INTRODUCTION
The following story is a true story. When I was a girl, my grandmother would tell us stories from her childhood and I remember hearing this one in her own words. Time dimmed the memory of all the details in the story, so imagine my delight as I was going through some old papers to come across the story in her own words. The story took place about the year 1922. Thank you Grandma for taking the time to write it down so it can be shared with your family for years and years go come!
GROWING PAINS – authored by Beth Jessop
“I can’t open the door! Honest, Mommy! It just wouldn’t be right!”
And why not, pray tell?” Mother’s voice sounded puzzled and a little vexed.
I’ve got leprosy! Olive’s tones were low, as befitted the acknowledgement of such a terrible thing.
“You’ve got what?” Mother’s voice exploded, and I took refuge behind Olive’s skirts as she explained through the closed door.
“Leprosy! If I come out I’ll expose the whole family!” Her voice faltered over the last few words as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. Her eyes were already red from the crying she had done when she had explained the situation to me and begged me to keep her company in her isolation.
It had been shortly after breakfast when this beloved sister of mine had called me into her our bedroom. She knew the hated task of dishes awaited us, but this was bigger, more important.
“I read it in the Doctor Book last night.” She told me. “Otho and I were looking at it and reading where it tells how you can tell if you’ve got something. Most everything seems to start with a fever, but we didn’t have a fever. Otho found out that he is pre-gant. He says he gets sick to his stomach every morning when he looks at the empty wood-box and the book says that morning sickness is the first symptom of pre-gancy.”
I had heard many stories from the big doctor book. Though the printed words meant nothing to me, the detailed drawings were delightfully horrifying and Olive had done her best to explain them to me. She and our brother Otho had spent many hours poring over them and reading the cause and effect of nearly all the ills that befall mankind. Otho, being only eight years old, needed coaching on the big words, but Olive was doing well enough in her reading to understand, or put her own interpretation on, most of them. At one time or another they had, to my knowledge, developed most of the symptoms described in the book. Measles, mumps, scarlet fever, even hydrophobia, had been met and easily conquered. But now, disaster had struck!
“Just think, Beth! Leprosy! It’s the most awfullest disease there is! And I’ve got it! I bet it’s awful catching too. Doesn’t it say in the bible that people with leprosy were cast out of the cities? You bet it does. They just had to live in the cemeteries with the dead folks, or wherever they could keep away from other people. Why, it’s so catching you’d get it even if you only walked in somebody’s tracks who’s got it. That’s how catching it is! And, when you get it you have to go away all alone and can’t see anyone, not ever. And now I’ve got it, and I can’t go around Papa or Mama or baby sister or anyone!”
Big tears squeezed out from her eyes and rolled unchecked down her rosy cheeks. I hugged her tight in silent sympathy and wonder. This big sister was very dear to me. Her gold dancing curls and expressive blue eyes were my ideal of girlish beauty and often I looked at my straw-colored braids with a sigh, wondering what storybook miracle could change them for me. I could be as big a pest and as mischievous as most six-year-olds, but Olive always had time for me and was always willing for my company, and was patient and kind when I had done wrong. She entertained me endlessly with wonderful stories and got me out of many a jam by taking the blame herself, or actually evading the issue. She also got me into about as many through my gullibility and her active imagination.
Now, I really sympathized with her sorrow and saw no reason why I should not share her isolation. Indeed, she had just extracted a promise from me that I would stay with her until she died when mother rapped on the door and said, “Girls, come do your work. I want you to hurry this morning.”
I know she was completely taken by surprise when Olive’s response was a refusal to leave the room – more than that, when she turned the key in the lock. Disobedience was never tolerated. This was open rebellion and met with the demand, “Open this door! Instantly!”
So, now the explanation started all over again, as between sobs and signs, Olive told Mother of her terrible predicament. For a moment, there was silence on the other side of the door, then Mama asked, “And what makes you think you have this terrible disease?”
“Well, I was reading in the doctor book…” (I thought I heard Mama mutter something about “that book!)… “and it says in there that some of the signs of leprosy are queer pink spots that don’t go away. I looked and sure enough, I have some on my leg – right there where I bumped me the other day, there’s a funny pink spot, with yellow and green around the outside part. So, you see, I really do have leprosy and it’s just because I love you so much that I don’t open the door. I wouldn’t want you to catch it.”
“But you have your little sister in there with you,” Mama pointed out. “Don’t you care if she catches it?”
“But I couldn’t stand to be all alone!” There was a fresh burst of tears.
There was a long pause and then Mother’s voice came quietly, “Very well. You may stay there. I was just calling you because I thought you might like to go with us.”
This startling news was followed immediately by the sound of her retreating footsteps. But, before Mama reached the top of the stairs, the door was unlocked and opened, and both of us were close behind her explaining, “Where? Where? Of course we want to go!”
“Oh, we were going out to the lake for a swim and a picnic, but of course there might be other people there, and if you have leprosy…”
Olive’s voice was a picture of pleading and exasperation.
“Oh, Mama, it’s …. that is, it might be… well, Mother will you look? It might be only a bruise.”
Mother gave the unfortunate area a hasty inspection, pronounced it a bad bruise, and added, “I think you had better let Mama do the diagnosing of some of your ills my little girl. It would save you lots of tears. Now, hurry and get those dishes done and you can help me fix the lunch.”
Olive gave me a look of helpless resignation. After all her carefully laid plans, the dishes still waited. But then, with a picnic coming up…
Our family outings were not too rare but were always great fun and were looked forward to with keen anticipation. Perhaps one of the greatest joys attached to them was their suddenness. They were always spontaneous, on-the-spur-of-the-moment plans, which added to their zest and enjoyability, or so it seemed to us youngsters. It may have been that our parents had planned the day well ahead and, to prevent disappointment to us if something occurred that might upset their plans, didn’t tell us until the time for preparation and the outing was a certainty. Or perhaps Father had an unexpected day of freedom from his labors and just decided to use it that way. Anyway, they always came as a surprise to us, welcome and wonderful. Sometimes we would ride horseback and explore the mountainside with Father. He pointed out the different plants and told us about their uses and sometimes interesting stories about how they got their names; we followed the animal trails or flushed some birds while he told us about their living habits and their use to man. Sometimes we hunted for outcroppings of ore and learned the metal-bearing quartz. Fishing and hunting were enjoyed by all and I could bait my own hook and catch fish to compete with the boys, and, though my targets were tin cans, Father had helped me site and fire a Remington 22 and I knew how to tell if it was loaded or not and what the safety was for.
Swimming was a favorite sport. Father was a good swimmer and wanted his children to like the water as he did. Pigeon Lake was a two-mile expanse of sparkling blue water, high in the hills some seven miles from our home. Framed by the green of the pine forest, its pebbly shoreline and invigorating fresh water was inviting to wild animals and humans alike. Rainbow trout abounded there and the soft waves lapped at the short in rhythmic invitations.
On this particular day, swimming was the thing we all wanted most. The sun was bright in a cloudless sky, and the day was hot long before noon. There was no wind to aggravate the waves and it was always fun to drop our work and go…. anywhere.
Father stopped the wagon in a shady spot not far from the water’s edge, unharnessed and hobbled the team, and prepared to spend an afternoon of pleasure. There was a noisy scramble to see who could be first into the water. Olive and I waded in slowly, shivering with the first cool wetness. With an Indian-war-hoop, Otho came tearing past, splashing us thoroughly, followed closely in by Harold, who doused us again; the two boys swam with long, easy strokes out into the deep water. Harold was fifteen and many trips here with Papa had given him a lot of self-assurance. Otho was able to hold his own in a race against him. I could swim well enough to be trusted, but I preferred to stay where my toes could touch the sandy bottom with a delicious feeling of security. Although Olive was free to go where she pleased, she seldom left me, and together we alternated running into the rippling waves, swimming a little and sitting on the warm sand in the sun. Sometimes, we took the baby and played with her while Mama swam.
We were wandering up the beach making funny tracks in the sand when Harold called to us. “Look girls. There’s a short piece of a log at the water’s edge see down there aways. It would make a good boat. You could float way out on it. Why don’t you go get it?”
Olive and I headed for the log. It was farther away than it looked and it took a great deal of tugging and pushing to set it afloat, but once we were astride it, we found it worth all the work. By paddling with our hands we could steer it slowly back to the general vicinity of our camp.
Harold met us, complimented us for our good deed, and then rolled the log, dumping us both into the deep water. After some panic and splashing, we got a hold of the log, pushed the wet hair from our eyes and began yelling our protest. Harold began pushing our boat purposely toward shore. As soon as we could touch bottom he pushed us away and climbed on the log, rolling with his feet and laughed at our protests.
“Thanks for getting it for me. Go play now.”
“It’s ours! We got it and we want it” we both shouted.
“You got it and you had it. Now I’ve got it. Aw, come on…” he mellowed a little as we raised our voices in a howl. “You had it a long time. Let me take it awhile now.”
“No! We want it. I’ll call Papa if you don’t give it back,” Olive threatened.
Harold looked around to see how close Papa might be, and though he was swimming well out of the sound of our voices, Hal spoke lower.
“If you give it to me now, I’ll let you be my sweetheart when we get big.”
“Go on!” Olive said indignantly. “You’ve been telling me that every time you wanted your shoes shined or an errand run for a long time, and last night you went away with that new girl that vacations here over to Bodilies. I don’t believe you anymore so you can’t have our log.”
But Hal wasn’t defeated. He had many ways to make little kids look up to him with awe, or fear. He could always think of something.
“Mother was right,” he said after a thoughtful moment. “We never should have kept you.”
Olive grabbed the bait. “What do you mean?”
“Well, maybe I shouldn’t tell you. I’m not supposed to. But, since you’re so selfish and ungrateful for all we’ve done for you. I think you should know.”
Olive’s eyes widened fearfully. “Know what?”
“Well, you… no, I guess I’d better not. Mother wouldn’t like it if I told you, although I think you’d be a better girl if you knew.”
Olive folded her arms purposefully. She looked like Mother does when she’s determined to settle a thing here and now!
“You’ve got to tell me now. What is it you know that I should know?”
“Well,” Harold slowly drew the log away as he talked. “If I tell you, will you promise not to tell Mama or Papa that I told you?”
“I promise.”
“Do you Beth?”
“I won’t tell,” I agreed, curious too.
“Well, all right then. One day a bunch of us boys were playing ball in the old pasture. You know, the one where the creek runs through. I was on third base when I heard a queer noise. It sounded a little like a cat mewing, and a little bit like a baby crying. At first, I didn’t pay attention, but I heard it again and again, and finally I quit the game to go see what was making that noise and where it came from. The boys all yelled at me for leaving, but I had to find out what that was. I hunted all over and finally found that the noise was coming from an old trash pile there down by the creek bank. You know where it is. And there, in an old tomato can, I found a tiny baby. That’s what was crying. I ran home to Mama with it and begged her to take care of it. It was all dirty and crying so hard it made my heart ache. It must have been hungry to cry like that, and no telling how long it had been in that old tomato can. But Mama said we couldn’t keep it. It would just be one more mouth to feed. And besides, if someone had thrown it away, there must be something wrong with it. Why should she take a chance? But I begged and begged and promised to help take care of it, and then the baby cried so hard, Mama decided to keep it and try it out.”
“That tiny, dirty, trash-baby was you. I’ve worked for you and helped you and Mama has been so good to you. She’s treated you just like she did her own kids, and now you’re so ungrateful you won’t even let me take this old log.”
“Take it,” Olive said, low and lifeless. Her voice sounded so queer I turned and looked at her. Her face was pale and her eyes looked all starey, like fish-eyes. She just stood there in the water, staring out over the lake, and didn’t seem to notice Harold as he took our log away, swimming beside it and pushing it along until he was in deep water. Then, with much splashing and many tumbles, he climbed up on it, stood up and began to roll it as fast as he could with his feet, trying to walk fast enough round that log to keep on the top side. His arms waved wildly and he slipped a couple of times, and then he lost his footing and fell into the water with a loud splash.
I laughed and yelled. “Served you right!” but Olive didn’t laugh. Her face never changed at all and, though her eyes were looking that way, I knew she hadn’t even seen what had happened.
I took her hand and said, “Let’s get out. I’m, hungry.” She walked with me, still with that unseeing look. “I love you anyway,” I told her, squeezing her hand. “Don’t you care. I think you’re the best sister in the world.”
She squeezed back, but not very hard, and when we got over to where Mama was splashing with our baby sister Modine, I stopped to play with her and Olive went up on the shore and sat in a sunny spot by the water’s edge. She drew her knees up under her chin and held her arms tight around her legs and, resting her chin on her knees, continued to stare unseeingly out over the water.
Modine was just a little over one year old, but she’d been in the water enough to like it as well as the rest of us did. She would duck under and laugh as the water streamed out over her race, and she never cried when we splashed water on her. It was all just fun.
I told Mama I was hungry and she said she guessed we’d been in the water long enough and I could help her get the lunch spread out if I wanted to. We went up to the wagon and Mama dressed the baby and me and got her dry clothes on and then we spread out the nice big blanket on the pine needles and set out the food.
Papa and Harold and Otho came when they saw us fixing the lunch and sat dripping on the edge of the blanket and ate; but Olive had to be called twice and then she came slowly and didn’t eat much. That was funny too because she always told me she felt like she had a big hole in the middle of her after she’d been swimming and she could eat and eat and never get it filled.
Father stretched out for a brief nap, but Otho and I and Hal kept eating or at least picking, in between games of tag and dips into the water again. After a while, Papa went in for another swim and then said he’d had enough water for one day and went to get dressed. Olive got her clothes on too and sat around the wagon just watching us. I had my dress on, but was still running barefoot on the sand. Pretty soon, Papa came back with dry clothes on, walking gingerly on his bare feet, went out by the water’s edge to wash his feet and put his shoes and stockings on. He got one shoe on and was just wiping the other foot when we heard Mama scream.
Modine hadn’t had all the swimming she wanted! She had run out into the water as fast and as far as she could and she had gone into the lake in a spot where the bottom fell away fast into deep water. When Mama screamed we all turned and saw Modine just as a big wave came up and splashed over her and she went out of site.
Although we all ran in after her, Papa was the nearest and soon had her in his arms. When he picked her up, she kicked and cried to get back into the water, but Father had all the water he wanted for that day. He waded onto shore and handed the baby to Mama, then took off his shoe and dumped the water out of it, hollering to Harold to hitch up the team.
Mama stripped off the baby’s wet things and wrapped a dry towel around her and then a sweater and held her tight in her arms. Olive and I hastily piled the remains of the lunch back into the basket, any which way, and we soon were on the road, headed for home. We all fell quiet and though the sun was shining, and the day hot, it seemed to us it was cold. Modine hadn’t really been hurt, but it seemed that the little accident had dampened our spirits as well as our clothes. The baby was sleeping quietly in Mother’s arms, but Papa didn’t fare so well. Dripping and uncomfortable, he yelled at the team, criticized Harold’s driving, and spoke crossly to everyone when he spoke at all. Olive sat with Otho on the end-gate, legs swinging, saying nothing. I curled up on the straw in the wagon-bed, feeling left out and disappointed. Somehow, what had started out as such a grand affair had turned out all wrong and never had the road home seemed so long and tiring, or sight of the house so welcome.
“Now what shall we play?” I asked Olive, as we stood under the old cherry tree that grew by the side of the house. Papa and Mama had gone into the house and the boys were caring for the horses and we were free as we pleased.
Olive stared up into the branches of the tree for a long time, thinking. Then, she said, half-aloud, “I think I will.”
“Will what?” I wanted to know. But, instead of answering, she started on a run for the barn with me tagging at her heels, asking unanswered questions. Harold’s prize possession was a new lariat, a birthday present, and I was surprised at Olive’s bravery when she took it from its nail on the barn wall and started back to the cherry tree.
“Won’t he be mad?” I wanted to know.
“Never mind. He won’t care when he finds out,” she said as she started to climb the tree. “I’m going to hang myself.”
Not quite sure of her intentions, I stood beneath the tree and watched her as she tied the end of the rope to a limb. Whatever she meant, it didn’t sound good.
“What will Mama say?” I asked her.
“Oh, she’ll feel bad….” Olive ceased her activities and her eyes thoughtfully turned toward the house. After a moment, she went on.
“Everybody will be sorry. Harold will be sorry. Papa will feel bad, and Otho will feel bad, and Mama will feel bad. I guess she will feel baddest of all. She’ll see me hanging out there in the tree and she’ll say, “My goodness, what’s that hanging out there in the cherry tree?… or maybe… no, she’ll come to call us to supper and when I don’t come…” There was a long pause as the dramatic possibilities of the case sparked around her electric imagination.
“Wait, I’ll show you!” Leaving the rope swinging from the limb, she climbed agilely down and calling me to stay there and watch her, she ran to the house. A few minutes later she appeared at the second-story window of our bedroom. Pushing the lower pane up as far as it would go, she unhooked the screen and swung it out on its vertical hinges. Putting her head and shoulders out the window, she called to me,
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes!”
She drew her head back in again to get the right expressions ready, then put it out again.
“What is that object swinging in yonder tree?” she asked in a poor imitation of Mother’s voice. She put one hand up to shield her eyes in order to see better and stared curiously. “What can it be?”
“I can’t hear you!” I yelled.
She raised her voice and continued with gusto, “Can that be a body swinging from that limb? Ah…. Who could it be?…”
“What?” I hollered at her.
Again she raised her voice. I think they could have heard her down at the barn. “My girl! My precious daughter! What has happened to you?”
“What?” I yelled, seeking to understand the meaning of her remarks and not because I couldn’t hear. Misunderstanding, a disgusted look took the place of her expressions of dismay and she yelled, “Come up here!” and withdrew from the window. When I joined her in the bedroom, she explained.
“Now, I’m pretending that I’m Mama. See the rope out there? That is me. And this is how Mama will feel when she sees me.”
Again, she started her act. First, gazing curiously out the opened window, then putting her head out and shoulders out for a better look, then leaning out a little father, shielding her eyes with her hand.
“Oh dear, Oh, dear! Can that be my Olive hanging in that tree? Oh, my darling child! What have you done? Why? Oh Why….?”
Her voice rose a little with each exclamation, her face registered extreme horror; she leaned out a little farther, her arms waving wildly.
“My darling! My baby! How can this horrible thing have happened to you? Help! Someone help! Help!”
Bang! The window came down with a thud, catching her across the small of her back and pinning her there like a helpless mouse in a trap. Her voice raised now in real anguish, “Help! Help! Mama!”
I tried to avoid her kicking legs and pushed frantically at the window, but it refused to budge for me, and I added my cries to hers.
“Mama! Mama!”
In a moment Mother was by my side, her face flushed from the heat of the cooking range and her breath coming in gasps from racing up the stairs. One capable hand raised the window, while the other held a firm grip on the squirming girl.
“What on earth were you doing?” Mama demanded as she pulled Olive safely back into the room and closed and fastened the screen. “Who opened this?”
“I did.” Olive admitted sheepishly. “I just tried to show Beth something and the window fell on me.” There were tears in her voice and eyes and she rubbed her back ruefully. Mama took a hasty look to determine the extent of the injury.
“It’s probably a good thing it did!” she said, satisfied that her back was only bruised. “If it hadn’t done, you might have fallen out. Don’t open that screen again like that. Ever!”
The reprimand ceased as Mother lifted her head and sniffed the air.
“Oh goodness, the meat! Behave yourselves!” She ordered as she fled back down the stairs.
Olive sat down on the bed, drained of all her heroics.
“That’s no fun. Let’s go play something else.”
“Tell me a story!” I ordered, climbing up beside her. Olive’s stories were wonderful, full of wild adventure, laughter and tears. Many an hour had been spent listening to them and a too literal belief in them had more than once caused me trouble. Now we sprawled on the bed as she commenced the sad tale of an orphan boy lost in the woods.
“Is it a true story?” I asked.
“Of course it is! Didn’t you hear how it started? A true story always starts with “A long time ago” and a fairy story starts with “Once upon a time.”
That point settled, the story went on. The boy was really having a rough time of it. Again, I interrupted.
“Does it end all right?”
“How do I know? I haven’t got that far yet! Now be still and listen.” The tale of woe continued. My sympathies were just showing in the first real tears when Mother called us to the evening meal.
Most of the family were seated when we arrived. We took our places and folded our arms, waiting for the late-comer. Harold shortly appeared, his rope in his hand. He was unmistakably angry.
“Who had my rope?”
Olive and I exchanged quick glances and then looked at our plates.
“Come, come!” Papa said. “Who had it? Let’s not keep everyone waiting any longer for supper.”
I nudged Olive and she feebly admitted she was the guilty one.
“What was it doing in the cherry tree?” demanded Harold.
Olive took a deep breath, looking at the waiting faces around the table, then straightened her shoulders and said defiantly. “Well, if you must know, I was going to hang myself!”
“Hang yourself! He hung the rope on the back of his chair and sat down, “Well, for Pete’s sake, if you must do that, don’t use my rope!”
Otho tittered.
Let’s quiet down now,” Father said, but Olive dared one more whisper to me, “If that’s all he cares, I won’t do it, just to spite him!”
Supper over, we were once more faced with the unenviable girl’s task – dishes. Olive usually beat a hasty retreat in hopes that Mother might forget, just once, to ask her help. I usually went along on principle. Now, I slipped out into the dark hall and waited for her to join me, anxious to hear the outcome of the story she’d been telling me. To my astonishment, she began to clear up the dishes. No-one said a thing to her. She was actually doing it without being asked.
I came slowly back into the room and watched her in disbelief. She gave me a martyred look and I began to gather the silverware. After all, if I helped her, we’d get back to the story quicker.
Mother said, “Thank you my dears,” in a rather surprised way, and went into the kitchen to work, leaving us to clear the table.
Olive worked slower and slower as her feelings of self-pity increased. Soon a teardrop was squeezed from each eye. By the time the table was clear, the tears were chasing each other down her cheeks. When we took the dishes to the kitchen, Mother looked questioningly at her unhappy daughter. “What’s the matter dear?” she asked.
“Oh, it’s all right. I can’t blame you if you don’t love me.” Olive beat a hasty retreat for another armful of dishes.
“And what makes you think I don’t love you?” Mother asked when she came into the kitchen once more.
“I’ll try to work better and act better. If you’re not really my mother, I guess I owe you a lot.”
At first, Mother’s bewilderment only showed on her face, for it took another trip into the dining room and back before she could speak again. Then, she sat down and drew her grieving daughter onto her knee.
“Now, tell Mama what this is all about – my not loving you and not being your mama, and you talking of hanging yourself. Tell me all about it.”
In a few minutes, the story was out. All about the log, and the baby found in the tomato can, and the cherry tree and the truth about the window. Mother listened quietly, but she pulled Olive up onto her lap, big as she was, and held her close.
“So, of course, if I’m not really your little girl, I should help more with the dishes and work harder to thank you for keeping me,” Olive finished tearfully.
There was a long pause and then a longer sigh from Mama.
“Oh, you children. What will you think of next? Of all the stories! Of course that isn’t true. You know better than to believe such a thing. You know how Harold likes to tease. Of course you are my little girl. My very own. Mine and Papa’s. We had you because we wanted you and we love you very much! Don’t let anyone put such wild ideas into your head. And for goodness’ sake, next time Harold tells you some tall tale, talk to Mama about it before you decide to hang yourself!”
She kissed her tenderly and, putting one arm around me, drew me to her side and held me tight.
I looked up into Olive’s eyes with a smile of assurance and was surprised to see a twinkle of triumph encountered there and then the slow wink she gave me when Mama added, “You two run along and play now, I’ll finish the dishes.”
I love this story