. Instead he sped out the door, mounting his horse in one fluid movement, reminding her of his small-boy behavior of rarely sitting still, always in motion. Wonder where his pack string is? She scooped up Beatrice, buried her nose in her neck feathers, inhaling the scent that always brought comfort.

  But what was that wariness she’d witnessed in her son’s eyes when she suggested that they’d all head west? She guessed she’d find out soon enough.

  2

  Pherne’s Watch

  Pherne Pringle watched her mother make her way through the bladdernut trees with old Joey. She wondered why she’d harnessed the big old mule instead of walking. Maybe her foot bothered her this morning. Still, she insisted on doing such things herself. Perhaps she had news of Orus? Pherne’s brother Orus still ran the Brown and Pringle clan, though he’d been gone for two years. She’d enjoyed seeing the changes in her husband, Virgil, these past two years without Orus’s domination. Virgil had discovered how to linger, giving her a kiss before heading to the barn to tend the stock. His friendly teasing of Sarelia, Emma, and Virgilia and his congratulations to their sons, openly praising them, was something Orus dismissed as coddling whenever he heard an expression of appreciation.

  Still, she missed her brother. It had been months since a stranger brought the last letter affirming that Orus was still alive last fall. If he came back and had inspiring words about the Oregon country, the question would then be, would they go west? Orus would, if he set his mind to it. Or he’d convince them all that what they had here was better. His wife, Lavina, would have no say. But she and Virgil, they had a choice, didn’t they?

  And what if Orus didn’t come back? Could Virgil take over the running of two farms forever? It had been a hard two years, but they told each other it was only temporary. But what if it wasn’t?

  She stopped herself from thinking of that awful possibility and concentrated on scrambling the eggs for the second breakfast, Virgil having eaten bacon, biscuits, and gravy before heading to their fields.

  Her brother had a way of stifling those who disagreed with him or who didn’t see the world as he did. Orus’s older boys tended their father’s fields and helped their stepmother with the eleven children Orus left behind when he headed west. At least Lavina had a rest from being pregnant and nursing another infant. Childbearing took its toll on women, something men failed to understand. Orus’s boys had turned to Virgil for advice on planting and harvest, and Pherne had watched with pride how her husband spoke to the boys as young men, capable, and not just barking orders as Orus did.

  “Aren’t you going?” Her mother hobbled into the house, having tied Joey to the post, and pulled herself up the steps with her walking stick.

  “Going where? I’m fixing Virgil’s second breakfast. Sarelia, push your grandmother’s rocker here so she can rest.”

  “I’m not resting. Orus is back.” Her mother’s voice was the strongest she’d heard in weeks. “Didn’t he stop by? He’s planning a gathering at Lavina’s. Well, I guess it’s his place too. I got in the habit of thinking of it as hers.”

  “Maybe he stopped at the fields and told Virgil. I guess we better mix up some fixings. Blackberry biscuits would be good, don’t you think?”
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  Her mother nodded. “But I’m heading on over. I don’t want to miss a thing. He says we’re heading west.”

  “Are we? Well, exciting things await then.” Pherne frowned. “Virgilia, run and tell your father to hurry along. We’ve a gathering to step up for, like it or not.”

  Her oldest daughter helped her grandmother back into the buggy and saw her off before before pushing through the rows of hemp as tall as trees where her father and brothers worked. They were one of the few farming families in St. Charles without slave help, and Pherne was proud that it was so, even though it meant more work for her family.

  Pherne turned back to her dough boy to begin blending flour and water for her biscuits, while Virgilia, now returned, finished up the breakfast. Her mother was so excited about undertaking another journey. Pherne wished she could share that enthusiasm. Already Orus’s presence disrupted her well-laid-out plans for the day, and here she was once again hopping to the fast music her brother played instead of waiting for the peaceful slow waltz of her husband’s.

  And what about her children’s wishes? Would they want to go? Sarelia was her vocal child who had actually inspired her mother’s autobiography by asking so many questions. Emma rocked in the chair by the fireplace. She was Pherne’s baby now, Oliver having lived only nine months. Pherne shivered, busied herself, rushing over the memory ghost. Emma had been quiet as a snowfall most days since Oliver’s death. Could a child so young still grieve the death of her baby brother? Pherne swallowed, fingered the gold locket at her throat, tucked beneath her blouse. She let the grief still so fresh take her away. Then she took a deep breath and returned to her dough.