A journey emeline, p.1
A Journey: Emeline, page 1
A Journey
Copyright © 2023 by Kathy J Perry.
Manufactured in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No other part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. Published by Chickadee Words, LLC, Kansas City, MO, second edition.
For more by this author, visit KathyJPerry.com Printed in the United States of America
A Journey Softcover ISBN: (illustrated edition) 978-1-7357338-7-6
A Journey Hardcover ISBN: (illustrated edition) 978-1-7357338-8-3
Emeline — A Journey
E-book ISBN: 978-1-7357338-9-0
Audiobook ISBN: 978-0-9998315-9-5
Bible verses were taken from
The Ryrie Study Bible, King James Version, 1986, 1994 Published by the Moody Bible Institute of Chicago, IL
Songs from the 1800s
Lavender Blue
Oh, Susannah!
Reference to book from the 1800s
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
Illustrations by Claudia Gadotti
Edited by Beth Bruno
Cover & Interior Design by Design for Writers @ designforwriters.com
Copyright © 2023 Kathy J Perry All rights reserved.
Dedicated to my daughters:
Cassidy Anne and Emily Danielle
May you be confident, courageous,
resourceful, self-reliant and never forget
that the Lord is with you always.
Contents
Acknowledgements
Loss
Friends
The Big Day
Departure
Crossing the Mississippi
Farms & Forests
Health & Housekeeping
Finding Funds
Riding the Rails
The Family Business
Silas
Family at Last
Read the Emeline Series
Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without the wonderful instruction from Dan Schwabauer and his OYAN (One Year Adventure Novel) curriculum, which helped me with plot, characterization, and structure. Thank you, Dan.
Jeff Gerke’s books The Irresistible Novel and Plot vs. Character were immensely valuable also. Thanks for the encouragement to “not be boring”.
The KCWCW (Kansas City West Christian Writers) group members gave encouragement and support all along the way. Even when I thought the rough draft was finished, Cora Allen’s critique gave me insight and suggestions, which changed the book dramatically.
Thanks to my editor, Beth Bruno who, with love and long hours, gave constructive criticism and corrections, giving the book a professionally polished appeal.
I feel fortunate to have found such an artist as Claudia Gadotti who took the story and some visual cues from me and created the most beautiful artwork I could have imagined. The first edition did not include these lovely illustrations, but I still used them on bookmarks and promotional materials. Some thought illustrations would not appeal to young adult readers. I disagree now.
Rebecca and Andrew Brown of Design for Writers creatively designed a new cover and interior for the second edition of A Journey. It has the same look as designed by the original designer, Rachel Lawston of Lawston Design. This edition features all of Claudia’s illustrations, although printing costs force them to be in black and white. They’re still amazing! Thank you.
Thanks to Abigail VanTerry, the narrator for A Journey’s audiobook experience. She embraces the tough challenge of both Boston and Irish accents, as well and mid-western speech dialects. Her voice talents bring the story to life. An outstanding treat for the ears!
Thanks to my family, who puts up with me and my seemingly unending work on the computer and provide support through encouragement, patience, and love.
And, finally, thanks to my Lord and Savior for giving me the vision for this story, and the next, along with abilities. It is my sincere hope this work pleases You and that many enjoy it.
Loss
The year was 1890. I was thirteen, soon to be fourteen, and in my last year in our one-room schoolhouse. Handwriting was next: I carefully wrote the assigned verse: Matthew 5:3.
Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
I blotted tears with my sleeve so I could see to write.
Miss Ambrose stuffed the wood stove with several short pieces of split oak. The remaining embers caught the new wood on fire. Warmth seeped throughout the one-room schoolhouse and nipped the early spring chill. She sashayed past me, her two petticoats rustling beneath her white cotton dress; the heels of her leather boots clicked the wooden floor rhythmically.
She reminded me of Ma. She even smelled like Ma - all clean and soapy. Also like Ma, her hair was partly braided and swept up into a large bun at the back of her head. I set my piece of white chalk into the groove on the desk and whisked away more tears as memories of her flooded my mind.
Miss Ambrose placed her hand gently on my shoulder. “Would you like to visit later?”
“Yes, ma’am, for a little while,” I answered as my hazel eyes met her blue ones. Since Ma passed away in childbirth, Miss Ambrose has been like a second mother to me.
“Class, it’s time for lunch,” she announced. “Henry, please fetch some water for us. John, will you bring in more firewood please? Thank you.”
Row by row, we lined up like ducklings to retrieve our lunch pails and cups from the shelf over our coat hooks. We dipped our cups into the bucket of fresh water Henry brought in and returned to our seats. “Yum.” Fresh bread, sliced cheese, and an apple lay wrapped inside a cloth napkin.
Then we could talk! “How are you, Emeline?” asked Harriet. My friend and neighbor spooned some ham and bean soup into her mouth. “Mmm. I’m so hungry.”
“I’m well, thank you. I’m excited to farm with Pa this summer. The past few summers I’ve shuttled the looms at the wool mill, but this year their business is slow. How ‘bout you?”
“I’m not sure yet. We might be moving to Westport.”
“No!” I exclaimed.
“I don’t want to, but Dad applied for a construction job there. He’s always liked building things with brick and wood. He says if he gets the job he’ll sell the farm and earn more money, though the work is hard and the days long.” She stirred her soup.
“Change is hard, isn’t it?” Not wanting to dwell on the possibility of my best friend moving away, I switched subjects. “After lunch, let’s ask Sarah and Charlotte to play double Dutch with us. Want to?”
“Sure, I love double Dutch,” she said. “We’re not certain yet that he’ll get the job anyway; so no sense tormenting myself about it now, I guess.”
We polished off our lunches, rinsed our pails outside in the cold water spilling from the pump, and set them back on the shelf along with our cups. Outside, the sun radiated warmth overhead, announcing the promise of spring, even though the air chilled my fingers and toes.
School continued as usual the rest of the day and, after the other students had left, Miss Ambrose seated herself across from me. “Okay, Miss Emeline, what’s on your mind?” She smiled and folded her hands in her lap, attentive.
“Thank you for spending time with me, Miss Ambrose.
I understand you still have work to do.” Her eyes were expressively kind and welcoming.
“I miss Ma so much. I think about her all the time.”
“I guessed that might be what was weighing you down. Why don’t you recount your favorite memories of her?”
Stuffing my hands deep in my pockets, I let my mind recall two years ago. “It’s so hard!” Tears welled up in my eyes. I soaked them up with my sleeve and pulled at the loose, wavy tendrils of my dark brown hair.
“Think about how dear she was, and why. It’s important and healthy to talk about her, you know. As long as you can recollect her, she’s never completely gone,” Miss Ambrose said softly, offering to hold my hand. I held it tightly. “What did you admire most about her, Emeline?”
“Her kindness. And patience. She taught me so many things: how to put up green beans and other fruits and vegetables in jars, how to make apple butter, and how to sew. I stitched up the dress I’m wearing now.” I paused, smoothing the gathers in my skirt with pride. “Sometimes she got angry, but never for long. Both Ma and Pa taught me to love God; we took turns reading chapters from the Bible in the mornings. I can keep a house neat and clean. Oh, and she shared stories about her life as a young girl. Those are some of my best-loved times with Ma.”
“Those are valuable memories, Emeline. You should write them out in a journal. Describe all the memories you can. By doing this, she’ll always be a part of you. You’ll be stronger that way because her strength will join yours. Try it and see.”
I sighed and smiled, “Thank you for listening. I will try that.”
“You’re welcome, Emeline. Visit with me anytime after school.” We rose from our seats. She escorted me to the door and watched me cut across the schoolyard to the road leading home. She waved and called out, “See you tomorrow!”
I waved back. Tomorrows. Not man y more of those until school will end for me. It’s a good thing I have Pa as my rock. How would I manage without him?
Tavis O’Connor wiped the sweat from his brow, even though the air felt cool. The big, hundred-year-old oak fought him for its life. Its large roots, like knobby fingers, spread from its base, gripping the earth. The massive tree grew taller than any other on the farm; one man couldn’t reach all the way around its girth.
“Come on down, Mr. Oak,” he said. “We need your wood and you’re in the way in this field.” Tavis drew up his axe again with his rough, burly hands to chip out a “V” on the trunk of the tree; the chiseled angle became deeper and wider with each stroke.
Soon he heard a pop. “Yaw! Give it up. It won’t be long now, Dakota.” The Morgan horse nickered and nodded his head while he pawed the ground. He pushed against the tree after a few more strokes with the axe.
At last the tree gave way. Creaking and groaning, it fell flat into the field. “Whoop! There she is.” Tavis celebrated with a long drink of water from the barrel strapped to his wooden cart. “Ach.” He gripped his left arm; a dull pain had stopped him short. “What’s this?”
He sat down in the soft soil of the field. “I wish Dad could see me in this farm life,” he said. He pulled the gun his dad had given him from its holster and stared at the engraved initials on both sides of the handle: TO on one side and SO on the other. “He understood why I didn’t want to stay in the city and work for his lithography company. Too stifling.”
He remembered his wife, Kate, whom he missed terribly, and how they had agreed to stake a claim here through the Homestead Act of 1862. “We had so much fun building up this farm together.” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
“I’m worn out. I’m gonna need neighbor Bob’s help and Emeline’s to saw this mammoth into pieces.” Once the mysterious pain subsided, he climbed up to the bench at the front of the cart, held the reins, and clicked at Dakota to move out.
Back at the modest, whitewashed farmhouse, Tavis unhitched Dakota and removed his harness. He walked to the tack room of the barn with him, hung up the harness, and picked up a currycomb to clean the dirt and sweat from the horse’s back. He then tucked him into his stall for a feeding of hay and oats, along with some fresh water from the well. Milking the bellowing Nellie, their beloved Jersey cow, was next.
At last he entered the house and collapsed on his bed to sleep. The aching pain had subsided. “All I need is sleep.” And so, he rested until Emeline came home from school.
I walked lightly on the dirt road toward home and thought about what Miss Ambrose had said. ‘Write down all you can remember about your ma; her strength will run through you.’ My steps quickened. Ma had given me a journal that I hadn’t written much into yet.
A fat red-breasted robin hopped along in the grass beside the road and paused every few steps to feel the movement of worms beneath his feet. “Spring is surely near if you’re here, Mr. Robin,” I said to him. A fluffy-tailed gray squirrel chattered by his nest high in the treetop.
Hiking up and down rolling hills, my body warmed even as the sun sank lower in the sky – a golden disc slipping out of sight. Watercolor pink and orange splashed color throughout the clouds stretched across the evening sky as I arrived home.
“Pa, where are you?” I found him sleeping on his bed. “Good. I’ll fix supper while you rest.”
Embers from earlier in the day still glowed in the wood stove. Tying my apron on, I added more chunks of dried split oak from the pile near the front door. Out front, I pumped water into a bucket and returned to pour it into a medium-sized, black, cast iron pot on the stove. Shortly, the fire burned hot and was ready for cooking; the water in the pot boiled. From the food safe, I selected a choice bit of beef, sniffing it for any foul odor. None found, I smiled and sliced it into bite-sized chunks and put them in the pot.
The root cellar, an underground room near the house, held our fresh vegetables. In the blue light of dusk, I lit a lantern and took it with me, along with a basket over my arm, and opened the cellar door. The air smelled musty yet good at the same time. I collected some potatoes and carrots in the basket. Back in the kitchen, I cut the vegetables into pieces and added them to the stew, along with some onion cut off from the braid next to the stove. Sprinkling in some salt, I said, “There.”
Next, I mixed up the ingredients to make biscuits: milk, a bit of butter, cream of tartar, a pinch of salt, and enough flour to make a stiff dough. I kneaded the dough well. I pushed and pulled the ball of dough, turning it at quarter-turns just like Ma taught me. “Look for the slight tears in the dough,” she had said. “Then it’s ready to roll out.” I rolled it out flat, cut the biscuits out with a glass, placed the circles of dough on a flat metal baking sheet, and slid it into the hot oven. “These will be ready shortly.”
Once done, I pulled them out, and covered them with a towel to keep them warm on the stovetop. Supper filled the little house with a sumptuous aroma.
My stomach growled as I smoothed my apron and checked on Pa. “Pa?”
He rolled over and opened his eyes. “Oh, hello, Emeline. Good day at school?” He sniffed the air. “You’ve made supper?” He stretched. “How long have I been asleep?”
“You must’ve been exhausted, Pa. I visited with Miss Ambrose after school for a little while. Did you fell that big oak today?”
“Yaw. It took most of the day, but, yaw, it’s down. I’ll need Bob’s help to saw it into pieces, and your help to split it. We’ll burn lots of it, but some pieces I’d like to mill into boards. Miss Ambrose is kind, isn’t she?”
“She is most kind. She understands my sadness about losing Ma.” Our eyes met.
“I know. I often think about your ma. Kate and I had fine times even through the trials during the move from Boston and settling this land. She is with the Lord now and watches over us. You remind me of her so much. I’m glad you’re here, Em.”
“Yes, we still have each other.” I paused, thankful to be compared to Ma. “Well, supper’s ready. Let’s move to the table and eat. You must be hungry!” I served up the stew and biscuits and put some salt and butter on the table too as I waited for him to come into the main room. He didn’t seem quite himself tonight.
He swung himself up and planted his feet on the wooden floor. Standing, dizziness overcame him and he fell back to sit on the bed. “Whoa, that was too quick.” Slowly this time, he got up and walked gingerly to the table. “The stew looks and smells delicious! Biscuits too? And, butter! Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. We both ate, but I ate more than Pa.
“I’m not sure why, but I’m not feeling well, Em.”
“You overdid it today,” I said. “Chopping down the oak tree was probably too much work for one person. I’ll save the leftovers for you in the food safe once cooled. Why don’t you go on back to bed? I’ll come in and read to you shortly.”
“Sounds good,” he said.
I followed him as he pressed himself up from the table and shuffled toward the bed, crawled under the coverlet, and pulled it up to his chin. “I am grateful for Kate’s handiwork,” he said. He ran his fingers over the intricate stitches in various colors. It gave beauty, warmth, and good memories. The down pillow comforted his head too.
With Pa safely snuggled in, I cleaned up the dishes and put up the leftover food. From the bookcase, I picked one of his favorite books, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
Lantern in hand, I pulled a rocking chair close to his bed and opened the book to the first chapter. Pa looked at me.
“I love you, Em,” he said.
“I love you too, Pa.” As I read, I noticed his chest rising and falling with each slow and deliberate breath; his blue eyes almost closed. I remember Ma used to read or tell stories to me until I slept. I began:
“YOU don’t know about me without you have read a
book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer;
