OBIE
PROLOGUE
October 1844 would mark the end of a youthful journey and the beginning of a lifelong quest. We’d been at sea for three long months. It was an hour or two before dawn and not a soul was stirring. Have you ever had that feeling that you’re being watched? Right at that moment, I had that feeling in a powerful way. I turned my head cautiously and glanced down the starboard side of the ship. All at once something aft caught my attention. I turned suddenly and had to squint and shield my eyes. There, low on the eastern horizon, just below the sail, was the biggest, most extravagant moon I’d ever seen. It was the same moon that had lit the skies over the Rhine valley during my youth, but it had always seemed distant and detached. Now, thousands of miles from the only home I’d ever known, it was suddenly a comfort to see something so familiar. It was the first time that a cold, lonely night had forced me to seek comfort and companionship in that ol’ moon. It wouldn’t be the last.
My name is Obadiah Jeremiah Hezekiah Camp. I know that’s a mighty big mouthful, but my folks were bound and determined to name me after all four of my great granddads. You can call me Obie. I was nine years old when my family and I left our ancestral home in Germany to sail for America. I didn’t realize it then, but the innocent, carefree days of my youth were rapidly drawing to a close. Ahead lay inconceivable obstacles, incredible exploits, high adventure on the western frontier, and eventually contentment and an inner peace that many never find.
As I lay there on that hard wooden deck, staring into that starry stillness, the only sound was the groaning and squeaking of that old ship’s rigging, and the flapping of her canvas sails in response to an intermittent breeze. I pulled the tarp up around my shoulders as a sudden gust of wind garnished the deck with a blanket of fog that stung my chapped face and glistened on the coil of rope that served as my pillow. My brother Christoph lay on the deck at my side. Christoph was thirteen. He had serious doubts about this pilgrimage to America. His apprenticeship to the Count’s Brewmeister had been lucrative, and he’d been very hesitant to accompany his family on this risky and unnerving excursion. He missed his home and friends, and had joined us reluctantly at the insistence of our father and the heartfelt pleadings of our mother.
There would be no more sleep for me this night. As the velvet black skies lightened to lavender in the east, a thin layer of scarlet became barely visible in the west. It was land. It was America. Soon the melancholy stillness was replaced with hustle, bustle, and the excitement of preparation. The crewmen were busily pursuing their assigned tasks, and the passengers were crowding the decks in a frenzy of anticipation. Yesterday, freedom, opportunity and America had been only a well-worn, but very illusive dream. This morning that impossible dream was palpable. It lay on the horizon ahead of us, visible to the naked eye. It was no longer just an incredible dream. America was real.
Episode One
Jarrin’ Bones & Rattlin’ Teeth
As the sun climbed gradually into the brilliant autumn sky, a purple horizon rose from a dreamlike mist and took on recognizable forms. First the forests in their breathtaking fall foliage, then the houses and buildings, and eventually the dock and crowds of people became distinguishable on the shore. Our hearts pounded and filled with myriad emotions: joy, excitement, uncertainty, and apprehension. Those people on the dock were Americans. Soon we would be Americans too.
To our west was the eastern boundary of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and as the vast forests of oak and hickory gave way to farmland and fields of ripening grain, the port city of Philadelphia came into view. The port itself was clearly distinguishable by a forest of towering masts. Countless tall ships were at anchor along the expansive docks, now crowded with swarming masses of people of all nationalities. Beyond lay the historic city itself; basking in the brilliant rays of a gorgeous fall day I’d not soon forget.
Our long boats were lowered and manned, our decks filled with cheering pilgrims, and our gallant ship, in full canvas and flags flying, sailed proudly into the harbor. From the docks the crowd waved and cheered, a group of kilt clad gentleman promenaded across the wharf with bagpipes blaring, and all at once our normally reserved crew, in cadence with their rowing and in a wide variety of colorful accents, burst into a rousing chorus of “Blow the Man Down”. My pulse raced, my spirit soared, and my heart, fit to bust, pounded like never before. Well, there was the time I discovered the Counts teenage daughter skinny-dippin’ in the castle cistern, but that was different.
Many of our fellow passengers were encumbered by steamer trunks, crates of family heirlooms, and paraphernalia of every conceivable shape, size, and description. Several families had brought along farm implements, and one couple had shipped a huge cast iron cooking range, complete with water reservoir, eight lids and a dandy warming oven. Their disembarkation would require time and arrangements, not to mention intestinal fortitude and huge quantities of elbow grease.
My family was traveling light. As per pre-arrangement, we gathered on the port side of the ship and lined up near the gangway. Christoph and I each carried one end of an old camelback trunk in one hand and an additional piece of luggage in the other. My shoulder satchel contained the journal, which I’d begun onboard the ship. Mother carried a small leather satchel containing family papers, the manumission granting us the Count’s permission to sail from Germany, and assorted valuables. Father, still weak from his illness but in high spirits, led the way.
It’s difficult to describe my feelings as we left the ship and first set foot in an unfamiliar new country. Germany had been my family’s homeland for generations. Throughout our long and often miserable voyage, I’d harbored deep within myself a dull ache and an ever-present anxiety. I’d often awakened during the long nights at sea to a dry mouth and a churning stomach. Even on the good days there’d been a discomforting sense of leaving something irretrievable behind.
This morning, as we faced the challenges of a new day filled with opportunity, all those feelings of loss and disenfranchisement were replaced by an overwhelming sense of excitement and adventure. This was a new start in a new world, and everything about it seemed fresh and inviting. I realized that a chapter in my life was ending, and intuition told me that life as I knew it was changing forever. Right now though, my family and I were sharing the adventure of a lifetime, together.
Barring complications and miscommunications, Father’s elder brother Gus was to meet us at the port. Uncle Gus had arrived in America seven years previously and had kept in touch as well as possible considering the lamentable state of overseas mail service at the time. His crossing had been plagued by misfortune, and his wife Margaret had succumbed to disease and been buried at sea long before reaching America. His life here in Pennsylvania had been marvelously blessed. Both of his sons had married well, and their unions had produced nine Grandchildren. He’d arrived in this country as an apprentice cobbler and now owned his own thriving shoe shop. In seven years, he had established himself well in this country and was now a prosperous and respected member of his community.
I wouldn’t know Uncle Gus from Adam. I was only two when my uncle and his family received the Counts permission to sail for Philadelphia. Nevertheless, I joined my family in searching every person in the crowd for a familiar face. I’d occasionally had the pleasure and privilege of meeting people of different nationalities as a child, but I’d never experienced anything like this. Created in 1682 as ol’ Bill Penn’s “holy experiment” Philadelphia was a major port and received ships from throughout the world. Subsequently it was peopled with travelers from the four corners of the earth, each one contributing the customs, dress, tastes, and traditions, of their mother country. This port city was a melting pot, and the result was a unique blend of the best and the worst.
The dock with its open-air shops and adjacent market, along with the inns, eating establishments, and taverns, all reflected this amazing diversity. The cool fall air was brisk and invigorating, and saturated with the violently competitive fragrances of hickory smoke, tobacco, wet poultry and boiling seafood. Down toward the northern end of the pier, the open-air shops endeavored to cater to every conceivable appetite, and what little they couldn’t provide was usually available in vast quantities, infinite variety, and discrete anonymity at the inns and taverns just across the street.
By the time a twenty-minute search had proven fruitless, that ol’ trunk weighed a ton and Christoph and I were exhausted. We dropped our cargo and collapsed, sitting on the luggage and staring at the ground in despair. After a moment, I realized that I was looking at the feet of either a small mountain or a very portly gentleman. I craned my neck and gazed up into the kind and beaming countenance of an elderly gentleman with a huge white beard and a belly to match. He grinned at me, eyes twinkling for a moment, and then in a markedly German accent announced, “You must be Obadiah.”
Mother spun around instantly with a big smile. Father, who’d been anxiously scanning faces in the opposite direction, paused momentarily, and then, turning slowly, gazed into his brother’s face with rapidly moistening eyes. Father had been a little teary eyed as we bid farewell to my grandparents in Germany, but I’d never seen him actually break down and cry. Father took Uncle Gus by the hand, and gazed straight into his soul, his eyes reflecting a range and depth of emotions incapable of conveyance in mere words. Then, as they wrapped their arms around each other, Father drew a long faltering breath, and convulsing with emotions, sobbed quietly right out loud. I held my mother’s hand while fighting back the lump in my own throat, and my mother searched desperately for her handkerchief. After a moment, Christoph, unable to deal with all this unbridled emotion, cleared his throat and began collecting our luggage. Uncle Gus embraced Dad for a moment longer, kissed my mother ever so gently on the cheek, and then grabbed that camelback trunk by one handle and hoisted it up on his shoulder. “Shake a leg,” he encouraged, “or we’ll all miss dinner.”
It took several minutes to maneuver through the crowds and reach my uncle’s wagon. By then the emotions of the reunion were beginning to subside and tongues began to loosen. Mother had begun to fill my uncle in on the events of our long voyage. The luggage loaded, my brother and I climbed into the back of the buckboard and found a seat next to our trunk on a blanket that our uncle had provided. The three adults squeezed into the driver’s bench, Uncle Gus spoke to the team of mules, and Christoph and I got our very first taste of riding a springless buckboard down a cobblestone street. As we proceeded, Gus pointed out Independence Hall and related what I’m certain was a wealth of interesting local history, but I missed it all. Other than the sounds of the buckboard, all I heard were jarrin’ bones and rattlin’ teeth!
OBIE
Episode Two
DIG IN!
Within about fifteen minutes we’d left old town with its unique regular grid pattern and quaint, cobblestone streets. The northern outskirts of Philadelphia were comprised of a quilt work of ethnic communities, most notably, Germantown to the east, and an Irish settlement running along a ridge top to the west. Within thirty minutes we were making good time on a well-traveled dirt road. Despite the clouds of dust and numerous ruts, the relative comfort of this rural route was a welcome relief after the tormenting clatter of the inner city’s cobblestones.
After about an hour, Uncle Gus pointed out the massive hickory tree that marks the southwestern corner of his two hundred fifty-acre estate. Soon we descended a steep easterly slope and emerged from a dense forest of pine and spruce. Before us lay a large, gently rolling pasture, partly wooded with occasional groves of deciduous trees. The autumn sky was a brilliant blue, and a cool intermittent breeze occasionally sent a scattering of falling leaves across the road ahead. Several times large coveys of pheasant and grouse were disturbed from the roadside to sail across the lush green pastures and settle again into the dense foliage. Stately red oaks and golden hickories reigned over the pastures, and the ravines were ablaze with the vibrant fall foliage of dogwood, sassafras, and mountain laurel.
As we approached the Camp home, the rest of Uncle Gus’s family, each waving enthusiastically, assembled in the yard. Both of my uncle’s sons were married with children, and this spacious dwelling was home to all. As we stiffly unloaded our road-weary posteriors from the buckboard, the family descended on us from all directions, and we were once more caught up in a frenzy of hugging, kissing, and camaraderie. Christoph managed to slip away and began unloading the wagon, Uncle Gus began introductions, and I, still stupefied by the house itself, was now further overwhelmed by the enthusiastic attentions of Uncle Gus’s two sons, their wives, and nine remarkably affectionate children. I thanked the Lord silently to myself, dusted off my pants, gave an enormous sigh of relief, and a tremendous wave of satisfaction swept over me. The long, trying journey was over. We were home.
Uncle Gus’s nine grandchildren ranged in age from the oldest who was almost six, down to the two toddlers and a newborn. Six of them were on me like ducks on a June bug! As I staggered and struggled to stay on my feet, Uncle Gus’s eldest son Klouse grabbed me by the hand and began shaking the fire out of me. Cousin Klouse is in his late twenties, and his wife Maggie is Mr. McGregor’s granddaughter. Klouse and Maggie have three sons and two daughters. Klouse, besides helping out with the farm, is an experienced cobbler and works at my uncle’s shoe shop.
Klouse’s brother, Irving is twenty-six and I’d guess his wife Kathleen to be in her late teens or early twenties. Kathleen emigrated from Ireland, arriving with her family shortly after Irving. Irving and Kathleen have four children. Irving assists Uncle Gus with the farm, raising donkeys and horses, which they interbreed in order to produce mules. Mules are a product of crossbreeding and are evidently a hardy animal prized by area farmers.
Following introductions, Kathleen and Maggie announced that dinner was ready and waiting. Uncle Gus suggested that we eat now and deal with the luggage later, and everyone wholeheartedly agreed. The mouthwatering aromas of hot, well-seasoned seafood back at the wharf had been a terrible temptation, and the hour-long trip to Camp House had been almost more than our beleaguered bellies could bear. Irving was left to stable the mules, and the rest of us were ushered into the house, through the entry hall and into an enormous dining room in the east end of the ornate stone structure. I know that Mother would have preferred a brief time of toiletry prior to dining, but she congenially acquiesced and went along.
As we entered the hall, the mouthwatering aromas that wafted out of the dining room were almost sufficient to buckle my knees. The dining room itself was fabulous. Philadelphia had been one of the colonies busiest ports for two hundred years. During that time, it had become the final resting place for many a gallant old vessel. Much of the building material for Camp House had been salvaged from these exquisite old schooners. The wood floors, enormous hardwood beams, intricately carved wainscoting, and all the trimmings, had been rescued from these old ships and exuded the rich color and patina characteristic of wood that has achieved an advanced age. The furnishings were of a similar vintage and had come from around the world.
At the east end of the dining room was a wall of windows designed to take advantage of the spectacular view of the Delaware River below. In front of the window stood a six-legged, hand carved, solid oak table from Germany. Fully extended, with additional leaves in place, it measured fourteen feet in length. On the table, with place settings for twelve, were pewter plates and numerous bowls and platters of steaming hot foods in a variety and quantity that I’d not seen in three long, hard, hungry months at sea.
The youngest of the children lined up at the drop leaf tables and Maggie Mae escorted the rest of us to our assigned seats. My father stood at the far end of the table and my uncle took his customary place at the head. We all stood there drooling and watching Uncle Gus attentively. Uncle Gus smoothed his white beard, flashed that big grin around the table, bowed his head and requested, “Let us pray. Our heavenly Father, we ask your blessing on this special occasion, and we thank you for reuniting our family here in this land of liberty. Bless our family and friend’s dear Lord, and our loved ones far, far away. Bless this food and the precious hands that prepared it. Thank you for your son dear Lord and for his tender touch. Thank you that you love us each so much. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen, and pass the biscuits please!”
Irving had heard this routine before and had anticipated that request. He let sail with a hot buttermilk biscuit before Uncle Gus could even look up. The biscuit careened across the table grazing the top of Uncle Gus’s head and leaving a tassel of gray hair sticking straight up as though he’d just seen a ghost! Everyone was caught off guard by these antics and stood speechless, staring in disbelief. The old gentleman peered at Irving over the top of his spectacles, feigning aggravation for a moment while everyone held their breath, and then that big grin broke out again, and we all laughed hysterically from relief. Finally, we each took our seat, and Uncle Gus grabbed his fork and said, “Dig in!”
OBIE
Episode Three
A RUDE AWAKENING
It took several hours to do justice to that fabulous meal. By the time we’d finished eating, everyone agreed that a good nap was in order. My folks, being exhausted, were shown to the last available bedroom in the house. It was a nice spacious room upstairs with an eastern exposure providing plenty of sun and a spectacular view of the river.
Christoph and I excused ourselves and Cousin Klouse escorted us to our new quarters. About forty paces south of the stone structure stood the carriage house. In the north end of the carriage house was a twelve by fifteen-foot area, which had been a tack room. It was a cozy nook with an open beam ceiling and two small windows. This would meet our needs nicely. In one end was a small Franklin fireplace that Uncle Gus had just installed, and snugly arranged in the remaining space were two oak dressers, a washstand with mirror, a massive cherry chifforobe, and a set of bunk beds freshly outfitted with down pillows and flannel comforters. Most of the harness and tack had been removed, but several ancient saddles and accessories still hung from the rafters.
Klouse left us to settle in, and Christoph made a mad dash for the top bunk. I stood there for a moment, scratching dried strudel from the corner of my mouth, and eventually decided I was too tired and too full to put up a respectable fight. The bottom bunk would do nicely. Within minutes, Christoph was snoring away. I slipped my shoes and trousers off and hung my shirt and jacket in the chifforobe. My jacket contained a buttermilk biscuit which I had pocketed prior to leaving the dinner table; force of habit after three long months at sea. I set the biscuit on my dresser, sank into that luxurious goose down pillow, and added my snore to the chorus.
That evening the rest of the family had a nice nap and then enjoyed leftovers and a leisurely visit. I missed it! I slept right through until first light the following morning, when I was awakened by the faint sound of gnawing and crunching. The sun was not yet up, but its approach had filled the eastern horizon with a milky translucence which was spilling through our window and casting its dim light across our cold, hardwood floor. It was a cool fall morning and as my vision cleared, I could see my breath in the stillness and hear Christoph’s slow rhythmic breathing in the overhead bunk. All at once, the buttermilk biscuit on my dresser went into convulsions and spasms of violent shaking. I rubbed my eyes and stared in disbelief. It trembled spasmodically for a moment, and then, with a terrible shudder it quivered and split into four pieces.
I’d never seen a buttermilk biscuit in such profound distress! Three of the pieces trembled violently for a moment, and then darted across the dresser and shot into the air like pastry possessed, disappearing into a leather saddlebag that hung from a beam over my head. The fourth piece of pastry hesitated for a moment, and then flung itself off the dresser and dashed across the floor and under my bunk; clearly drunken behavior for a biscuit which only yesterday had been stone cold sober.
I was dumbfounded! I sprang to my feet and knocked myself senseless on the edge of Christoph’s bunk. Falling back on my own bunk, I sat there for several moments, fingering my knot and contemplating this remarkable biscuit and its uncharacteristic behavior. The gnawing sounds resumed and built to a fever pitch. Suddenly the saddlebag over my head rustled violently, the flap raised ever so slightly, and several pair of beady, black eyes returned my stare. My unsuspecting biscuit had fallen prey to a pack of marauding fairydiddles. These rampaging rodents were about the size of a small rat, but they were outfitted with a flat stubby tail and a flap of skin between each hind leg and forearm which allowed them to glide through the air like a leaf on a blustery day. These little vandals had evidently nested in the rafters, and they’d seen our arrival as an opportunity for a raid. In the future I’ll be considerably more wary of leaving poor, defenseless biscuits unattended, and the next time I jump to a conclusion like that, you can rest assured, it won’t be under a bunk bed!
OBIE
Episode Four
THE OFFERING
The incident with the rascally rodents had stirred me past the point of sleep, and it was way too cold to loiter long without starting a fire in the stove. I dressed quickly and peered out the window to the east. The sun had just begun to rise on another beautiful fall day, the first full day in my newly adopted homeland. The rising sun was just a sliver on the eastern horizon. The carriage house sits within a stone’s throw of the edge of the bluff, but the river valley that was there yesterday was nowhere in sight. The valley, from the edge of the house to the top of the eastern ridge half a mile away, was full to level with a swirling sea of gradually receding fog. The shaded areas in the yard were sparkling with a light coat of frost, and the areas where the first rays of sun shone, were steaming with their newfound warmth. As the fog dissipated and the vapors rose from the turbulent sea of mist, they caught the sunlight and burst into dazzling displays of shimmering rainbows.
By pressing my face against the window frame, I could just see the edge of Uncle Gus’s cabin at the northeast end of Camp House. A coal oil lamp burned cheerfully in the window, and billowy wisps of smoke boiled from the stovepipe and rose undisturbed through the crisp morning air. Christoph was still sound asleep. I closed the door quietly behind me and found a well-used trail that meandered through the wild azaleas that grew along the bluff. A group of cedar waxwings passed fall berries along the dogwood limbs, and nuthatches chattered noisily as they scrambled up and down the tree trunks in search of breakfast.
As I reached the porch of the cabin, I wiped my feet and peeked in through the lightly frosted windowpane. Uncle Gus was sitting in his rocker by the wood range, and a more elderly gentleman was warming his backside by the crackling fire. Both smiled as I approached, and Uncle Gus motioned for me to enter. My uncle introduced me to Argyle McGregor, who greeted me with a warm handshake and a thick Scottish accent, which despite my best efforts caused me to breakout in a big, foolish grin.
Following introductions, Uncle Gus and Mr. McGregor returned to their discussion, and it was soon apparent that their topic of conversation was an unfortunate event. Evidently there had been an accident at a mine up north several days earlier, and a local man by the name of Kinney or Kenny had been killed. The man leaves behind a wife and twelve children who live in the Irish community, which we’d passed the previous day. The family is left with little means of support and winter fast approaching. Uncle Gus and Argyle are planning to provide the family with provisions, which they intend to deliver immediately following breakfast. My uncle invited me to go along, and I readily accepted his invitation.
A knock at the door connecting the log cabin to the main house, proved to be Cousin Klouse, who rises early every morning in order to accommodate the long drive to town and have the shoe shop open for business by eight o’clock. After hearing our plans, he promptly disappeared, returning momentarily with a splendid navy-blue Peacoat. “This was mine.” he said, handing the heavy wool affair to me and patting his belly. “I think it shrank! If you’re going to venture out with these two characters, you’d better dress the part.” I broke out in another silly grin as Klouse helped me into the bulky, woolen garment. “That’s better!” exclaimed Klouse. “Now you look like a rip-roarin’, sea-goin’, sun-of-a-sea cook, for sure!” The pea coat was a little big for me, but it was warm, and his kind gesture caught me a little off guard. I wasn’t sure what to say, but I was sincerely delighted with the generous gift, and I grabbed his huge, callused hand and gave it a big squeeze. “Easy there, mate!” he said, feigning a grimace, and then went to grinnin’ like a cat in a cream can!
Cousin Irving was up also and had already gone to the field to begin a long day of farm work. Within half an hour no one else had stirred, and Uncle Gus said he was inclined to just let them sleep in. The four of us enjoyed toast, coffee, and soft-boiled eggs, which Uncle Gus prepared in the cabin, and we were soon underway. Cousin Klouse mounted the dappled gray Belgian, bid us adieu, and headed off for the shoe shop.
Mr. McGregor was driving a small buckboard and had provided an enormous tom turkey, which lay hobbled in the back. We loaded two sacks of whole-wheat flour and a bushel basket of fresh picked sweet corn, Uncle Gus and Mr. McGregor climbed into the driver’s seat, and I was drafted into active duty and assigned the formidable task of squatting cross-legged in the back of the jolting buggy and supervising the bird. The thirty-pound gobbler proved to be amicable enough as long as the ride was smooth, but every time we hit a rut, the turkey would gobble frantically and flog the fire out of me with his powerful wings. The ride to town was long and memorable, but nothing I’d choose to repeat. I spat dust and feathers the entire trip, and the poor disheveled turkey was livid!
After what seemed an eternity, we arrived at Patty Creek. This particular Irish community was home to about fifteen poverty-stricken families. The majority of the homes were small, poorly built, wood-frame structures, which offered little protection from the elements under even the best conditions. The families were mostly recent immigrants from Ireland, and those members of the community who’d arrived earlier and now considered themselves entitled natives had received these hungry newcomers with what we’ll charitably call a dubious enthusiasm. It’s the nature of humans and mangy dogs to grab their bone and growl when approached by strangers. These pilgrims from the Emerald Isle were, for the most part, fine, upstanding, Christian folk, but they’d arrived in this country with little or nothing, and most of that was gone.
The men who were able, eked out a meager living in the coalmines up north, and the women struggled to survive by taking in laundry and seamstress work, along with the arduous daily responsibilities inherent in tending to the needs of large numbers of children. Health care was unheard of, and the grim reaper was a visitor they knew all too well.
The Kinney home was a rustic affair, terraced into a steep, rocky bank. There was a small, well-tended plot of ground where the family evidently attempted to produce vegetables, but the reward for their efforts almost certainly made their homelands rapidly worsening potato famine look like a cornucopia. A veritable web of clotheslines surrounded the weathered house, each one waving a generous variety of well-worn linens and badly frayed overalls. In the yard a Yorkshire sow spread herself contentedly in the luxurious sun, as a gaggle of diaper-clad toddlers mingled with the old sow’s litter and played king of the mountain on an overturned washtub. The porch was home to a threadbare sofa, and half a dozen bantam chickens sunned and preened themselves along the railing.
As we climbed the rickety stairs, a twelve-year-old boy came to the door and introduced himself as Lidge Timothy Kinney the third. His mother had taken to her bed, but he’d fetch his aunt. Mrs. O’Meara was probably about forty, but the years had not been kind. She forced her worry-worn face into a weary but pleasant smile and asked what she could do for us. Mr. McGregor took her by the work-withered hand and explained why we’d come. Her tired eyes welled up with tears, and she quivered with a restrained sob. “Please wait here,” she said. In a moment she returned assisting Mrs. Kinney. The old woman took Uncle Gus’s hand in both of hers and stared appreciatively into his sympathetic face. Tears streamed down her furrowed cheeks as she bit her trembling lip and sighed. “God bless you.” she said and was overcome with grief.
Mr. McGregor and I excused ourselves and began unloading the provisions. Earlier in the day the provisions had seemed to me a more than ample gift. Now somehow, they seemed very small indeed. Lidge locked the turkey in the chicken house, and we carried the rest of our offering through the meager kitchen into a small, cold, extremely frugal pantry. The few candles were entirely spent and the fireplace stone-cold.
Mrs. Kinney’s eldest daughter, Laura was doing dishes, and ten-year-old Mariah stood clutching her apron and wiping her lustrous brown eyes. As I sat a sack of flour down by the dry sink, Mariah’s eyes momentarily fixed on mine. Both of us blushed and glanced immediately away, but somewhere in the cosmos the connection was already made. As I arose, I involuntarily offered my hand. Mariah seized it eagerly, drew me tenderly to her side, and the two of us joined unexpectedly in embrace. She sobbed quietly for a moment, her fragile form quivering against my chest, and then those huge brown eyes gazed once again into mine. “We can’t thank you enough.” She said, in a tiny, trembling voice. “Papa’s gone, and Mama’s heart is broke.”
I squeezed her hand and tried to force a smile, but she’d touched me too deeply. The smile wouldn’t come. I bent down, kissing her gently on the forehead, and Uncle Gus laid his hand on my shoulder and said compassionately, “Come along Obadiah, Let’s go home.”
Shannon Thomas Casebeer
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