Crossing Stones Read online

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  Dedicated with love

  to my brothers,

  Richard and Herb,

  in memory of our mother,

  Jean Elizabeth Timmons Frost,

  1917–2008

  My Mind Meanders Like the Creek

  April 1917

  My Crooked Mind

  Muriel

  You’d better straighten out your mind, Young Lady.

  That’s what the teacher, Mr. Sander, tells me. As if I could

  stretch the corners of my thoughts like you’d pull

  a rumpled quilt across a bed in an attempt to make

  it look like no one slept there, no one ever

  woke up screaming from a nightmare, or lay there

  sweating till their fever broke, everybody

  scared they’d die—but then they didn’t, they got up

  and made the bed. My mind sets off at a gallop

  down that twisty road, flashes by “Young Lady,”

  hears the accusation in it—as if it’s

  a crime just being young, and “lady”

  is what anyone can see I’ll never be

  no matter how I try, and it’s obvious

  that I’m not trying. It’s history class, which,

  as far as I can tell, they might as well call

  war class, all those battlefields, and Generals,

  and Secretaries, capitalized like that—

  not secretaries like Aunt Vera, who

  works for the city of Chicago, and travels

  on her own with money she has saved

  even after she has purchased both the hat

  with three red feathers and the one of deep blue

  wool that’s lined with silk. No, the Secretaries

  whose names we have to memorize for Monday’s test

  are important people: Secretary of the Treasury,

  Secretary of the Interior—in other words,

  men. Which is my mistake, to point that out.

  Why is it, Mr. Sander, that in real life

  secretaries are always women, but here

  in school, all the ones we learn about are men?

  It’s a perfectly reasonable question, but everybody

  turns to stare, first at me, then at the teacher’s blaze of anger:

  Miss Jorgensen, are you being smart with me? How

  do you answer a question like that? No, I’m

  not, or Yes, I am—either way just gets you

  in the same place, only deeper. I try for

  middle ground. Maybe I am, I say, maybe

  I’m not—trying to decide what it might mean

  to be smart like Aunt Vera and express my own opinions,

  compared to what it means when Mr. Sander says it.

  I keep on thinking back and forth along

  those crooked lines while he is giving me a

  talking-to I barely hear until he gets to that

  last line—I’d better straighten out my

  mind? No thank you, Mister Sir Secretary

  Reverend General Your Honor, I think

  but do not say. I like the way my mind meanders

  like the creek that flows into the northern tip

  of Reuben Lake, out the southwest side

  into the Little Betsy River, and on and on

  from there to who knows where, until

  eventually it joins the wild sea.

  Our Lives and Our Fortunes

  Muriel

  We’ve all heard what is coming: we know

  the president will take us right into the middle

  of this war they’re fighting overseas, yet I can’t help

  hoping against hope that someone, somehow

  might find a way to keep us out of it.

  Our neighbors, Emma Norman and her parents,

  step carefully across Crabapple Creek on their way

  to our house to listen to the president address the nation.

  Mr. Norman brings his usual peppermints for Grace,

  and she, as always, passes them around until there’s only one

  left in the bag, then gives the bag to Mrs. Norman—

  Take this home, she says, and save it

  for when Frank comes back. She’s done that

  at least once a week for the past six months,

  since Frank left for basic training. I have no idea

  if Mrs. Norman actually saves them, but the thought is so

  big-hearted for a seven-year-old child, maybe Frank

  can taste some kind of sweetness; even all those

  miles away in Kansas, he must know that here

  in Michigan we’re missing him. And never more so

  than this evening, as we gather close around

  the radio and hear the president proclaim: The world

  must be made safe for democracy … To such a task

  we can dedicate our lives and our fortunes,

  everything that we are and everything

  that we have. He needs an army of 500,000 men;

  he invokes the principle of universal liability

  to service. Ollie stands up, puffs out his chest,

  and glances across the room at Emma.

  Tell me, Mr. President, is my brother

  “everything that we are” or is he “everything

  that we have”? I only know I’m grateful

  he is just sixteen, not old enough

  to offer up his everything into your hands.

  Apple Trees

  Emma

  I remember last September, before

  Frank left for basic training, he and Ollie

  waiting in the apple trees—Ollie on their side

  of the creek, and Frank on ours—watching for Muriel

  and me to cross Crabapple Creek. Halfway across, where

  an eddy spins between two stones, I looked up just in time

  to see Ollie throw an apple down at me. I caught it, threw it

  back, and to everyone’s immense surprise, I somehow hit

  Ollie in the arm, which made him lose his balance. I’m

  still not sure how he got from tree to water, but there

  he was in the creek, spluttering his staunch denial:

  I didn’t fall, I jumped! Sitting on his backside,

  laughing. Tonight I’m remembering that jolly

  scene. Muriel, Ollie, Frank, me—us four.

  Should We?

  Ollie

  Sit down and play a tune, Pa suggests.

  Should we? In wartime, is it right for us to

  make music? Almost half the senior boys, like

  Frank and his friends last year, are planning to enlist.

  I’d go with them if I could—heck, I’d join up tomorrow

  if I thought they’d accept a sixteen-year-old. Could I gain

  enough weight, go down to the recruiting office, and try to

  bluff my way in by claim
ing to be eighteen? I bet I’d get a

  different reaction from Pa than Ma. Ma would take it in

  stride, or try to act like she did. Pa would be furious:

  (Blankety-blank) President Wilson thinks he can just

  take away our sons to use for his cannon fodder!

  Would he actually try to stop me, though?

  It’s likely—so I wouldn’t tell him.

  Moral Compass

  Muriel

  Have you raised this girl with no moral compass?

  Mr. Sander questions my parents, then turns

  to me: If you continue to question our president

  and the decisions he has made, other students

  may wonder if their classmates are risking

  their lives for nothing. You should be ashamed.

  Mama does hang her head in shame, but I don’t, so

  Mr. Sander pushes on: If we can’t stand together

  as a free country, what are our boys fighting for? At that,

  Papa looks straight into Mr. Sander’s eyes. He doesn’t say

  what he sees (the eyes of a coward?), because Papa is kind,

  thoughtful about others’ feelings. I know my daughter

  is opinionated, he says, but there is no law

  against that. (So far, he mutters under his breath.)

  Muriel has every right to speak her mind.

  Mr. Sander withers under Papa’s steady gaze, and we

  go home. Papa drives the horses gently; we ride in silence

  for a mile or so, and then he says, You’re graduating soon;

  don’t worry too much about what Mr. Sander thinks—

  but there are others like him in this world.

  Be a little careful of such people, Muriel.

  “A little careful”—maybe—but then Mama adds,

  You may need to learn to bite your tongue.

  Is that what women—“ladies”—are supposed to do?

  Bite off little pieces of ourselves,

  our very thoughts? Chew on them

  until they don’t seem so worthwhile—

  and then what? Swallow them? Or spit them out

  and crush them underfoot, until we can

  be absolutely sure no one will know

  they ever crossed our minds!

  Fragrance of Lilacs, Sweet Scent of Skunk

  May 1917

  Deep Quiet

  Emma

  Such good solid stuff

  Ollie is made of—these words

  declaring war are playing on his mind.

  When anything “must be made safe,” Frank

  and Ollie always volunteer. Now, with Frank’s life

  on the line, Ollie tries to help my family. Our fence has

  been broken for a month; no doubt he started fixing it today

  because it keeps his hands occupied as he tries to find a way

  to think about what this war will mean, for all of us. He’s as

  quiet as the fence itself: measure the wire, open the knife,

  cut the wire, close the knife, quick twist, hard yank—

  yes, the fence will hold. Above us, the kind

  of sky that greets a thousand bluebirds.

  So sweet a day. So tough.

  Socks

  Muriel

  Thirty-seven years ago in Denmark,

  two sisters married two brothers. It’s

  like an anthem, the way Papa tells it: To

  this day, your Danish relatives would claim you

  if you walked into the old family home.

  But when Mama tells the story, she’s seeing

  Ollie with the Normans’ daughter, Emma—

  and me with Emma’s older brother, Frank,

  pairing us up like she rolls up pairs of socks,

  that little sigh of satisfaction when they come out even—

  or “close enough,” if there’s one black sock,

  one navy blue, left over at the end.

  Emma is my closest friend; Frank and Ollie

  are like brothers. Mrs. Norman comes here

  with her sewing almost every afternoon,

  or Mother goes to their house—they seem to think

  they know us better than we know ourselves.

  But I don’t see myself going down the road they

  see me on, leading to a clean white farmhouse

  not too far from here, me out in the yard, my

  apron pockets full of corn I’m scattering

  for biddy hens. I love Emma like a sister, and

  I’m as scared as anyone that Frank will be

  sent overseas to fight this war—I’m delighted

  that he’s coming home on leave next week—

  but slow down, Mother: I have no

  intention of becoming the Mrs. Norman of your

  imaginary future. Who I am remains to be seen—

  and I alone intend to be the one to see it.

  Lightning

  Ollie

  Gray sky, all-day rain,

  thunder coming closer. Lightning

  struck the barn in just this kind of storm

  last summer. It took us the entire fall and winter

  to rebuild the part of the hayloft that burned in the fire

  that night. Our work is sound—Pa and I work well together,

  though I wonder: Will he do as well without me? Ollie, let me

  show you something! Grace runs up. I’ve told her we can use the

  scrap wood for a playhouse; now she’s found a place to build it.

  You said you would, Ollie. Come on—look! If I work hard and

  fast I might get it done in my spare time. (Maybe, with

  luck, I’ll build up my muscle and look older.) I sort the

  lumber. I might not finish it before … I start to

  say. Before what, Ollie? I don’t answer.

  Ten Days Home

  Muriel

  Frank has finished his training; now

  he has ten days of home leave. Then—

  nobody can say for sure, but it looks like

  he’ll be shipped overseas. We meet him

  at the station—I’m the first to see him (I can’t

  help noticing how his shoulders fill his uniform),

  but I stand back when three girls surround him

  as he jumps from the train, swinging his duffel bag

  across his back. He scans the crowd—his eyes light on us

  (on me?) as Grace sees him and runs to hug him.

  He lifts her in the air and swings her high (she

  almost kicks Edith Morgan in the jaw),

  and Frank is ours for these few days.

  We all gather at the Normans’ house for dinner—

  Mrs. Norman slices a clove-studded ham; Emma’s baked

  a batch of “Grandma Jean’s Best Dinner Rolls”;

  Mama and I made a four-layer devil’s food cake;

  and after Frank has eaten three large pieces, he plays

  a few tunes on his banjo, Papa plays his fiddle,

  and we sing until long after dark. Mama

  lets Grace stay up an hour past her bedtime—

  Frank shows her how to pluck a few notes

  of “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,”

  and teaches her six verses, nodding to her

  when he sings “to the sweetest girl I know.”

  Grace smiles up at him—she may just be

  the sweetest girl any of us will ever know.

  I breathe in this all-together of our life—

  how can there be war in a world where

  Ollie’s baritone and Emma’s alto

  harmonize so perfectly?

  Why Not?

  Muriel

  Frank’s home leave threatens to eclipse

  my graduation, until he asks if I’m going

  to my graduation dance with anyone—

  Well, no—and, if I’d like him to take me.

  I
’m so surprised, I almost ask the question

  that pops into my mind: Was this your mother’s

  idea, Frank, or yours? I stop myself because

  he stutters as he asks me—M-M-Muriel,

  shifting from one foot to the other—Frank

  who is always so confident and full of fun.

  I can’t help smiling as I answer: Yes, I’d like that.

  He stops stuttering, grins, and says, Our mothers

  will be happy. Exactly what I’m thinking.

  A little too happy for my taste, I say.

  Frank shrugs. Who says we have to tell them?

  We agree—we don’t! As I’m sewing my dress

  (blue satin that swirls around me when I walk), I refer to it

  as my graduation dress. And when Mama asks me

  if I’m going to the dance, I simply say, as she

  so often does, We’ll see, when the time comes.

  A Greater Good

  Muriel

  I should have been the valedictorian. Does it bother you,

  Emma asked me, to be smarter than all the boys?

  No, it doesn’t bother me, but Mr. Sander couldn’t stand

  to hear me give a speech—who knows what radical ideas

  I might express. He gave me a D in comportment

  (Comportment: Who I am! How I conduct myself!)

  so my final average fell one quarter point below

  Arthur Anderson’s, and now we are listening

  to Arthur lecture us: We must all Put Others First

  in this Time of our Country’s Greatest Need.

  We must Sacrifice our Selfish Dreams

  for a Greater Good. The teachers and parents

  and half the students get out their handkerchiefs

  to dab tears from their eyes, and call attention to

  their sniffles. Silently, I argue against every word

  that Arthur says: If we do put others first, if we love

  the ones we love and trust people everywhere

  to do the same, wouldn’t we stop sacrificing one another,

  fooling ourselves into believing that such sacrifice would solve

  our problems? Wouldn’t we be free to pursue

  those selfish dreams that might, if

  everyone is putting others first,

  lead to a genuinely greater good?