Em (aka a simple pioneer story)

Author's note: The first chunk of this, Em's early history, was written a couple years ago. I am now using it as a jumping off point for a longer story (novel?) about Em's daughter, ideally a religious novel (Christian? Jewish? I'll change it to suit the highest paying publisher!! ). So here is the original piece, followed by a chapter from the middle of the book-to-be, I hope.


<warning - NO historical accuracy yet!>

Em didn't exist. She was swallowed up in the vastness of the prairie. Turned away from the covered wagon, turned away from the virgin tracks their horses had made, she was enveloped in land - and totally nullified.

She looked up and saw unbroken sky, like the pale blue ribbon the French mother she knew back in New York tied on their little boy baby's curls.

She looked down, and a puddle of red flocked calico was all she saw. No feet - they were hidden in the layers of petticoat and wires and cambric and calico.

Em held her breath. She heard the horses contentedly munching the ample grass. She listened harder, and could hear her husband's slow breathing, as he snatched a quick nap waiting for her. Focusing her hearing further, she heard wind on the grasses, crickets warming up for the evening choir, and silence, blissful silence, breaking over the deserted prairie and her family.

They were home.

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Ehrminegard was born under a tree in the snow, beneath her mother's tattered skirts and a moon that was blessedly dim. Her mother Lonny was an Irish immigrant who had a stroke of good fortune in finding servant work in a wealthy Long Island, NY home. The good fortune turned out to be Em - the stroke happened when Em was 10. Lonny had been seduced by the oldest son of the house - not raped of course, because so gentleman would stoop to such a thing. After being dismissed for her obvious pregnancy Lonny took to the streets, begging and drifting from church charity to immigrant aid society. Em was born in a park on Long Island's northern shore. The next day, her mother took her half-frozen daughter in bloody rags and deposited her in the grocer's basket left outside her father's stately manor.

Lonny and Em lived well with monthly payouts from the father's family, which Lonny regularly went to collect on every first of the month. She refused to let Em come along, did not want her daughter anywhere near the place of her genesis. After 10 years, Lonny suffered a stroke and died. Lonny was 27. Em was 10, and she did not know where her father's family lived, or even their surname. A kind neighbor arranged for Lonny to be buried simply, thoughtfully took the rest of the money in the apartment for her pains, and left Em a loaf of bread and the address of an orphanage in lower Manhattan. Em went to the funeral, walked out of the apartment, across the bridge, and entered the orphanage two weeks before her eleventh birthday.

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At sixteen, Em was well read, soft spoken, shabbily dressed and full of dreams. She found herself working at a green grocers, and never realized that she was returning to her early beginnings. She shared a rented room with other orphanage graduates. Unlike them, she didn't spend all her income, what there was of it after rent, on fripperies and fashions. Em had a book hidden under her pillow - and she had hope.

The book she had was "Letters from an American Farmer," a book of letters that were more like essays, published in France to fill the demand for tales of colonial America. It spoke of the freedom of landownership. It spoke of the nobility of working in agriculture. It spoke of financial independence. It drew Em to take the dream of America and the land it held as a religion. Hills were reflected in her eyes. Plows dug rivets through her dreams.

She knew that 'going west' would take more than effort - it would take money, and so every 6 AM found her smiling at surly servants picking out potatoes for their master's breakfasts. But Em had the gift of patience, and endurance. Not for nothing was she born in a field by a teenaged immigrant. Em would do whatever it took to realize her dream.

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August, 1871. Em wished she could tear her skirts and clinging bodice off and jump into the Hudson river. She was *hot*. There was not a breeze in NY. The produce rotted within hours of it being delivered, if it was even edible then. Customers wanted only fruit, and bought only cabbage and onions. There was a stagnant odor about Manhattan. Two separate customers had felt the need to ask for their orders while putting their faces inches away from her own, and the feeling their breath left on her skin was enough to make her crush a raw rutabega in her hands.

The greengrocer was about to close for the hottest hours of the afternoon when a man leapt into the shadow of their awning. Trying to pretend it was snowing and she was cool, Em turned to face him with a helpful "yes sir?"

"Have you any oranges?" he asked, smiling in return.

Em looked at the potential customer. There *were* two oranges left in the store, both long past their prime. Em was hoping the grocer would throw them out. As an employee, Em was always able to beat others for first pick at the garbage bins behind the store.

Em wanted those oranges for herself. She glided a little to the left so her voluminous - if of course cloth - skirts hid the box with the citrus. "Sir, I would love to help, but with the heat we really don't have much to offer." There - now he would leave, and she would have a glimmer of wealth eating her overripe oranges back in her room that night. She put an I'm-sorry-I-can't-help smile on her face.

The customer's eyes lowered, his mouth turned down. "If it were because I wanted them, I would thank you and leave. But a doctor has told me that it is crucial my mother have some fresh fruit every day, as long as this heat lasts. She is ill." He raised his eyes and looked into hers. "Might you have something, anything at all? I have been to every market in two miles, and this is my last chance. I am able to pay..." he began, his hand in his pocket, making the coins speak.

His mother... his mother was ill. She was ill, and he could save her. Em thought of her own mother, proud, with pursed lips - and dead, head lolling to the side, pale. She changed her smile for a real one, moved her skirts like a clapper in a bell, and took the two oranges from the box.

"Here sir. We have these. They are not the best specimens, but they are all we have. I hope they will make a difference." She held an orange in each hand, and waited for him to smile in relief. But - he didn't.

"Thank you. I do have money," and he put his hand in his pocket, "but just three cents. I can give you more tomorrow, if you will trust me for the rest." His nose crinkled and his eyebrows came together, as he looked at her in hope.

Em considered. The green grocer did not like it when she allowed credit without his approval. On the other hand, this man's clothes were neat and unpatched, his hat was not limp in the heat, he was clean-shaven - all things that said he was not a pauper. He spoke clearly and without a accent, as far as she could make out, and then, there was his mother... Only a completely depraved person would pretend their own mother was ill for the sake of fruit.

She nodded once, and moved behind the counter to open the account book. She placed the oranges down, dividing the two of them. "The price for the two oranges is 10 cents. I will put you down for three now. Your name, sir?" she said, pen poised at the top of a fresh page.

"Everest. Henry Everest." He put the pennies on the counter, and plucked the oranges from the table. "And I will be back. Thank you," and he smiled into her eyes, "thank you Miss...?"

"Miss O'Neal," she finished for him. "I hope so."

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He did come back. Not just that day, but several times a week thereafter. He never bought much, never had a lot of money, but he never left a debt for more than a week.

He came by throughout the rest of the summer and the fall. Em found herself looking forward to the minutes he would spend in the store, to his green eyes meeting hers. She always wanted to shake hands, always wanted to brush a lock of hair off his forehead. But she only smiled, said a few words and wished him well.

He came by one day in a new black suit. It was October, and now Em was glad for the amount of skirts protecting her from the breezes. She looked up at him and smiled as always, but he didn't smile back. The mourning suit told her everything. She had hoped that a little bit of fruit could change his destiny, but in 1871 there was little a doctor could do.

She didn't ask what happen, and he didn't offer. But she walked towards him, firmly took his hand - the first time they had ever touched, and while her boss watched she walked Henry around to the back of the store, where they sat on empty wooden cartons and cried together, hands clasped.

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The greengrocer had been kind enough to offer his own home for the wedding, and Em and Henry were married there December 31, 1871. Neither of them had any family living, and the wedding was quite small. But the bride and groom were radiant.

They settled into a rented room. Henry had wanted to live somewhere else after his mother died, and Em couldn't very well move her husband in with her roommates. She continued to work in the grocery, and Henry drove a horse and carriage, spending most of his income on their stabling and upkeep. But they lived simply, and they began to save, little by little. They had a shared dream - Kansas.

The posters and the leaflets and the advertisements all said, "Come to Kansas! There's land, Land, LAND for everyone! Make your forture! Live the American dream!"

Em and Henry had a dream to have their own piece of land. If they gave it honest work, undoubtedly it would reward them with a good living. They planned how they would raise their family away from tenements and alleyways and disease. Clean air and land of their own - that was what the new couple wanted.

But to get there... they would need money. Money for horses, seeds, a plow and a stove. Even the wheat grown in America needed a full season to grow, and so they would need something to keep them going until they had grain in the silo. So they worked.

Em took a second job at a laundry. She came home damp and exhausted, and with pains down her back that left only around 6 AM - time to get up for another day.

Henry, realizing you have to spend money to make money, scrimped and saved until he had enough to spruce up his carriage and get his horse a nicer bridle. He then patrolled the streets near the theatres and fancy houses. The fares were the same, but servicing the rich there was always the chance of a tip.

One year passed. Then two. Em was showing the signs of working too hard. Her face had a few lines that no nineteen year-old's should have. She had lost a pregnancy a few months before. Henry had developed a stubborn cough from too much waiting in the cold without a good coat. Then of course, there had been the price of sickness - the horse had had trouble recovering from the sprained leg. So by 1873, the two young people were gone. But in their place were two work-worn adults, who had not just a dream - they had $100 in the bank.

It was time to go west.

Me, the author again. Here's the new chapter, which is a few years after they've reached Kansas, and baby Laura is about 6 years old...

So proud of her new home, a real home, not a ‘soddie’ or a teepee, Em wanted to have a housewarming. It would be a potluck afternoon, a way to meet their neighbors, have a good meal, and a chance for Em to receive the warm approval of her peers, something she needed as much as the house newly erected.

At dinner that night, with the smell of fresh bread mingling with the raw-wood scent that lingered still, Em broached the topic to Henry, ready with a list of arguments why she should have her way.

“Henry dearest, after the summer’s work we all need a break, and it’s a friendly, neighborly sort of thing to do, and…” Henry cut her off.

“Fine,” he said, muffled through a full mouth.

Em resumed, not really hearing him. “It will be nice also for Laura to meet the other children in the area, and you won’t have to do a single thing but wash your face and smile at everyone.”

Henry swallowed with some difficulty, since in Em’s anxiety about convincing him she had forgotten to bring any cups to the table, and he was too much the gentleman to drink from the pitcher. He was also too hungry to pause to ask her to bring the simple vessels. But he did stop for a moment, looked his eager wife in the eye and repeated, “Fine. I think it’s a marvelous idea, and I’m so glad you thought of it, for I never would have.” He was rewarded by a beam of sunshine from across the table. Em was too pleased to speak, which was well, because Henry didn’t have to interrupt her again to ask her to bring the cups – he got them himself.

The housewarming was set for Tuesday a week hence. Invitations were carried gladly by little Smith on horseback, and most neighbors said they would come, pot in hand. Mrs. Tilburry sent word back with Smith that she regretfully could not make the trip since a mare was due to foal, but if Smith rode over the evening before, she would be honored to send him back with some confection for the occasion. Em smiled at the prospect – she adored Mrs. Tilburry, but if she couldn’t have her company she’d happily settle for her cake.

Laura was told simply that next week lots of people were coming over, more than she’d ever seen before, and there would be lots of good things to eat and she would have a new ribbon for her hair. Em wisely added that all these pleasures would only occur IF Laura was a good little girl until then. Apparently her warning was taken to heart, because for the rest of the week Laura ate neatly, obeyed her parents instantly, and when she scratched her knee and bled slightly on her dress, was inconsolable that she had been a “bad dirl” and would be banned from the party.

Monday before the party a cool breeze began around mid-afternoon, and a light rain fell in the evening. It was enough to settle the last of the summer’s dust, and heralded a drop in temperature. Em was glad, since the drops had scrubbed her house to a polish, and the balmy temperature meant the crowd in her small living room wouldn’t be stifling. Laura was glad because her mother had told her she could wear her shoes again when the summer was over, and the combination of promised ribbon and shoes almost overwhelmed her with joy.

Smith reminded Em some twenty times not to forget the widow Tilburry’s offer, so by dusk the new larder sported a perfectly rounded, golden pound cake. Henry saw it and, realizing the massive resistance Smith must have shown to tasting it en route, took a knife and cut thick slices for both of them – after Em had gone to sleep.

At Tuesday daybreak, Henry was grooming the animals extra-carefully, since he knew the other men would spend more time outside with them than inside warming the new house. Em was pink-cheeked with excitement, and wore two aprons over her best dress, so when the guests came she could wear only one and be totally spotless. Laura was laying the table for her mother, and moved so slowly and deliberately with the plates (good girls never broke plates) that the simple task took her close to an hour.

In a burst of hospitality and optimism, Henry had surprised Em by spending all of Monday hunting, and whether by his increasing wisdom as a hunter, or the late-summer stupidity of the local birds, there were three fine, plump ducks and one middle-aged goose being roasted for the highlight of the party.

Noon came soon, and with it the sounds of hooves, wheels and harness. Henry gave a last smooth to his mustache, Em made a brushing movement down her immaculate single apron, and Laura stood shyly in the doorway, very conscious of her new hair ribbon and totally ignorant of the fact that in the bustle of the morning, she had put on mismatched stockings.

In an instant, the house was full of skirts and children, and Laura’s careful table settings were disturbed in a quest to find room for all the neighbors’ dishes. The men gathered outside with Henry, shaking his hand, congratulating him on his new walls and roof, admiring his horses and cow, and wondering how long it would be until the women called them inside to eat.

Em quickly felt that her house was truly warmed, for she was growing rosy with all the praise of her friends. Every word they said about her little home was as sweet as if they had complimented her directly, and after a few minutes she felt so happy, so moved by their fresh appreciation that she thought she would never be sad again.

At first most of the children had stood around dumbly, close to their mothers’ skirts and watching the others warily. In the rush of summer work, and with the country so newly settled, even those who had met before felt like strangers. But with the guilessness only a six year old has, Laura bravely walked up to each and said, “My name is Laura, and this is my house, and now Mother lets us go play.” With such an invitation, the children lost their fear, and all were soon rolling in the prairie grasses together like they had known each other always.

Soon enough the bell was rung, and the men trooped in to eat. The women stood around and helped serve, and when the men showed signs of satiation, they collected the plates to be washed. Each wife laughingly sent her husband outside, and for a few minutes a delightful washing scene ensued, with water splashing everywhere and towels drying plates faster than they could be washed. Laura and the other children were called, and they began to eat.


There were the ducks and the goose, or the remnants thereof. Thanks to the kindness of almost-strangers, besides there was mashed turnips and biscuits, black-eyed peas and cornbread, scalloped potatoes, navy beans and cottage cheese, walnut ketchup and cranberry sauce, and cakes, pies and a few cookies to round out the meal. Laura had never seen a table so full of food, with so many colors, smells and tastes that she could hardly stay still enough to actually ingest anything. Since Em had not told her not to speak at the meal, when a lull came in the ladies’ conversation, she swallowed her bite of scalloped potatoes and asked, “Ma? Who made the potatoes?”

Em and the ladies were charmed that Laura cared, and Em answered gravely, “Mrs. Thorngood. You should thank her.”

“T’ank you Mrs. Torngood,” Laura said, looking at that blushing wife, who smiled and nodded her head by way of acknowledgement.

“Ma?” Laura went on, “who made the beans?”

“Mrs. Linder made the beans,” and before Em could direct her, Laura turned around and faced Mrs. Linder and won her with her sweet “t’ank you.”

The list went on.

“Who made the cookies?”

“Mrs. Jacks.”

“T’ank you Mrs. Jacks. Who made the cornbread?”

“Mrs. Williams.”

“T’ank you Mrs. Willums. Who made the cranberirys?”

“Mrs. Hummel.”

Em was happy to encourage the spontaneous gratitude in her daughter, and her smile as she replied gave the back-and-forth the feel of a game, so that soon Laura, while still in earnest, was grinning at the banter.

The food on the table, or rather, the empty dishes, were eventually exhausted. Laura was loath to end the game and the attention she was receiving, so, after looking around for inspiration, she remembered why all these people were here in her home.

“Ma? Who made our new house?”

“Father did, with some help from his friends.”

“Who made my ribbons?”

“A weaver, back east.”

“Who made our farm?”

“Father and I did, and Smith helps us too.”

“Ma? Who made our sky?

Em’s face went suddenly sober. The question, so innocently asked, brought up an issue she had tried to ignore for years. Realizing the other women were all watching her, she fumbled for a reply. “Well, I guess nature made the sky.”

Laura opened her mouth to ask where nature was, that she could be thanked like everyone else, when Mrs. Williams asked, “Why confuse the child? Laura,” addressing her directly, “God made the sky, the earth, and everything on it.” Laura closed her mouth and tilted her head to the side, considering. Mrs. Willams said, as if continuing a conversation, “It’s just so much the pity we don’t have a church – my children hardly know the catechism either!”

The other ladies murmured in agreement. Laura looked at her mother’s face, and with an intuitive wisdom knew the game was over and she should not ask who or what ‘God’ was. She would save the question until that line was gone in between her mother’s eyes.


Me again (I don't shut up!!). The direction I'd like this all to take is that Em is bitter about religion because of how hard her early life was, but that Laura instinctively searches for a Something, some Meaning. Yadi yadi, she grows in faith, etc, and then of course she'll meet some boy, test of faith, end in glorious romance, Em regains faith in God, the end.

Mind you, I have NOT quite worked out all the details yet. But this is a start!!!