BLUE HILL: ROMANCE AND HIGH RESOLVE
Romance! But no, wait. Before we go on, you must keep this in mind: Understand the slow pace , when life took its time, and growing was a leisurely experience. So romance is only the first freshness of lilacs, as faint and as fleeting as time. This is the summer when we are fifteen, sixteen and no longer children with our clubs and theatrics. This is the summer of dances: "parties" are now "dances". Boys wear white flannels and blue jackets. We, in our fluffy dresses, pinch our cheeks to make them pink, bite our lips to make them red. We are beginning to feel the heady, disturbing sense of power, a girl's power, but still in the distance and waiting.
We arrive in twos or in groups, with mandolins, guitars, and OH! those close harmonies. The high notes and the blending, melding, MELTING, as our voices linger on those high notes. Dancecards are distributed on arrival, small pencils attached. These are soon filled with partner's names, and we dance Reels, Polkas, Waltzes to victrola records. Between dances, we sit in groups on verandas. Supper is ice cream and cake; there is a large punch bowl of fruit ade. After supper we dance and dance. the Reels become hilarious. Extras" are added to our dance cards. Eleven o'clock - sometimes we're allowed an hour longer. Then the mandolins and guitars leave, and in the summer night "Good Night Ladies" dies in the distance. A salty fog rolls in; the moon is misty, and Romance is just off-stage, waiting in the wings.
Then comes the following summer and another change. Maybe, Time took a big jump, for this is the summer of High Resolve, Noble Deeds, Fuller Life, Russian Novels, Rabindrannath Tagore. I recite long passages of Omar Khayyam to respectful (though restive) suitors. I urge them to Give Up Smoking (it's the only vice I can think of).
And then comes a Brain Storm. I brood on what I hear of the "Teaming Slums" of New York's East Side. "Sweltering Masses", children who have never seen the sea or trees. (These are the days when Welfare is an amateur thing, taken care of by small groups. So I glow with Noble Resolve and get my family's permission to import four waifs from the Teaming Slums. (This involves much red tape and many complications, but, possibly because of my father's connections in New York, a Fresh Air Society is finally contacted and it is arranged that a Social Worker will deliver four little girls in need of recuperation after hospitalization.
Yes, I promise! I will take full responsibility. I promise to the family that they will not be involved in any way. I can hardly wait. A family of my own! A family to take care of; to teach and cook for! I am giddy with plans. I am at the station. A Social Worker, a comfortable, motherly person, delivers four little girls. Tthey are ten years old, forlorn enough to please anyone, and city-pallid. They cling to the Social Worker who tells them how happy they will be. I beam and beam. Two are washed-out little blondes, one of them has been crying. The third child is a stony-faced red head who does not tespond to my exuberant welcome. The fourth is tall, emaciated with alert black eyes that have a canny look. All of them look drained of life. All eye me warily. I chatter. I am full of plans. What fun!
Fun? They draw closer to the friendly Social Worker; she kisses them, tells them how lucky they are and takes off. I am left with four little girls, strangers, who huddle and stare at me. I gather them into the Jitney and the enthusiasm is all mine. Fun! Just wait until we get to the water and learn to swim! This is a mistake. The swimsuits are not a success. Luring them into the water brings gasps, shudders and finally screams. They now look at me with suspicion. Time does not go quickly. It is Annie, the tall, black-eyed emaciated one, who turns out to be "the mother". She becomes their protectress, protecting them from me. Annie, it is clear, does not trust me. My cooking is not a success. Luncheon is better to ignore.
But, we still have the Big Moment to look forward to — the Story Hour — when we gather close and be jolly. Popcorn! Fire-light! The magic of twilight and the intimacy of fire. The fire is already laid. I touch it with a match; the birch logs crackle, flames leap…hoarse shrieks. A stampede. Panic. Annie keeps her head; rushes for water. I should have realized. Of course I should have remembered the scandal of tenements swept by fire. Traps of death, fire, the terror of tenement dwellers. I can see that there is more than wariness now. They stare at me wide-eyed and, I am afraid, with horror.
Late that night and in the distance, comes the sound of singing, guitars and laughter; but nearer, in the darkness, muffled sobs. And I realize that I am the last one who would be able to comfort and reassure them. Tomorrow is another day. endurance will be the note from now on. I am not the Mother type. I am also not a disciplinarian. Annie, if she's in the mood. keeps order. Mostly they are a bunch of savages. And those are the good times. It's the sobs in the night that get me down.
Then comes a treat! An invitation! Bobby, a friend, takes pity and gives me a break. He will take them on a ride in his speed boat. This, though short, will be very sweet — an hour of freedom. Off they zoom, bounding, bouncing, a white trail of foam, off and out to the open sea. I watch four small heads grow smaller in the distance. The water in our bay heaves and swells, but there is peace and rest at our bungalow. They return in an hour. Bobby gives me a Look and zooms off. Up over the rocks they totter — four small victims. They are sheet-white, silent; they will not look at me. Shaking and trembling with fear, they walk past me.
Next day, Annie is gone. Disaster! This is real horror. The whole town, the boy scouts, everyone joins the search. Annie is is found on the road to Ellsworth, on her way to the Railroad Station. That settles it. Mother hires Imogene, fifteen years old, oldest of a large family, while I, humbled, watch my job filled. It is filled with ease, with (you might say) one hand held behind her. The little girls take to her at once. i hover uncertainly. They are no longer afraid of me; nor did they even resent me. They have forgotten me.
The rest of their stay passes without incident. Imogene knits or reads; she knows that children like to be left alone. Everyone is content. But I…well, that's the end of my noble purposes.
BLUE HILL: TRAGEDY
This is our final summer, for years will pass before we come again to Blue Hill. This is the summer of our father's illness. He and Mother are in Baden Baden, trying desperately and hopelessly to find a cure. But we children reject illness. we are carefree and not worried. Our life is full, and our parents, though much loved, are far away. Janet is still in charge but now in the background, for a friend of our father's. Dr. Notman, is our guest and staying with us while our father is away. We love him and fight for his attention. I feel very important as Hostess. A cable comes to him and he tells us that Daddy and Mother are coming home. They will sail from Cherbourg and will reach us in two weeks. We plan an enormous welcome.
The word comes on the long distance telephone. They have arrived and will be with us the next morning. We cannot sleep for excitement. Next morning we are down early. Dr. Notman calls us to the living room. He is kind but he tells us that our Father has died. He died on the train in the night.
Our father is dead. Dead? My brother bows his head. I think —that's what one does; that's the right thing to do. I cannot bow my head. I have no thoughts. I stand stupidly. Dr. Notman explains that father's (Daddy's) body has been taken from the train and that Mother will arrive alone.
A friend sends his automobile and chauffeur to drive us to Ellsworth to meet the train. We have neveer ridden in an automobile before. Daddy would be pleased, but Daddy will not be there. His body, Daddy's body, has been taken off the train and Mother will arrive alone. Our mother is a widow. What do you say to a widow? My mind sees her stepping from the train, bowed with grief —our laughing, light-hearted mother. Will she be draped in black? But no, she willl not have had time.
How will she seem? Again I think, what do you say to a widow? For now she is no longer our mother. She has become a widow.
We arrive at the station. We sit in the car and wait in the sun, an August morning. We wait for the train. We hear the rumble, vibrations; the train is near. It is around the bend, slower and slower, it comes to a stop. The porter is first off the train. He places a step. He reaches up to help.
Mother steps off the train. and she is Mother! Not bowed with grief. She is looking past the porter, here, there. she is searching, staring, her eyes searching. Mother is the same. She wears her blue suit and the hat with the bird's wing. But she is searching and looking everywhere. We rush to her; we are all upon her. Her arms are around us; she holds us. she stands back and studies our faces. Her eyes are searching and her hands are tight on our hands. We have no words. She has no words. Then she says how well we look. Have we been happy and how are the babies?
But mother is not the same. Later she tells us how the doctors said there was nothing more they could do for Daddy. Our mother's life ended then. i knew that it was no longer mother. Perhaps without her knowing it and perhaps noone else would have known by her looks. When she laughed, it was not her "special" laughter. She was always searching, and I think she was lost. After the funeral in New York, after the flower-covered coffin and after all the ceremonies, the crowds, the great church and the cemetery, Mother looked small and was now draped in black, for those were the days of deepest mourning. And she was covered in crepe from head to toe.
Then we returned to Blue Hill. We did not go back to school. I do not know why that was, nor how it could happen. Perhaps in those days, schools were not as strict. Or maybe a special indulgence was made for mother, for she needed us. So I remember the strangeness of that autumn. There were forest fires, and we breathed the acrid smell of smoke and the burning. We returned to Blue Hill and it was strange and empty. The "summer people" are all gone. At breakfast we hear a school bell in the village. Children who belong to the village are going to school and we are not going to school. It is a strange world. it is filled with smoke and you can look at the sun straight without blinking. The sun is veiled with smoke. It is all part of the strangeness. People put wet blankets on their roofs because sparks drift. There is a feeling of menace and fear. Men and boys are out fighting forest fires.
Three weeks after my father's funeral, I am having a romp with my little sister Eileen. She is hysterical with excitement and laughter; she shrieks, "No, Netty. no". She is scarlet-cheeked, her cheeks are blazing. Janet, when she comes to take her to bed, gives me a cross look.
It is after midnight and Janet stands at my mother's door. Janet is frightened and hesitates for my mother needs her sleep. But Janet knocks and her voice is shaking. My mother is not asleep, she is at the door instantly. She has caught the fear in Janet's voice. The village doctor is called and comes with horse and buggy and his bag. He stays until daybreak and when he goes, he says he will return. It is a long day, a terrible day, timeless and blurred. The doctor returns. We must call another doctor.
Mother phones to our doctor in New York. He is near us, visiting friends on Mt. Desert. This is a good omen. We are filled with joy and hope. But now there is a new threat. Invading the smoke and cinders, a white menace rolls in, and we feel the salt freshness of the fog. it overcomes the smoke with a blessed freshness, a blessed relief and a new menace. For Mount Desert is an island. Between Mount Desert and Blue Hill are islands, inlets, rocks and fog. Nevertheless, the doctor is coming. He has never failed us. Sixteen miles by water in a small boat. Word comes; he should reach Blue Hill by midnight.
Eileen is in a coma. Mother has not left her; she has not even rested. She sits with her child's hand in hers. Downstairs we wait. Dread is worse than fear. To this day, people in the village remembeer that night. Many of them have told me of the thick curtain of fog, the drifting rays soaking the forest, drenching the trees.
At midnight, men and boys gather at the wharf. they are there with lanterns; those were primitive days with no strong lights. The village doctor is there with horse and buggy, waiting for our doctor to come. Friends have told me how, in the fog, voices were low and they they hear the little throb, growing louder as it comes near — the throb of a motor boat. Lanterns swing, voices hale the boat. They shout instructions; the boat comes through the fog. Men in slickers throw ropes, grab the doctor's hand. He is ashore; he is in the buggy with the village doctor.
We wait at the window. We see the lights coming through the fog. We rush to the door and here is our doctor!~ He is shedding his oil skins and sou'wester. Mother waits at the top of the stairs; above us, we hear the murmur of their voices. We return to the living room and wait. Our doctor will cure eileen. The sick dread is gone. We wait. the hours are like years. Outside the window, the darkness begins to fade, Lamplight in the living room grows pale as the light grows stronger outdoors. There are drops on the window screens. It is morning, dark and gray; the clock strikes.
And then we hear it: what we have been waiting for: the footsteps on the stairs, and here comes the good news! Eileen is better; our doctor has cured her, and we go — but not quickly. We go into the hall and we look toward the stairs. It is not the doctor. it is Mother, and she is coming down the stairs, not as she usually comes. She is not coming in her usual way, on the run, but with slow steps. she does not see us. At the foot of the stairs, she walks past us without seeing us.
She opens the screen door and goes out into the gray light, into the fog. She is on the veranda. I hear her footsteps, walking, walking, and her voice. Her voice is a whisper, a sort of panting, as if she had lost her breath.
And then words, "What have I done? Please, God, tell me what I have done. Why? Why? Why?"
I know now, though I did not understand then, that guilt is the knife that twists within grief, that unexplained sense of punishment, undeserved and not understood.
For this is what happened: Grief and all it brought changed her life. And so, I will have to leave it now. Later, you will see what became of the girl in the red dress and why. For these memories are not to be sad. Now we will take a long jump, a jump into glamour and into an enlarging world. This is the beginning of the end of my childhood; a jump, in fact, into Italy.
