“Do you have a headache?” Jessie said as they sat at the warming house putting on their skates.
“Only from the cold,” Suzanne told her after a moment of thought. “This is how Harold and I met,” she said. “I’d come here with our youth group, and I guess my lanky body must have stood out above the other younger heads. Anyway, he sought me out, introduced himself, and his smile nearly melted the ice beneath my skates.” She laughed, and the tiny mole on her cheek disappeared inside pleasant wrinkles. Jessie watched closely for signs of sadness as Suzanne told her tale, but there were none on this day. Her own spirits stayed kite high.
It took Jessie a bit of time to get her skating legs, her twists and turns making her think of the wild dances of the sporting hall. Suzanne looked like a flailing scarecrow, arms straight out, legs threatening to slide into splits. She found herself laughing, hard, and Suzanne did too. They both took spills, once while trying to help the other up. Their laughter kept them a puddle of wool coats and skirts and mufflers on the ice until a couple skated by and the man offered his hand to both of them. They stood, supporting each other, and shouted thanks as he and his partner glided off. The laughter filled Jessie, both Suzanne’s and her own. The cold wind froze her mouth so she mumbled her words, which caused even more laughter.
They skated for more than an hour, mostly going around and around the swept area near the warming house. Dark tree branches etched the sky lining the river. Speed skaters raced low past them and around the bend out of sight, leaving Jessie and Suzanne with the children and couples swirling.
“I’ve had enough,” Suzanne said then. Jessie nodded, and they skated without hanging on to each other toward the warming house. No one else was in the hut, but they could expect company soon enough. March promised spring, but the low sun in the opaque sky still spoke of winter, and the popularity of the warming house with its scents of wet wool and burning wood wouldn’t allow them to stay alone for long.
“It is a coupling world, isn’t it?” Suzanne said as they sat by the stove to remove their skates.
“You noticed that too,” Jessie said.
“When you’re widowed, that’s all you notice, how everything is in twos. You remember what you don’t have anymore, all the things you have to do alone.”
What Jessie missed had been part of an awkward trio. Shame kept her from mentioning it. She wondered if Harold had known Fred, or maybe Suzanne had met him at photographic association meetings. “How long were you and Harold married?” Jessie asked.
“Three years, two months, and five days. I was a few years older than he, but it didn’t seem to matter to him. It mattered to his mother, however.” Suzanne sighed. “Neither of our families was very happy about it I guess. And soon after we married, his mother passed away. I always wondered if Harold thought our decision to marry had hastened her death, but we never talked about it. Eventually we would have. We didn’t have much time together to talk about all those deeper things.”
“It’s good that you didn’t let your mother-in-law’s opinion keep you from those happy years,” Jessie said.
Suzanne nodded. “They were happy years, and my family came around before he died. I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day, about memories keeping a loved one alive. I’m planning on seeing Harold again one day, and when I do, I don’t want to have to explain why I spent so much time being sad when he came to mind. He’d be pleased I went skating. I’m going to do a few more things that I’ve been putting off too.”
“Good. Don’t be sad when you look at the bruises from all the falls we took either. ‘Bottoms up’ has new meaning for me!”
Suzanne laughed out loud at that. “At least my headache is gone. You’re good to have around, Jessie. I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Jessie said as she bent to hook her shoes.
“No, but I will be. I was going to wait to tell you, but now is as good a time as any.” She pulled her mittens back on, stood. “I’ve sold the studio, Jessie. I’m going to begin again with Harold’s memory with me, but making new memories too. The new people take over in June. It’s a couple, and they’ve decided they don’t need any hired help.” She hesitated, then added, “I won’t need you after the fifteenth.”
April 4, 1911
Dear Sister,
How are you? I am fine.
How did you spend your birthday? I thought of you and wondered. You never mentioned it in your last letter. Did I tell you that Mr. and Mrs. Bauer came in to Lottie’s and bought a round muff for Winnie? Her birthday is the same day as yours. The one they chose had a satin lining with curled hair for the stuffing. I told them they ought to purchase gloves as well and I quoted from a valentine I’d seen: “If that from Glove, you take the letter G, then Glove is love and that I send to thee.” Mr. Bauer said he’d remember that, and they bought a one-button glove that I guessed would fit Winnie to her wrist, which is what a one-button size is designed to do. You probably know that, but it’s what I’m learning at Lottie’s. Mr. Bauer then told me stories of gloves and how in ancient times a glove was like a name, a signature on apiece of paper, and that a king was given authority by the delivery of a glove. I can’t believe that last is true, but Mrs. Bauer said she was sure I wasn’t interested in his history facts, so I guess it must be so.
Spring has come to Winona at last, and I’m happy about that even if it does mean that preparing the garden ruins my fingernails. Oh, did I tell you that a professor at the normal school made a special photograph of scenery east of Sugar Loaf? His new lens was written about in the paper. Did you know about that new lens? You probably did.
What are you taking pictures of in Milwaukee? Does it have a Sugar Loaf you can drive to the top of to see the whole city?
Lilly’s sewing many dresses but not enough that she can leave her job at Stott’s. She was elected treasurer for their laboring group, so now she arranges for gifts when someone has a baby or when there’s an accident and a person can’t make gloves there anymore. She said she got more referrals for new gowns when you worked at Mr. Bauer’s and maybe she’ll take her Fine Stitching as YOU Like It cards back to the Bauer Art Studio, as they are probably all gone. Did you know that Mr. Bauer had a new sign put up that added the “Art”? Anyway, Lilly wrinkles her nose and says maybe she won’t, because making money from that studio after all that happened there isn’t “a Christian thing to do.”
Yesterday we went fishing along the Mississippi River. Papa put the worms on Mama’s line, and she got the first, the biggest, and the most.
We saw the Bauers there, all of them. Mrs. Bauer and Russell did most of the fishing while Mr. Bauer walked with his hands folded behind his back and watched Robert and Winnie wade, chasing polliwogs. I guess they have a cottage there because the children ran up to this house every now and then and brought out apples they shared with Roy. Winnie brought Mr. Bauer a straw boater from there when the sun started beating on his head.
The oddest thing happened there. I wish you’d seen it so you could explain it to me. You’re good at observing things. Papa failed to put his hand out when Mr. Bauer did, to shake it when they recognized each other along the shore. Maybe Mr. Bauer’s hand had fish goop on it, but that’s never stopped Papa from taking a man’s hand before. He didn’t even tip his hat. They had words, too, but I couldn’t hear them. As silly as it sounds, I wish they’d had fans to hold so I could have seen what they said, or exchanged a glove. What do you think that means? I didn’t want to ask Papa why he was rude because his jaw gripped tight when he turned his back and walked away. Mr. Bauer’s hand looked like a stick adrift as he dropped it to his side.
That’s all I have to say for now. I still wonder how you are. I’m fine.
Your little sister,
Selma
The girls of Marquette
May 30, 1911, Marquette University, Milwaukee
3A Graflex Homesickness
Homesickness
What wer
e these young ladies of Marquette University pointing at? It wasn’t me, though I fell into that photograph too. There I was, big as life with my manlike hat atop a shadow pointing toward them. Detail and balance required that I block out that shadow and a section at the top when I enlarged it from postcard size.
Joshua arranged for the picture. Yes, he found his way back to me, so I was able to at least thank him for what he’d started, my studio in the Harms home. He saw me one day on the way to the postal building as I carried a box of packed items. I told him I’d be leaving soon, and he said he was sorry to see me go. I didn’t say that my leaving wouldn’t be much different for him than my being in Milwaukee, as I hadn’t encountered him here all that much. That would have been rude. And who knows, maybe if I’d stayed I might have found reasons to cross his path. I could have done worse in my life. In truth, what separated us was my annoyance at going along with something I knew was wrong and my assumption that he didn’t regret not having taken me home that evening as a gentlemen should have. Or maybe it was that we came from different worlds, though our dreams were tinted with the same shade of hope.
So when I trudged up the marble steps of the postal building with my box, addressed to my father, I accepted his offer of help. I planned to send the heavier items I’d accumulated by rail. One trunk would go to Winona, storing winter things I wouldn’t need, and the other I’d ship to Eau Claire, Wisconsin, where I’d secured employment. I’d only be visiting Winona.
Joshua and I went for sandwiches afterward, and he told me how his classes had gone and that he planned to work for the bank through the summer months. I told him about my making portraits of domestics and their matrons and shared with him how much I loved to see the faces of the girls when they picked up their prints. I didn’t retouch much on those prints, but the matrons, they needed more work to wipe away a wrinkle here, a thickening chin there.
“I’m going home for a visit,” I told him, “before heading on to a studio in Eau Claire. I’ve been separated from my family for too long.”
He talked about homesickness then, a term I’d never heard before, about how people can actually get ill from separation, have stomach pains, headaches, or worse.
I had not been ill, unless such a homesickness was the cause for my waking in the night, sleep vanished in an instant, when I punched my pillow, knowing I must go back to sleep or not be alert for tasks daylight demanded. I’d lie for hours aware of an emptiness of spirit. I wished for someone with whom I could share my longings and regrets. Sometimes I ruminated in the darkness, adding up the funds I’d saved, thinking about Fred’s kindnesses while sorting those acts from knots he put into the thread of our connection, knots that kept me from truly untying our bond. Loneliness marked my time in Milwaukee, but maybe homesickness described it better, could fill the hole devoid of family, house, and community. I wondered if having a new name for the feelings would lessen their impact. No one had claimed my heart here in Milwaukee except the Harms family. Would I be homesick for them? Probably not. I wondered if that made me hardhearted or just pragmatic.
Joshua and I said good-bye. Then, a few days later, he called and asked if I’d like to come to Marquette, where the girls were planning a picnic before leaving for the summer. They wanted a photograph made. I said I’d be pleased, and when he offered to pick me up, I said it wasn’t necessary. I would only bring the camera, since I’d cultivated a steady hand and wouldn’t need the tripod. But he insisted, saying that finding the place on campus might be difficult and it was no bother at all for him to come by.
From my first encounter with the Marquette women I could see that they’d one day be professionals with their college degrees: teachers, I guessed. But when they talked about their coursework, I heard words like telescope and laboratory and physics, the latter a word totally unfamiliar to me. Women were moving into many fields, which I should have realized, my being an uncommon woman with a camera in her hands.
A couple of the girls were older than I imagined a student might be, and I wondered about their stories, making them up as I watched. Maybe one was widowed like Suzanne and had the means to pursue an occupation rather than sell her business and move in with her sister in Chicago. One girl with perfect olive skin made me wonder if she might be an Indian, for her speech had a rhythm different from the rest. Later, when she described where she’d spend the summer, she mentioned Winnipeg, so I knew she was Canadian, but maybe from a First Nation too.
I felt shy around them all with only my grammar school graduation certificate. But they expressed interest in a woman making her livelihood as a photographer. I told them there were a few of us, though most were in large cities and did studio work, while I liked taking outdoor shots or making photographs of people who might not think of having their pictures made.
They began topose themselves—the tallest stood at the ends and the shorter ones in front. I often allow families to arrange themselves because it speaks to their relationships with each other. Who directs the setting? Who moves back? Who sits, who stands, what might it mean where they place their hands (in pockets, close enough to touch a shoulder)? I look to see who crowds, who doesn’t, and who might be annoyed with whom, or who is considered the outsider of the group, posed at a spacing wide enough to ride a bicycle through. Most of the time I never get to know if I’m right with my musings, though looking at photographs of people I’ve come to know and spend time with often bears out my guesses.
Once, I looked at a photograph taken of my brother and sisters and me and realized my place within that pose: behind the other three, in a row alone, touching no one while they leaned into each other, Roy in the center. I was separated from them; the photograph didn’t lie.
But with the Marquette girls, I liked their arrangement. Rather than a graduation shot where each looks no more distinct than a single kernel on a cob, I suggested that those in the front row squat down. That caused giggling, as they weren’t all accustomed to such positioning on grass and said things like, “Don’t take too long or I won’t be able to get back up.” They’d been chattering about their travel plans, reminding each to write through the summer, and spoke of coming back again next fall. So I suggested that they point to that place where they’d all meet come September. They laughed but liked the idea apparently, as they all pointed.
All but one, I noticed when I developed the film. She didn’t smile either, looked sad almost. She also wore the only visible skirt that wasn’t a dark color. Another checkered skirt was well hidden by the front row, but this woman stood out for her fashion and for the fact that no one knelt in front of her. Maybe she felt self-conscious. I didn’t think she looked old enough to be the instructor, setting herself apart by not pointing, but the difference in her expression made her distinctive too. Still, the causes of an expression aren’t revealed in a photograph, only the result.
“Right here,” they told each other, aiming at the trampled grass. “We’ll remember to return right here next fall.” I clicked the shutter and held their promises on film.
I collected addresses. Joshua gathered payments, which he put into an envelope for me. He assured me there was more than enough to cover postage, even to faraway places, when I was ready to mail them. I gave them each my card, on which I’d written down my parents’ address in Winona, and told them that if they didn’t have a print from me within the month to write and tell me.
They dispersed for their picnic then, and I watched Joshua walk closely beside the girl wearing the white blouse who had posed in the middle of the photograph. She leaned her head toward his as they spoke, and she laughed. A slight touch of their hands told me that this one was special, this girl from Marquette. I was certain he hadn’t met her at a sporting dance.
But the unsmiling girl in the checkered skirt with the gold chain around her neck stayed behind. I thought maybe she wanted to watch me push back the camera bellows and drop it into its case. “I won’t be coming back next year,” she told me softly as she slipped
a coin into the envelope I held. “So I’ll really appreciate having this photograph to remember my time here, as hard as the lessons were to learn. Marquette’s a good school.”
I thanked her as Joshua approached alone, and she sauntered off toward the others already clustered around baskets of food. A part of me wondered if maybe homesickness—that new word I’d learned—might have afflicted her too. Or maybe she recognized that she’d taken a wrong path that now left her both lonely and wise.
It was what I thought about as Joshua sat beside me silent in the cab, a friend riding with me, making sure that this time I arrived safely home.
Lament
F.J.BAUER, FRED TO HIS FRIENDS, Mr. Bauer to his wife, waited at the Second Congregational Church to pick up his only daughter, Winnie, who was growing up. He could tell by the length of Winnie’s dress, which showed flesh above the white stockings when she stepped outside and squinted into the sunlight. When had that happened? The last year had been a blur. Perhaps it was better to mark the passing of time by noticing changes in his children rather than in the thinning of his own hair. He watched Winnie skip down the stone steps, swinging her tin lunch pail while chatting with one of her friends. He didn’t know the child’s name, but she was the daughter of one of his lodge members. He should know the names of the children who influenced his. He’d have to find out.
Winnie stopped to talk to another child and turned her back to him. “Winifred.” He raised his voice. “We need to go.”