Where Lilacs Still Bloom Page 4

  Martha finished her basket of clothes and picked up a book. She was our studious one, always studying, thinking, even writing some to express what lay inside her. We shared that too. Fritz we indulged as the only boy. At thirteen he was already taller than Frank and fine looking. He helped Frank with the chores and freed me from some of that work, though I liked moving the cows to new pastures near the river, listening to their moos and such, getting in a good walk on a spring day. But a boy needs to know what his father’s work is so he can step into it when the time comes.

  They were good children. I like to think Frank and I gave them those good qualities, but we just provided the soil for the planting. Oh, we tended and pruned when they got too wild, and we watered their spirits at the right times down the street at the Presbyterian church where Lizzie played the organ now that she was living back home with us. I didn’t openly brag on my children, at least not in front of them, for that can harm a child as much as no words of praise at all; and I had to keep them in line.

  “Will you make our wedding dresses for us?” Delia broke into my musing.

  “Knowing you could do it just fine yourselves, I’m honored to be asked.” I’d have to fit it in between plantings. I watched my apple grafts, added more each year. I made up nicotine tea to spray on invading insects. Now, daffodils consumed me, and my lilac efforts needed encouragement too.

  “You girls should think twice about a double wedding,” I said.

  “Didn’t you and Aunt Amelia have fun?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t just my day. We shared the limelight, and that can be humbling, which is a good thing, mind you. But a girl only gets married once, and it’s nice to think she’d have it be just her and her husband’s special time.”

  “You always celebrate your anniversary with Aunt Amelia. And she’s your best friend. Like Lizzie and I are,” Delia said. I looked over at Martha, but her expression never changed as she turned pages in her book.

  “An anniversary might be nice to share just with one’s husband too,” I said.

  Ours was a big, jovial German family. My brother lived down the road, my two sisters and their husbands also close by. Every birthday meant a gathering. Every holiday saw cousins saunter in, sit and chat, offering opinions. It was an opinionated family, I can tell you that. I liked that kind of family camaraderie, but it made for times when I wished I’d been an only child. I sometimes think if Amelia hadn’t been marrying, Frank and I might have waited, and I could have gone on to high school in Portland.

  But that was wishful thinking, past its prime, just like I was, my girls talking about marrying and moving away. I was fortunate my girls wanted my seamstress skills to decorate their weddings when they could do it themselves.

  “So have you picked a date for this double wedding?” I asked. Lizzie hung up Fritz’s shirts and started pressing on her skirt, the last in the basket. She took a mouthful of water and sprayed it across the linen to dampen it, then began to press.

  “Just the year,” Delia said. “Nineteen-o-three.”

  “Next year?”

  “Do Nell Irving and Fred know of your intentions?” Martha asked.

  “Not exactly.” Both girls laughed at a private joke. “But that’s never stopped us before. We’ll let them know when the time comes.”

  “Don’t you always say you have to plan ahead?” Lizzie added.

  “Some things you can’t plan on your own.” I shook my head. “So much for ironing building your characters. I think you’re using this time for plotting against unsuspecting young men. They should know what you intend.”

  “They will, Mama. We’ve planted the seeds. We’re just letting them grow.”

  EIGHT

  CORNELIA GIVENS

  Sacramento, California, 1903

  Cornelia Givens wrote wretched little poems when she was eight years old with titles like “I Threw a Dead Flower Away Today” after tossing out a handful of weeds she’d picked for her mother. She cried when she passed the trash bin and saw again the once pretty blooms mixed in with breakfast gruel scraped from the pan and last evening’s egg noodles covered with a red sauce neither she nor her sister enjoyed one bit. Her mother was creative when it came to fashion but left much to be desired in the kitchen, which is where Cornelia found her own creative bent, mixing up roux and sauces that piqued the palate and brought deep inhales from her sister. But writing was her passion.

  Still single at twenty-five and living at home, some mused that she might remain so with her strong-willed ways. She didn’t care. What she did care about was getting a byline—writing feature stories with her name attached—and it looked like that was going to happen at the Sacramento Bee. The paper’s motto upon printing its first edition in 1857 was “The object of this newspaper is not only independence, but permanence.” Cornelia liked the idea of things that would last forever. She’d written a short piece about public ownership of the water company, and her editor, Charles Kenny, had penciled “good writing” before handing it back. Later there’d been an editorial about the value of public ownership of things citizens depended upon, and Cornelia felt she’d aided in that view, even though he hadn’t printed her piece.

  “Might I have a word with you, Miss Givens,” CK said. Everyone called him that, and she followed him into his office that overlooked the Sacramento River. She liked working for the man. He was wise and fair. Her job at the paper was to answer the phone and act as a secretary, so she brought her notepad. “You’ve heard of Mr. Tidings’s untimely death.” She nodded. “I realize I’m not giving you much time to grieve, but I’d like you to take over his Common Woman column.”

  “Oh.” She was astounded, but Cornelia prided herself on her quick thinking. “Women don’t take advice well from other women,” she said. “I thought I might get a feature post, attend city meetings, and be a reporter as my advancement past being a secretary.”

  “Women don’t take advice from other women?”

  “My mother said it’s a proven fact. She ran a millinery, and she told me it took time and lots of trust before a customer would accept her opinion of how a hat looked on her. They get defensive and jealous.” A stack of papers fell from the edge of his desk as he stepped back, pondering, and Cornelia quickly knelt to retrieve them. She set the papers on the walnut desk and poked her long hairpin back into the knot of blond hair that graced her head.

  “Women will accept your advice if you write it well. That’s what the paper needs. You want to do it or not?”

  “Oh.” It didn’t look like he was going to let her write features. Would she be stuck at the desk bringing in scones for the reporters her whole life? Maybe she should take what she could get, see if she could turn it into something more.

  Before she could concur, CK said, “I just can’t see how a woman could get jealous about food questions or how to get fly stains off a wall without ruining the paint. Or how to decorate for a child’s birthday party. Or the best way to fumigate a room without damaging the lungs unduly. Have you seen any of the letters, Miss Givens?”

  “No, I haven’t.” Cornelia didn’t know the answers to those questions, but she doubted Mr. Tidings had either. He probably asked his wife for suggestions, and she could easily ask her mother or neighbors. Her editor was right—they claimed they always were. What mattered to the common woman might well be better answered by one, rather than a common man.

  “I thought you wanted a byline?”

  “I do. I just thought, well …”

  “It’s this”—he pointed to the pile of letters—“or you keep answering the phone.”

  “You think women would still ask for advice?”

  “Certainly. Might as well get people used to the idea that a woman can write.”

  “That’s very progressive of you, CK. And if a feature presented itself, one that women might find interest in, I could—”

  “Let’s take it one step at a time. For now I need you to write an answer to the question of what to do abo
ut a maid who I think—I mean who a reader thinks is stealing. She’s a favorite maid, and the matron of the house doesn’t want to lose her.”

  “Why, be direct. I’ve always believed that people are doing the best they can, that they are usually cooperative and helpful and worthy of trust until proven different. The matron should tell the maid that things are missing and solicit the maid’s help in determining what might be happening to those things. Ask her advice and implement suggestions, then see if things improve. If they do, perhaps you’ve found your culprit, but the problem is solved, and she gets to stay. But more likely you might discover other hands that could be dipping in the till, and the matron now has someone else helping her solve that problem.”

  His eyes narrowed. “My cousin. I knew we shouldn’t have let him stay in the guesthouse. Have that column on this desk in the morning.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And say it just like that, you know, that it might be someone else, a cousin, perhaps.”

  Cornelia nodded. He handed her a stack of letters. She had her byline.

  She stayed late to write the column, then picked up her purse and fairly skipped home. Tomorrow she’d bring the reporters and her editor fresh-baked croissants to say thank you. She hoped it wouldn’t mean the men would come to expect it. But then, maybe one day she’d write a piece about food and how people use it to express their feelings. There might be a byline in that.

  NINE

  LONGING FOR LEMOINE

  Hulda, 1903

  I sat by the fire and read my seed catalogs, especially noting the lilacs. I must have sighed out loud because Frank looked up from the notes he was working on for the cheese cooperative and said, “What?” He served as secretary for that group, his penmanship like artist’s drawings, the letters so perfectly shaped. He learned his lettering in Germany, where he was born and lived and attended school until he was eighteen and came to America.

  “Oh, just these Lemoine lilacs Cooley’s says it can import upon request,” I said. “They have to come from France.”

  “Now I suppose you want what, a more purple lilac?”

  “Well, that. Or one that could withstand an early frost. Or better yet, that cream lilac.” I closed the catalog. I could just imagine the color of snow blooming against black stems cradled with shiny green leaves. It would take years turning a pale purple into cream, especially without a lighter lilac to breed to it. Lemoine had a white. “Can’t you just see bushes covered with creamy-looking flowers?” I could. They were as real to me as the rain that fell outside the window. “Why, I bet people would actually come by to see a creamy-white double lilac with twelve petals.”

  Frank grunted, but he put his pen down. “Why would you want people tramping through your garden?”

  I shrugged. Maybe that was prideful, but sharing beauty isn’t bad. “I’d give them starts if I was fortunate enough to develop a new variety.”

  “Twelve petals? Pretty ambitious, I’d say.” Then after a pause, he said, “What would they cost, your French lilacs?”

  “Oh, way more than we have money for.” I scratched Bobby’s neck as he lay at my feet. “It’s just a daydream, Frank. A girl likes to have her dreams.” I thought of my father.

  “You’ll make gains with the lilacs you have.”

  “True. But you can only go so far with mediocre stock. Lemoine are well regarded, and with careful hybridizing, I’d love to see what I could do with them.” I picked up the catalog again and found the drawing of hydrangeas Cooley’s carried.

  “How many would you need?” Frank said.

  “Oh no. It was just a daydream, Frank. Truly.”

  We really couldn’t afford expensive French plants just for pleasure like that. Fritz outgrew his shoes and needed new ones, and the girls planned a summer wedding, and we never knew how much milk the cows would give or what price the cheese would bring, even with the cooperative’s stabilizing help. Besides, we’d just bought the house my father had built, closer to Woodland proper, away from the Bottoms. We didn’t have money to spare as we planned to move into that house and have the wedding reception there. We were raising Papa’s house up three feet to weather the floods. No money or time to spare for hybridizing. And I’d be transplanting from our Bottoms farm to the house on Pekin Road so that was plenty to keep me busy.

  “Could you get enough starts that if successful, you could sell them in a catalog?”

  “Oh. No. I don’t think so. No. I … I wouldn’t do it for money. Just forget it, Frank.” I turned the page. I didn’t know why he was being like this, suddenly promoting my interest in plant breeding. Had I spoken too often out loud about my girls leaving home and the emptiness I thought that would bring?

  He got up and stood looking over my shoulder, reaching down to push back to the page I’d been perusing. “So, how many would you need?”

  “Fifteen,” I said before I could stop myself. “You couldn’t do much with fewer than fifteen. And I’d have to order a white one, hoping it shades to cream along with ones known for hardiness and a few with a heady scent. Five of each kind would do it.” I caught my breath and my senses. “No, Frank, we really can’t afford—”

  “Yes, we can. I bought a new bull two years back; I guess you can buy a few posies.”

  “But the cost—”

  “We’ll sell a cow,” he said. “Carl’s been wanting that heifer from Daisy and the bull. She promises to be a good milker. If he still wants the heifer, you can order your lilacs. All the way from France.” Carl’s my sister Bertha’s husband and Frank’s best friend.

  “Oh, Frank, you are the dearest man alive!” I stood and kissed him, then over my shoulder I saw the boxes I’d gathered to pack up for our move. I stepped back. “No. I can’t justify the expense and neither can you. I won’t have it.”

  His neck colored red with my pronouncement. The wife isn’t supposed to have the last word, but I spoke the truth.

  “You may be right.” Frank shrugged. “You usually are. All right. I won’t talk to Carl.”

  I felt a twinge of regret with my certainty. My persuasive powers sometimes worked against me.

  That night I dreamed of a creamy lilac, the color of pale butter. And when I awoke, I knew that’s all there’d be, just the dream of one.

  TEN

  JASMINE

  1903

  You gots to let this child go to school, sir,” Jasmine told the tailor in his Woodland shop. “She need brain work. Missing that’s why she behave so bad. She coming up with things to trouble you and me and her too.” Jasmine knew she ought not speak up to the man who had been her employer for years, but his head was buried in cloth, worryin’ over competition of store-bought goods, and she feared he’d forgotten about his Nelia. She had to stand for the child. She couldn’t stand well with her aching hips, but a body must do what it must for the happiness and well-being of children.

  “There are plenty of books at the house for her to read,” he said. “She’d probably be asked to leave school by the second day anyway, since she behaves so badly.” He glared at the child. “Cutting up perfectly good clothes. The child’s possessed.”

  “No sir; ain’t no possession. There a smart girl inside, and she need ways to challenge her mind so it can get out without harming her. Or us.”

  “Then set her to work cooking. Mrs. Runyan can use the help. You too, can’t you?”

  “Yes sir, we needs help. But that don’t free that mind to find a path that take it to good things, higher things. You not getting her schoolin’, that same as neglecting a tree and letting it die for lack of watering.”

  “Well, what do you suggest?” The man stood, scissors in hand. Nelia hovered beside Jasmine, her shoulders pressed into the woman’s fleshy side.

  “Maybe see if they’s a place she could board in town. Stay there and go to school ’stead of boarding with the Runyans way up the Lewis River.” Mr. Lawson had moved them to a faraway logging outpost with a single boarding house, while he st
ayed in Woodland, sleeping in the back of his shop. He rarely saw his daughter. Jasmine supposed this was as safe a place for her as could be with Mrs. Runyan being the only white woman around, the rest being Indians and loggers who weren’t all that talkative, but not hurtful either. But the time had come for change.

  “She start cutting up other people’s things, and we have to move anyway, then what?”

  “All right, all right!” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Jasmine and the girl began the long walk back home, smelling the sweet scent of lilacs coming from the west. “I sure like them smells,” Jasmine said. “Can you smell them, child?”

  Nelia shrugged. She took the woman’s hand and clung to it. “Yes, child, you just hang on to me. I be your tree till your daddy find someone to help you get you some roots of your own.”

  He needed to do that fast. Jasmine didn’t think she was long for this world with age and ailments ready to settle on her wide shoulders.

  “Let’s take a walk toward that lilac smell, child. See what else might grow in that garden. Maybe we take that heavy cloak of sadness you wearing and lay it flat, plan a picnic on it with lilacs blooming all around us. You like that, child?”

  The girl nodded as Jasmine stroked her hair. The past held Mr. Lawson hostage, but Nelia still had a chance to heal.

  ELEVEN

  THE CHANGE

  Hulda, 1903

  I didn’t relish all the adjustments necessary to turn a new landscape into the comforts of home, but my parents’ yard was a canvas I could paint with flowers. I set rows of lilac starts to add to theirs as soon as I knew we were moving. A ginkgo tree already flourished there, planted years ago. I pictured an umbrella tree and magnolias to grace the property. I tried not to think about this having been my parents’ house. I tried not to think about the fact that my girls were going to be married at the Presbyterian church and celebrate in this yard and how much I’d miss them afterward. I’d have my birthday in May, and I would be old. I tried not to think of turning forty.