American to the Core by Maydell Murphy Part 1

* This story is transcribed exactly the way it is written.

She never could see tiger lilies in a field of tall grass and waving dandelions that she didn’t think of Bristol Ferry.  The rain-barrel at the back door and the rail fence where as a child she had waved to every passing locomotive. In front of the cottage the little round garden filled with sweet-williams flanked on either side by lop-sided starts of portulaca. The steep embarkment and the beach of egg-sized stones, and out in the blue of the bay, the small red lighthouse bobbing on the waves like a toy.  It never seemed to stand still. THere were butterflies, too, hundreds of them; the scent of wild rose and honeysuckle, and the tar of sailing ships in the hot sunshine. It was fun to take the row-boat, scull out to the channel, and wait for a three-master to come driving along in half sail. Dart along side, hear the pilot swear, see him lean over the side and shake his fist, — and come clear on the other side, just in the nick of time, as the great ship drove on.  Sometimes Bayard, the huge St. Bernard would sit in the stern, but usually it was just Maydell and Joe, brown as nutmegs, hair burned light as dusty miller, eyes bluer than the chicory flower that grew along the banks.

In the evening, when the frogs were croaking and rheumatic old Mary said it was time to go to bed, the children sat on the piazza rail, their bare legs dangling, their eyes turned to watch the falling stars.  Sometimes the fleck of the fireflies in the soft velvet of the night would hold them spell-bound, and the silence would pierce their hearts like little silver knives.  Then there would be the faint sound of music on the water, the gleam of hundreds of lights, the Fall River liner would steam by, as mysterious as tales of Ali Baba or the Swan Maiden.

The children lived in a world their own.  Old Mary supplied their needs much as a genie would come at call with food and drink, or a wooden Indian would descend from his pedestal.  Otherwise, they never were conscious of anything she felt or said or did.  Even on rainy days they were exploring borrows or caves or the dark and dim recesses under the long ward where the popping sea-weed grew and the purple periwinkles clung.  Or they spend long hours pinning multi-colored moths to shingles.  Life was so full of mysteries.  Curiosity was a sort of hunger, never to be satisfied.  Dawn and dark followed one another in almost the flick of an eyelash.

Occasionally on holidays their mother and father would come down from the city.  Father was a small sandy man, very busy, and afraid of fireworks.  When Joe and Maydell in a fever of ecstacy,  stood out on the edge of the banking, waving Roman candles to signal the New York boat he would stand behind the screen door and issue short warnings.  “Watch what you’re doing: Be careful: Look out!!! Hold then high! Emma, Emma, haven’t those children had enough? They’ll be burned to death!” They’d hear mother’s low laugh, and her reply, “Oh, go into the house, Dr. and let them alone.  Just because you jump at a firecracker is no reason they should be afraid.  We have a dozen rockets to set off yet.”

Mother was such a good sport.  She was a busy woman too.  She was a doctor like father, but she could play baseball, put on boxing gloves with the boys, fire a rifle, and sing like an angel.  She said when she  began surgery, she fainted nine times in the operating-room, but she went back the tenth time and stayed.  That was mother.

But she couldn’t swim a stroke, even though she waded out after Dr. Erb one day and brought him in safe when he was drowning.  Joe was scornful.  Why did father have to bring young etherizers down to the beach to spoil everyone’s good time by getting beyond their depths and then having mother save them? Old people were stupid anyway.  All little boys could swim, and even little girls like Maydell.  You were just thrown into the water and you paddled to safety.  Nothing to make such a fuss about.  In summer they were bad enough, but in winter they were worse.  They were always having babies and leaving them on mother’s front door-step.  Then everyone had to get up in the cold and take the baby in and feed it warm milk.  Father got very cross and mother got very tired ringing up the telephone and trying to get some orphanage to take the baby.  Usually it ended by old Mrs. Harradon who had seven or eight already, agreeing to take just one more.  Then everyone could go back to bed.

It wasn’t all bad at home.  There was always Grandma Bliss, she gave you a quarter no matter how many times a week you went to see her.  Of course it was a long way and it cost five cents to go on the open cars.  So you didn’t go too often.  Only you never missed a Sunday.  Rain or shine you went to church, one Sunday to St. Mary’s with Grandmother Murphy who was saint, and the next Sunday to the Unitarian with Grandma Bliss who fed you sugar pills from a darling little round tin box she hid behind her fan.  After church Grandmother Murphy never asked you to dinner.  She lived alone in an enormous white house with cherry trees, a long grape arbor, and the neatest flower garden you ever saw, all divided into plots bordered with low green box.  She never offered you any of the cherries or the beautiful flowers, but she told you to be good children and go straight home.  Occasionally she would ask you into the house and you sat quietly in one chair and let your eyes rove over the madonnas on the wall, the wax flowers under glass, and the great gold mirror that was five times as big as you were.

Grandma Bliss always asked you to Sunday dinner, every single Sunday.  She cried if you didn’t come.  But you never missed unless you were sick.  You wouldn’t miss for anything.  when you got to the foot of her street, you’d start running.  past the Banders and the Stoddards till you came to Grandma’s fence. You’d stop and hang over it as if you’d never seen it before.  In the spring, a great bed of blue myrtle, grape hyacinths, billowing mock orange, bridal wreath, and sweet lily of the valley under the maples.  About Decoration Day came the great feathery balls of pink peonies, the snowball bush, the smoke-tree, purple iris, and a whole row of lilacs.  There was a watering tub of sparkling water under the buttery-window, and a trumpet-vine climbing the elk, though Grandma always vowed she’d have it cut down because it brought ants. But she never did and you never in all your life saw ant inside her house.  out back was the grape-arbor that led to the privy, and the apple-orchard and the barn.  Grandpa kept cows and horses and hens, and had a vegetable garden that all the neighbors admired.  They’d always stop and say, “How are the peas coming along, Mr. Bliss?” and Grandpa would stride out–he was tall as a monument–and pick them some.  then Grandma would come to the back door and call, “Shubael, you leave enough for these young ones.  Don’t give it all away.  Joey looks as peaked as a skinnymalink.  We’ve got to fatten him up. ” Grandpa would laugh his great deep laugh, and when he came back into the house his arms would be full.  “Think you’ve got enough, Mindy?” he’d say.  “They’s plenty more were them’s from.”

Maggie, the big-boned Irish cook, and Grandma would start to get dinner ready.  There would be an hour or two of heavenly smells.  Then food enough for twenty–great luscious slabs of roast-beef, green peas in milk or corn on the cob–a dozen ears if you liked–mounds of potatoes mashed with cream, pickles and jellies, and new-made bread.  You always said politely, “I’d like a piece of white bread, please,” because there was always brown bread, too, and sometimes golden cornbread.  Grandma urged you to spread thicker the butter you’d helped her make.  And Maggie would bring great pitchers of rich milk from the pans in the buttery.  You topped off with cake-gingerbread.  Grandpa usually ate a whole apple-pie.  Maggie made seven at a time.

After dinner you went into the sittin-room.  There was a cozy wood-fire in the air-tight stove, under the mantel with the Chinese vases on it, and over it huge a picture of a child and dog entitled “Can’t you talk?” What-nots filled the corners and one wall held a China cabinet filled with brown and gold spode, and the Come-birdy-come cup.  The chairs were old and roomy and comfortable–just right to curl up in, while Grandma read you a story.  Sometimes you munched candy, and Grandma didn’t mind.  Her voice rose soft and clear in sad tales of Dickens, Whittier’s poetry, and Louisa Alcott’s latest book.  She wouldn’t read about Palmer Cox’s Brownies, though she bought you the books and you could laugh over them yourself.  She always ended by singing “Falling leaf and fading tree”.  Just when you were almost nodding asleep, she’d call, Shubael, Shubael, you can’t sit there napping all day in the kitchen.  These children need air.  You hitch up Bessie and we’ll drive up to Woodward’s Springs.”

While Grandpa was hitching up she’d go prowling around the garden and over in the lots with you at her heels.  There wasn’t a flower or a weed she didn’t know.  Old Bess would round the corner and Grandma always said, “You think she’s all right, Shubael? Her ears are pricked up.”  And Grandpa would answer, “Oh get in, Mindy, get in, and don’t keep me here all the afternoon.  We’ll never get there and back at this rate.”  Maydell would scramble in back of the carryall and take her place primly beside Grandma, but Joey fought for the step.  “Hang on tight, Joey”, Grandma would warn.  Grandpa would rattle the whip in its socket and we were off for our Sunday afternoon drive of five miles.  The horses walked four and a half, and broke into a gentle trot for the other half mile.  Amid screams from Grandma, Joey would jump off and on the step to catch a turtle, a butterfly, and chase a chipmunk.  We’d stop for a rare flower, a spray of apple blossoms, some milk weed silk, a daisy or a dandelion fluff to test our fortune.  At Woodward’s Spring, we’d pile out.  Grandpa would swing us high into the tree-tops.  Grandma would make us drink from the “iron” spring. We’d roam or race along the banks of the river, tear round like young colts in the deep grass, slide down the hill on our backsides, and just as the sun began to set, Grandpa would haul a picnic basket from under the seat, and we’d forage with squeals of joy among the doughnuts, the turnovers, and wedges of cake.  In her silk riticule Grandma always had paper bags f lovage root, rock candy, and jelly beans.

When we got back, Grandpa would unharness Old Bess, let Joey ride her to the stall, while Grandma got the oysters, put newspapers down on the floor, and drew up the big kitchen rocker.  There Grandpa would shuck oysters with his jack-knife until everyone had full and plenty.

Just before you left, Grandma would go get two big candy boxes, fill them full of all kinds of candy she had, and give you those and a new quarter a piece to take home.  She never admonished you to be good children.  She told you she was proud you were hers.  And if you had been willing to carry them back on the street-cars she would have filled your arms full of all the flowers in the garden.  Sunday at Grandma’s was a day of joy,  peace and thanksgiving.  It shoved you right through blue Mondays.