Secrets

(November 1932, Lincoln County, Nebraska)

Shirley hadn't expected to hear rain pelting the house this morning. Yesterday's forecast had called for a blizzard. Expecting a foot or more of snow, folks had gone about preparing for a big one. Farmers and ranchers had checked on fuel, feed, and other various concerns while the women busied themselves with groceries, canned goods from the cellar, and warm outerwear. Shirley had driven into Brady to go shopping for flour, oatmeal, and other sundry items. She'd stopped in at Edward's Drugstore for a jar of Vanco rub and hand lotion. The vapors would help with four-year-old Howie's croup. Al, her husband, needed the lotion for the cracks in his dry, leathery hands.

This morning, the four-year-old was bright eyed and begging to help get the mail.

Wanting him warm and dry, Shirley lectured Howie as she knelt to button his corduroy coat and buckle his black over shoes. "Howie, do you promise you'll stay out of the water?"

Slipping on Al's everyday coat, Shirley grabbed the umbrella she'd found in a shed out behind the house. Old and scraggly, it was good for keeping Howie dry while she preferred the rain in her face. Walking along, holding the parasol over Howie, it didn't take long for her to become soaked. Meanwhile, mud puddles were sprouting, like magic, all over the driveway, while overhead, huge cottonwoods swayed under the darkened sky.

Fascinated by these mini-lakes, Howie said, "Look," pointing at a puddle. "Mommy, can I go swimming in one of them?"

"Howie, we don't swim in mud puddles. It's too cold. Besides, the lightening is close. Look up ahead." Sitting on a post, alongside a country road, going east and west, the mailbox wasn't far away. Tugging on the boy, while trying to distract him from the mini lakes, they arrived at their destination. Just then, a streak of nearby lightening flashed, startling Shirley, causing her to screech. Alarmed by her reaction, Howie whimpered, "Mommy, you scared me," as tears rolled down his plumpish cheeks.

"We're fine sweetie," Shirley said, wanting to get Howie back inside ... Hurrying to open the mailbox, she gasped. — A "violet" envelope jumped out at her— Breathless, she grabbed it, shoving it in one of the coat pockets, and half-way wishing the letter would float away with the rain. Only one person used violet envelopes ... Or maybe? Taking a few steps, Shirley stopped, as her fingers reached in her pocket. Pulling the letter out, she dared her eyes to read the name on the return address ... Taking a deep breath, she saw that it was Bonnie Jo who'd sent the letter and not the other person. Relieved, she picked Howie up, swinging him back and forth, while the two of them laughed in the pouring rain.

Bonnie, a stunning beauty with wavy black hair, and the oldest of three children, had married this past summer and was living 150 miles east in York, Nebraska. Close to genius, she'd foregone scholarships to two different schools. She'd done this, despite knowing it was an unusual privilege for a girl to attend college. Instead, Bonnie had married Bob Way, her boyfriend, who'd accepted a job at his uncle's neighborhood market in York. Shirley still hadn't gotten over Bonnie's decision. It hurt to think that, instead of building a career, Bonnie was stuck in a mini Airstream trailer. Good heavens! Would there be room to breathe?

Shirley knew it wasn't her business what Bonnie did; nevertheless.... That and the fact that, a week ago, Bonnie had missed Thanksgiving Day. Without her coming home, the holiday had been disillusionment. Bonnie's humor and vitality made even a badly burned turkey taste good. It wasn't that Shirley didn't love all her children equally. Instead, her rapport with this eldest was unusual. An extreme extrovert, Bonnie had a liveliness that touched on Shirley's introversion and reserve.

Al had suggested that Shirley stop living vicariously through this daughter. While Bonnie's marriage diminished this tendency, it remained an issue. However, thanks to Bev Temple, Shirley was finding a life of her own. Bev was the wife of Clark, the landowner for whom Al worked as a hired hand. Not having siblings, the energetic Bev tucked Shirley under her wing, making her a sister. The Dustys and the Temples lived in the same farmyard not five minutes apart, and Bev invited Shirley over each morning; they would sit in the sunroom doing crafts. Bev did enamel paintings called wicker ware. A dab of enamel made vibrant flowers, their favorite decoration. Bev provided the wicker items, such as sandals, little baskets, and purses. Shirley provided the skill and ideas. A far better painter, Shirley could turn out exquisite work in amazing color schemes. Both houses were filled with enamel items. This sort of fun was new for Shirley.

Not long ago, she and Bev had tried millinery. While Shirley looked splendid in any hat she made, Bev wore boxy male-style hats worn way down. Her children teased her, insisting she toss these head coverings away. Shirley silently agreed, thinking they made Bev look like a turtle.

Celeste and Shirley had shared some of their first woman-to-daughter laughs over this "turtle look"—laughs of warmth and intimacy.

Turning to Howie, Shirley asked, "Guess who wrote us? We got a letter from your big sister. We'll read her letter together."

Uninterested, Howie pointed over to the barn where a '25 Ford truck sat parked. "There's Daddy's truck." The truck belonged to Clark; however, Al used it for his work. Throughout the Dustys' married life, Al had worked for as many as three farmers. Shirley, originally a city girl, and Al, a Sandhills boy, had attended the same high school in Lincoln. Ironically, they'd met for the first time two nights before graduation. Until four years ago, they'd lived in the Sandhills.

Hurrying along, Shirley rushed inside the tenant house. One of two homes in the same farmyard, the Dustys' place sat at the west end. The Temples, whose farm was larger than that of average farmers, lived at the east end. Their charming home, a big, three-story with a large front porch, was the nicest place in the neighboring countryside. By comparison, the Dustys lived in a modest, two-story house. A white picket fence with a swinging gate enclosed the yard. Enormous old trees and a large red barn separated the two places. With the farm and ranch set against the south hills, the Dustys had never known such contentment.

Stepping into the kitchen, Shirley laid her wet coat over the back of a chair. Howie, who was in a hurry to go play, dropped his jacket on the floor. A baby at the time of the move, Howie had been a "late" child. Unsure of having another, Shirley had been elated by his arrival. Except for his brown hair, Howie was the image of his father. Only thirty-eight, Shirley longed for another child—a girl or a boy to help with the work. Picturing herself bathing a baby and rocking and nursing the small infant, Shirley had no choice but to squelch this strong maternal desire. This was partially because of her spells with worry and anxiety. The biggest reason—her thought were interrupted. Remembering Howie, Shirley turned to help him with his muddy overshoes; instead, Howie charged off to the living room, refusing to wait for her help. Pretending she didn't see this, Shirley poured another cup of coffee. Taking a seat at the table, her work-worn fingers tore at the envelope.

Dearest Folks,

I thought I...