military funeral and cried and cried. A bugler with white hair played for Charles:
`- sleep in peace, soldier brave, God is nigh.’ If I ever come close to believing,
it is when I hear ‘Taps’. Even today.)
After that summer session in 1898, when September carne it was necessary to make a
choice; go to school or not, and if so, where? I did not want to remain home, doing
little but play nursemaid to George. Since I could not go to Columbia, I wanted to
go to Butler Academy, a two-gear private school that offered a liberal arts course
acceptable at Columbia or at Lawrence in lieu of lower division. I pointed out to
Mother that I had saved Christmas and birthday presents and `egg money’ (‘egg money’
was any earned money – taking care of neighbours’ children, minding a stand at the
county fair, and so forth – not much and quite seldom) – I had saved enough for my
tuition and books.
Mother said, ‘How will you get back and forth?’
I answered, ‘How does Tom get back and forth?’
`Don’t answer a question with a question, young lady. We both know how your brother
did it: by buggy in good weather, on horseback in bad weather… and he stayed home
in the very worst weather. But your brother is a grown man. Tell me how you will do
it.’
I thought about it. A buggy was no problem; the Academy had a barn for horses
awaiting their masters. Horseback? I could ride almost as well as my brothers… but
girls do not arrive at school wearing overalls, and lide-saddle was not a good idea
for weather not suited to a buggy. But even good weather and a buggy… From late in
October to early in March I would have to leave home before daylight and return home
after dark.
In October 1889 Sarah Trowbridge had left her father’s farm to go four miles by
buggy to Rich Hill. Her horse and buggy came home. Sarah was never seen again.
Ours was a quiet countryside. But the most dangerous animal in all history walks on
two legs… and sometimes slinks along country roads.
`I am not afraid, Mother.’
‘Tell me what your father would advise you to do.’
So I gave up, and prepared to go back to high school for another semester, or more.
School was less than a mile away and there were people we knew within shouting
distance the whole way. Best of all, our high school had courses I had not had time
to take. I continued Greek and another year of Latin and started differential
equations and first-year German and audited geology and medieval history instead of
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study hall those two hours. And of course I still continued piano lessons on
Saturday mornings – Mother had taught me for three years, then she had decided that
I could profit from more advanced training than she could give me. It was an ‘in
kind’ deal; Miss Primrose owed Father both for herself and for her ailing and
ancient mother.
So that kept me out of mischief the school year starting September 1898 while still
leaving me plenty of time to write a newsy unsentimental letter to Mr Smith
(Sergeant Smith!) each week, and another to Tom, and another to Father, and another
to Chuck… until one carne back to me the week before Chuck came back to us,
forever.
I didn’t see boys or young men any to speak of. The good ones had gone to war; those
who remained behind struck me, mostly, as having drool on their chins. Or too
impossibly young for me. I was not consciously being faithful to Mr Smith. He had
not asked me to, and I would not expect him to be faithful to me. We had had one –
just ore – highly successful first meeting. But that did not constitute a betrothal.
Nor was I faithful. But it was just my young cousin Nelson, who hardly counts.
Nelson and I had ore thing in common: we were both as horny as a herd of goats, all