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A Mending at the Edge
(2008)
 “In A Mending at the Edge, Jane Kirkpatrick completes the literary quilt of the Emma Wagner Giesy trilogy, piecing together the historical fabric of Emma’s personal story with that of the Aurora Colony. Emma’s efforts to find a house–and a home–in this communal society in Oregon once again reflect the conflict of individual and community needs represented in Kirkpatrick’s earlier two works in the Change and Cherish Historical Series. Based on a solid historical framework of the Aurora Colony and the broader social, political, and cultural landscape of the 1860s, Kirkpatrick offers a story of hope and achievement that captures the spirit of giving, sharing, and receiving central to ‘mending’ within a communal settlement.”
— James J. Kopp, communal historian
and Board Member of
Aurora Colony Historical Society
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“Women are brooms of the world. They clean houses and they clean souls. Often they get put back in the corner until the next mess needs to be cleaned up.” — Artist Alison Saar
Expanded Visions Four women Artists Paint the American West,
Women of the West Museum, 2000.
“Each community has a different rhythm...we have our own individual rhythms within the community...some devote their lives to the daily maintenance of the community while others breathe life into it through their art, music, and poetry. We may find ourselves in a radically altered relationship to the community as we move to its edges or outside it entirely for brief or lengthy periods of time....Rhythms of community can be both life-giving and stifling, liberating and oppressive...we listen to and follow the Spirit's own rhythms as it moves with us...we listen to the stories of other women in other communities...we better understand what it means to be a creative, spirited community of healing, of hope, of resistance, and of transformation."
— Jan Richards , Sacred Journeys. Used with permission.
“Then they that feared the Lord spoke often one to another: and the Lord hearkened, and heard it: and a book of remembrance was written before him for them that feared the Lord, and that thought upon his name.”
— Malachi 3:16 (1858 Holy Bible)
Chapter One
The Hope Inside
Of all the things I left in Willapa, hope was what I missed the most. Memory is a flighty friend, wisping in to warm or warn when one can least expect it. I wanted to remember my husband – my first husband – and the hopefulness that we’d brought with us across the plains of Missouri to the wet Washington Territory. Remembering him recalled that good part of me, before change had rubbed me raw. But much had happened to take hope from life and I questioned whether expectation was a virtue one could nurture or if once lost, would never sprout again. My friend, Karl Ruge , a lover of words as I am, says despair in English, means to fall back from hope. I could drown in despair.
Rain pounded like Indian drums on the cedar shakes above us. Through the wavy glass windows I watched raindrops splash out over the full coopered barrels stationed at the gross Haus corners, a collection place for wash water. We needed to do the wash what with all the people and mud. It was how one belonged to this colony, sharing in work and in the waiting together through storms. Through the windows, I could see that an east wind whipped the young walnut trees in the yard beyond and the bare branches looked like skeletons instead of as intended, hopeful sentinels standing guard over this small colony in the infant state of Oregon.
A deep roll of thunder rattled the windows in the entry way where I cluck-henned my boys and Kate around me, holding Ida in my arms. We huddled in a corner of the gross Haus, the three story building being built by Brother Keil (I refused to call him Father Keil as do most others in our communal society). We shared the house with two dozen others, all long time members. The smell of wet wool filled my head as cloaks and coats draped every railing or chair or blue bench, drying out. Colonists from the low-lying areas drove wagons here when the rivers began to rise early in December. The gross Haus rose up on the highest knoll of the village, like a castle of old, visible from a great distance. Of course. It was Keil’s house.
The aroma of sausage and beans bubbling in the large pots in the kitchen reached my soggy senses. Someone lovingly prepared a meal where more than hunger served as sauce. But just as quickly the scents made me think of my family still in Missouri, family where the threads of connection had been strained since I’d come west. I’d received no letters from my parents since my decision to leave Willapa and come here with my four children. Well, I arrived first with my friend Karl Ruge and my daughters; my sons were brought to me later by their uncle Martin Giesy, a tactic of safety we’d all felt necessary. But my sister, Kitty, had written to say they were coming to Oregon so things would change. Dared I hope they would change for the better?
My cheeks felt cold and Kate ’s six- year-old upturned nose looked red as a summer rose. The children would probably collect sniffles with people huddled so closely together. Andy especially fought off illnesses. Failing health affected our days – our entire lives, in fact. We’d lived the past years not far from the Pacific Ocean where we’d seen days of downpours and some said in a year, that our part of the wild endured ninety inches or more. Coughs arrived with the weather. I’d thought it would be better here but the past days of January, 1862 had yet to reveal that a sun did shine somewhere over Oregon and I questioned whether one hundred inches of rain had already drenched the trees and prairies of Aurora. Not very hopeful, that thought.
I’d re-entered this community for the loving embrace it promised, the kind my first husband once demonstrated, the kind built on grace and faith and not domination or control. Embraces can constrict. My husband’s family had taught me that.
A few log houses, a stage stop barn, a grist and lumber mill and some board homes composed Aurora , the village the colonists had been building since 1856. The structures clustered in a swale, like eggs in a chicken’s nest. Deer Creek and Pudding River helped define its tree-lined borders. A quarter mile from the houses ran a deep ravine and near the top of that hill, Brother Keil had built his house with a view looking out over his domain. Other colonists had been assigned land further away on farms. A few had settled nearer the Willamette River some eight miles west. Most of us this winter were staying in the yet unfinished Keil house, high above the creeks and flooding waters.
Another crack of thunder. Kate shivered against me. “We don’t hear thunder so much here,” Helena said. She’s the older sister of my deceased husband, Christian . Tall and formidable, her observations usually come out as dogma. But she fidgeted with the braids formed like a crown on the top of her head and she startled at the rumble, too. It was the first time I’d seen Helena look even the least bit flummoxed.
“I like the sound of it,” Louisa told her cheerfully. “It reminds me of Missouri.” Louisa is Brother Keil ’s wife and the mother of their eight living children. “I haven’t seen any lightning so that’s a good thing, ja?”
“Ach, you find cream in even stale milk,” Helena told her brushing her hand to the air as though she brushed away flies. Still, they spoke as old friends, family perhaps; as women accustomed to sharing differences that really didn’t matter.
I hadn’t found anything wrong with Louisa ’s tying thunder to a good memory from Missouri. Only if one stayed wrapped inside the comfort of old thoughts, refused to unbind oneself to move forward, that problems arose.
Rain pounded like hail pelting nearly horizontal. I patted Kate ’s arm with reassurance.
“Ach Yammer” came from a bachelor’s mouths, as close to cursing as he’d get in this mixed company that included women and children. “I hope it doesn’t break those windows!” Another said. Glass was precious here and perhaps not all that practical. Bother Keil promised eventually all would have glass windows though first, we needed houses. A minor detail to him; a throbbing desire to me.
Ida began to cry and I unfolded myself from the cluster of my children. “I must feed your sister,” I told them and moved out of the corner, across the pine flooring dotted with colorful rugs and headed down the stairs to the kitchen where I could nurse her in the presence of women only. The children began to follow, the boys included. I turned to them, Ida on my hip but clawing at my bodice. “Don’t come down those stairs, now. Wait here. I’ll be fine and so will you.”
Kate and Christian stopped, nodded their heads in agreement. Andy , the oldest, stared, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t turn around as the other two had. “Don’t come down these steps,” I repeated.
I wished I felt more hopeful about my relationship with him.
Ida squirmed and fussed as I took the narrow steps then crossed under them into the kitchen area. I looked up to see if the children had moved back away and they had. They were like hinges in the midst of all the changes swinging toward security by clinging to me; then pushing away for independence.
Despite the row of windows bordering the ceiling that looked out onto the sodden ground, the room felt gloomy. Rain painted everything dark. Even my quilted petticoat couldn’t ignore the chill. Thank goodness a fire glowed in the fireplace. It spit and snapped with raindrops racing down the chimney. I could smell fresh bread nestled against the brick fire wall, baking in the bank of warm ash. Women bustled about so I pulled a chair into the wide hallway and sat in front of the blue cabinet built from floor to ceiling, with glass doors, of course. I folded the baby’s Nine Patch quilt back from around Ida ’s face, helped her find my breast and nodded to the other women working at preparing pork and beans. Along with bread and peas, potatoes and what fruits we’d dried, ham and beans were our staple food this winter. The chickens hadn’t produced since November.
I silenced the chatter in my head to focus on Ida and give her all she needed to be calm and eat. My youngest daughter would be seven months old before long and had spent most of her early life in turmoil. We’d made our escape from her father. She’d adjusted to living huddled with so many others while her mother worked cooking and washing and mending.
I also worked at holding my tongue.
I’d come to Aurora in good part because those few I trusted thought it best and worn down and hopeless, I’d leaned on them. It had been a good decision. Still, I lacked confidence in the choices I’d made since Christian ’s death. Grief, I’ve learned, has many siblings – guilt, anger, fear, unworthiness, separation from those who love us, resistance to change. They clamor for attention in times of trial and sometimes I heard those brothers and sisters of grief speak louder than the call of comfort that can come from family and friends.
Ida suckled eagerly. Of my four children, only Ida could I nurse; wet nurses and the goat had rescued my others. I should have found it hopeful that I could feed this child, that I fed her in a dry, safe place. But too much had happened. Time, like a good chalk, had yet to erase the stains I carried on my heart.
”Ach, someone comes in through the root door,” one of the kitchen women said. She had disgust in her voice, as though the intruder should know better than to drag his muddy boots through the food larder instead of stomping and removing his brogans at the covered porch outside, above us. I felt the gush of wind carry the scent of roots as they hung to dry behind the hallway door in the rafters. Wood slammed against the door jam. “I will tell him to go around,” she said as she moved past me.
For a moment I had this twinge of premonition. Could it be Jack Giesy , my second husband, come back? He had a claim on me though not my heart. Brother Keil had sent Jack packing last fall but Keil could change his mind. At the sound in the root room, I wondered if perhaps he had.
Ida fidgeted, her blue eyes opened and she stared at me as she let her hands flop away from my breast. My only child of four with blue eyes. If I ignored her and she could make me pay with her new teeth coming in. I smiled at her, brushed her walnut-colored hair, the same color as mine but with dozens of tight curls instead of my strands pulling loose from my bun. I shushed her as my fingers lifted those ringlets. “It’s all right,” I said. “You go ahead and suckle now. Mama is with you.” I plotted my escape route up the stairs if Jack came through the door.
“What are you doing in here?” I heard the kitchen woman say and I swallowed hard, started to stand. “Soaked like a swimming kitten you are. Ach.”
I craned my neck to see who followed her in.
“ Andy ,” I said when I saw my nine year old son. Irritation followed relief. “Didn’t I ask you to stay upstairs? And why on earth would you go outside and get all wet rather than use the stairs anyway?” Water dripped off his chin, puddled at his boots.
“You told me not to come down the steps,” he said. “I wanted to do what you said.” A rain drop like a tiny pearl hung from his long eye lashes. His dark eyes twinkled with a hint of guile. My head began to pound.
Ida sat up then. Her eyes moved to the popped corn ball Andy held in his hand. She reached for it. “And where did you get that?” I asked.
“At Christmas, remember? Herr Keil gave them to all the children. I saved mine.”
I wondered if some of the corn balls might have been kept back in the root room and he’d lifted one as he walked through. It didn’t look soaked. I didn’t like him lying to me or being disobedient. I must not think these bad thoughts about every little thing that happens. He might have had it in his coat.
“Someone will need to clean up the mud mess in the hallway,” the kitchen woman said. Under her breath she added as she passed by me, “Some people need to keep better control over their children.”
“I’ll tend to it,” I told her. To Andy I said, “Go get a broom and sweep up this mud. Now.”
“That’s women’s work,” Andy said.
“So is disciplining a wayward boy.” He dropped his eyes. I softened. He’d been through so much. “You see we’re fine here, nothing to worry about. Get the broom and then maybe you can go into Brother’s Keil’s workroom to see what medicine’s he’s mixing.” I nodded toward the opposing door. “Go on.” Then to Ida I said, “Finish up here.” I pushed Ida ’s face back to my breast. “Mama has things to do.”
My son moved off and I heard Brother Keil welcome him in. Relief flooded me. Only later did I remember that Andy ’d failed to sweep up the dirt.
I patted Ida as she ate. How could I not feel hopeful with a baby growing fat at my breast? Oh, I once had wishful thoughts and a profound belief that I could do all things necessary for my children, alone. But belief in one’s own strength is not enough. Firm wishes held out like hope are not enough. I had high hopes for my second marriage, too, but I’d come to that union like the mule who wore blinders when I plowed, as unable as he to see what frightening things could catch me unawares.
Jack Giesy had his problems. Never a steady man, I’d failed to see that until he threatened my children’s fate and ja, my own, leaving me bruised and broken in more than my bones. Toward the end, I’d had to keep him separated from Andy most of all, the son who thought he might rescue his family by doing harm to Big Jack.
Now here I settled in Oregon, in a fragile embrace of those very German-American colonists who had once rejected what we scouts from Bethel, Missouri had been sent out to do. I’d once rejected them, too. Finding the balance between strict moulds and a singular support, that was what I longed to find and I would. I’d remember myself back into a hopeful state where I saw the possibilities instead of the disappointments. My parents and brothers and sisters would arrive from Missouri and we’d have a grand reunion. I’d have a house of my own. I’d raise my children keeping them close. My husband would stay away. I’d contribute to the colony and be known for more than being contrary. These were my wishes.
My broken fingers ached still from Jack ’s wrenching them the year before. Ida curled her small fist inside mine.
Another whoosh of the root cellar door. “Ách,” I shouted to the kitchen women, “It’s probably my other Kinder following their brother. I’ll see to them.”
I placed the quilt over my shoulder and open bodice and hiked Ida on my hip. I scrunched the mud on the floor and approached the root room door, rehearsing what I’d say to these urchins and what to do to hold Andy accountable for being a poor model for them.
Root smells and damp earth greeted me. My eyes glanced down to the height of the eyes of my children, at least where I expected them to be. I saw not foreheads but knees.
When I looked up I stood face to face with Jack Giesy , the husband I’d hoped would let us be.
“Aren’t you pleased to see me?”
I backed up. My hands grew wet. My heart pounded. Ida fussed. I saw movement behind Jack . Someone had slipped through the door, slammed it shut with a thud. How could Andy have slipped out behind him? He’d give fuel to Jack ’s fire.
Jack reached for Ida then, his daughter; but I twisted, holding her head pressed into my chest. “Don’t touch me,” I said. Jack stepped back, I thought from the force of my words.
Instead, someone small waddled from side to side to stand between us. The size of a child, she wore the face of a worried woman.
She pulled on my skirt. “I know you can help me,” the high, breathy voice said. She grabbed my hand, thumped a startled Jack on his thighs. He struggled to catch his balance as she waddled out toward the rain, pulling at my skirts. I covered Ida ’s head and scurried along.
I had no idea who this woman was or her need. But in the midst of my dread at seeing Big Jack, she’d sliced through my despair, having somehow seen hope inside me.
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