Beaver Township, Oklahoma

January 7, 1933.

Dear Grandmother Lizzie,

You never knew me, but you are my grandmother’s grandmother. The sweetness my grandmother showed me, is mirrored in how she spoke about you. How is it that your life was so different from mine, when the link between us is so intimate? Even if you cannot speak to me in words, the marrow in our bones is the same. They tell me your story, and I tell it back to you.

Love,
Adrienne

The sun shines low through the curtains. You open your eyes and turn your head. Thomas is gone. You slip your feet into the moccasins next to your bed and stand up. You can see that your braid is loose in the mirror. Your hair is mostly white, with streaks of black. Your shoulders and back are strong, but more bent than you like to imagine. You turned sixty-one last year. On the nightstand, there is an oil lamp and a dog-earned bible. Thomas read scripture for you last night. You can only read a little. Your necklace with the gold cross rests on the stand, too. You pad over, put on the cross, and shake out the bedding. The smell of Tom’s sleep is released into the room and a piece of paper flutters to the floor. It is folded twice. The edges are worn, and the corners tinted blue from the pocket in Tom’s denim overalls. You wrap your crocheted shawl around your shoulders and unfold the paper. It appears to be an announcement.  You think it’s for the cattle auction in Muskogee. Normally, they do not auction until the spring, but the government is pushing folks to sell. The ranchers who still have means will gobble them up and head north to the fertile Tall Grass prairies in Kansas, where they’ll re-sell for a pretty penny. Some people have means. Most do not. You close your eyes and stand still for a moment. Praise Jesus we have the store. And the church.

You walk downstairs. There is still a small fire in the stove in the kitchen and some coffee in the pot. You sit down with a cup, untie your braid and smooth your hair. You braid it anew. It reaches the middle of your back. You throw a new log on the fire. You’ll need to chop more firewood later. You take another sip of your coffee. Tom went to the rail depot in Kinta early this morning. Then he was going to the store, to get ready for the crowds next week. Now you remember.

The clock in the sitting room chimes. It’s already seven! You wind your braid into a tight bun at the base of your neck as you rush upstairs. You dress quickly. Your cross shines bright against the rough grey cotton of your blouse. Downstairs, you slip off your moccasins, stuff your feet into boots, pull your shawl up around your head, and put on your coat. You pull the door shut and the screen door slams behind you.

For the last 10 years, even in winter, the trek from Beaver Mountain Road to the center of Beaver Township is a dusty affair. Ranchers, cowboys, wranglers and their lot come here because there’s room here for their cattle. The depot is in Kinta, but they can spread out in Beaver, get a rest after the long trip from Texas, restock at the store, and then head up to Muskogee for the auction. Tom insisted on stocking the store with beer this year. You were against it, but the government made it legal, so that was that. The liquor would bring the men in, Tom said, and God-willing, stay to buy supplies.

“Hey, squaw lady!” You keep walking. Atop their saddles, these strangers chew tobacco and spit their cud on the street where you are walking. “Show us your teepee!”, they laugh. You pull your shawl closer to your face and walk faster. The store is not far now.

 

“Mother!"

My great grandfather, trots over to you from down the street.

“Come in to see the new stock?”

"I hope you don’t think I’m interested in those dreadful animals!”

“No, of course not, Mother. I meant the wares Pa got in.”

"Well, yes, I thought I’d come on in and see how y’all were getting on.”

“I’m heading that way. Mind if I accompany you?

“I don’t mind if you do.”

 

He was not “heading that way”. He was at the store and saw you walking in alone. Paul means well, but he’s not very bright. He’s no match for his wife, my great-grandmother Maud. You continue together to the store. Town folks say, “Good morning, Mrs. Newton! Greetings to the Reverend”. There are a few automobiles, too. You do not have the money for such expenditures, but Tom had you pose for a photographer in your nice hat right in front of an automobile last Easter Sunday. The Miller’s girl, Verna, married well and she and her fancy husband came roaring into Beaver on that machine. You’d think the circus had come to town. But the young man was good-natured about it and let the children sit behind the wheel.

Paul wants to be a preacher, like Tom, but he gets carried away. He broods and then dreams up the wildest ideas. He’s going on this morning about the poor inheriting the earth. Shoot, if this drought continues, the rich can have it.  

The ranchers used to follow the Chisholm trail on horseback from the Red River in Texas, through Enid, and then all the way up to Abeline in Kansas. But since the railroad came, the route shifted east. The depot in Kinta is the halfway mark. But it’s a wonder anything moves or sells these days. People are poor, men are out of work, and fields are barren. You and Tom work hard, you’re God-fearing, but you know you’re lucky. Your grandfather came all the way from Kentucky. He just kept moving west – Kentucky, Missouri, Arkansas. You’re named for your grandma, Lucinda (everyone calls you Lizzie), who said your great-grandfather was “dark complected, had black eyes and black hair and looked like a Cherokee Indian”. Your grandfather had the same coloring, and they say you do, too. They said the same thing about Corky, my grandmother. And even after so many generations, people take note of my coloring as well, but there are no Indians where I live, so they just guess I’m from somewhere else. Your grandma Lucinda used to say that in Arkansas being an Indian was not a thing to bat an eye at, but in Missouri – never mind Kentucky – it was a shameful thing. So, they did not consider making a claim until your family got to Arkansas. Your Pa applied to the Cherokee Nation for membership and land and Lucinda attested to your heritage, making her mark on the papers. Everyone said your kin were Indian. But the nation denied the application. All the while, your first babies were called home, just four and five years old. You try not to remember how their hair smelled. 

But once the third baby came in ‘97, life got a little easier. Tom got a small inheritance from his Pa and that helped you, Tom and your little ones settle in Beaver. His family had come up to Arkansas from Texas and they were all white. Then the Lord gave you another five babies, so, six children plus the two you lost, makes eight children! Tom has a church and nobody side-eyes you here except those cowboys. And just after Maudy was born, Oklahoma become a state.

“Mother, you warm enough? You’re not catching a chill, are you? You’re awful quiet this morning.”

“Bless your heart, Pauly. I’m just tired today. The good Lord knows I’ve lots of work to do. I’ll take the children home with me. I’ve got chores they can help me with.”

"Oh, they’d like that, Mother. It’ll keep them out of Maud’s hair. That Corky’s a corkscrew!

Paul enjoys his word play. As a child, he was passed around, cared for and fed like a stray dog. Sometimes his belly was full. Sometimes it was not. His mother died in childbirth. They say Paul’s father lost his mind to sorrow and ran away. You were right. You were lucky. That man just clear up and left. Nowadays, Pauly looks to Tom for fathering and our Maker will bless them both for it. Sometimes you say little prayers to yourself, just small supplications through the day. Lift Pauly up, Lord.

The store veranda is piled high with bags and crates. Some of the neighborhood boys are hauling things in and Tom is bustling about inside. Maudy’s there too, doing the numbers. Your son, Ezra, is outside, small-talking with some cowboys and ranchers. Paul’s hand tenses on your arm. You brush it off.

 

“Ezra Hendrix! I see you’re keeping busy taking these gentlemen’s orders?” You place your hand on you chest, just next to your cross, and introduce yourself: “I am Mrs. Reverend Thomas Newton. Won’t you come inside?”

“Thank you, Ma’am. Very much obliged. I’m Amos Rolland...from Kinta. Maybe you remember me?”

“Well, bless us! Amos!

“We were just telling Ezra here how tough business is, what with the drought and all. I sure hope FDR can turn this around. We could use some relief.”

“Well, from your mouth to God’s ears. I hope the good Lord sends us some rain. It’ll be planting season soon. You tell your Mama I said hello.”

 

Amos moves in questionable circles. A child’s suffering is the devil’s opportunity. Amos and Ezra were thick as thieves when they were boys, when Amos’s father, Edward, was alive. You wonder what they were talking about with those men. They did not even say good morning! Amos goes with the men inside, but Ezra hangs back.

 

“Ma, what are you doing here? You know Pa doesn’t like you walking all that way on your own. Did Paul accompany you?”

“Paul’s a busy man, Ezra. And I am perfectly capable of putting one foot in front of the other, which is more than I can say for you.”

"I was getting information! Pa needs to know who’s coming, who’s working with who. It’s good for business. Pa’s not savvy like that.”

“You speak respectfully about your daddy!”

 

You do not know what “savvy” means, but it does not sound Christian. Paul is standing a few feet away, watching your conversation.

“Good Lord, Paul, go inside and help Tom.” He gapes back at you like a prairie dog chewing tumbleweed.

“Shoo!” Paul follows orders and you turn back to Ezra.

“Ma, you shouldn’t be out alone with these wayfarers in town.”

“Said the young man who fraternizes with them. I can take care of myself, Ezra. Now, help those boys or we’ll be here all day.”

 

Ezra holds her gaze as long as he dares, takes a bag of feed from the boys, heaves it over his shoulder, and walks up the veranda steps. You do not like Ezra’s sass. But you know he’s right. You dress respectably, set your hair neatly, talk polite. You’re the preacher’s wife! But somehow, they always single you out. Words are one thing, but you know how Indian women have been treated. They say that’s how Amos’s father died, protecting his wife. It’s not that you feel Indian. It’s just a story in your family. You do not really know what it means. But everyone else seems to.

You loosen the shawl around your head and follow Ezra up the steps. The floor is cluttered with sacks of flour, dried beans, grits, sugar, bags of feed, and cans of just about anything the good Lord created for our sustenance. There are canisters of kerosine, roping, crates of beer. Tom and your boys left before dawn to meet the train at the depot, full of tired cows and dirty men, coal, and goodness knows what else. Those trains are longer than Satan’s tongue and they make a wagging commotion to match. You can hear the whistle all the way out at your house, even at night!

Just after Maudy was born – back in´02 – Thomas set up the store. The building was there, but it was just an outpost then. Thomas used most of his inheritance on a woodburning stove, windows and lumber for the veranda.  And he bought a cash register! You always thought it looked like a treasure chest. Thomas said it sure weighed as much.

 

                          “What are you doing up so early, mate?”

                          “Early?! I clear forgot, Tom! I slept like an angel.”

                          “You’re prettier than the day I married you.”

“Stop!”. The corners of your mouth curl up just a trace, but Tom sees it.

“You deserve the rest. I have plenty of help. All the children are here. Now, listen. Paul saw you coming in here alone. Word has it that ex-convicts are working on the road between here and Kinta. I don’t like the sound of it. Promise me you’ll let one of the neighbors bring you back home. I won’t be back until late.”

“I’ll go back with the little ones. I’ll be fine.”

“There’s always room for little ones and a dainty gal on a carriage. Promise me.”

You hold his gaze. No one else gets away with calling you “dainty gal”.

“I promise”.

“And go easy on Ezra. The good Lord gives us different gifts. Ezra’s got a sense for people. He’s the one that found out about those jailbirds. And he got Amos to introduce him to those ranchers. They’ve got a lot of business up north and they’ll need supplies. Lord knows we need the money.”

 

You find an apron in the storeroom, join the girls cleaning the shelves, and help unpack the crates. The menfolk haul in the bulky items from the veranda. Maud, my great-grandmother remains behind the register with the ledgers. Paul is repairing the hitching post with some of the little boys out front. They’re like a bag of fleas if you don’t keep them busy. He’s good with them. Everyone has their gifts.

It’s getting late. And you, Tom, Ezra, Paul, Maud and their three children remain. Tom sent the neighborhood boys home for supper with a sack of grits each and a piece of rock candy.  You feel a pull on your skirt.

 

“Grandma, can I have some rock candy?”

“Well, sugar, how you going to pay for it?”

"Can I do some chores?”

“Well, that would be a fine help, Corky. I can pay you with an egg.”

“And then I can take the egg to Granddaddy and Uncle Ezra’s store and buy  candy!”

 

Corky, my grandma, has a head like her mother. Only six years old and smart as a whip. You like to reward the children, but you will not spoil them. They must learn the value of honest work.

“Mama, Herman’s getting antsy. I need to get some supper in him and get him to bed. Paul says Mr. Bedlowe is heading out our way and has room for us.”

 

You gather your shawl and coat, take a few cans of green beans and weigh some corn meal. You’ll have to stretch the leftovers, and you know Tom will be famished when he gets home. “Maudy, will you write this up for me?” With Herman dangling on her hip, Maud walks back behind the counter, finds a page in the ledger and makes some marks. Maud kisses Tom on the cheek and says,

 

“Daddy, don’t stay too long. You need your rest, too.”

“I’ll head home by and by. Ezra and I have a few last things to finish up here. You get those ruffians fed and Paul will round you up in no time.”

 

Mr. Bedlowe and his wife are waiting outside with their carriage. His family lives on the other side of Beaver Mountain Road and they pass your house on their way home.

 

“Mrs. Newton, ma’am, we’re ready to take y’all home if you’re ready. You might want to bring some blankets for the ride… It’s cold.”

                          Paul comes over with some horse blankets from the back room.

“Here, take these. We have some in the carriage. Pa can bring these back in the morning.

 

The house is cold and dark. The stove went out hours ago. Maud lights the oil lamps with her coat still on. You send my grandma and Polly into the cellar to get the leftover jackrabbit stew you keep cold there. With your shawl still wrapped around your hair and neck, you go back outside. You balance the wood on a block, spread your legs, raise the ax above your head, and split the log with a clean whack. After fifteen minutes, you’ve got a nice pile that should keep everyone warm for the night and then some. You do not want Tom chopping firewood when he gets home.

Gathered around the table, you ask Polly to say grace. You, Maud and the children fold your hands and close your eyes:

 

“Lord Jesus, thank you for this bounty, for our family, the warm fire. Bless Grandma and Grandpa, Mama and Pa and Herman… “

You nudge Polly under the table.

“…and Corky. And especially for the green beans!”

You laugh with your eyes still closed. Polly loves green beans. You finish for her. “In Jesus name we pray…” My great-grandmother and her children open their eyes and look at you and together you say: “A-men”.

 

After dinner, Maud puts Herman to bed in the sitting room. It’s past her bedtime and her eyes are drooping, but my grandmother, Corky, insists on washing the dishes: “Grandma, can I have my egg when I’m done?”

You help her with the apron and roll up her sleeves. My grandmother told me about how you sent her to the store to trade eggs for candy when she was a little girl. Her face brightened as she told the story, lost in a child’s memory of a world that still felt safe to her. You were tough, for sure, but suffering softened your heart towards others. Corky grew to be tough, as well, but as adversity compounded in her life, she also became hard – except towards me.

 

“Sure thing, little lamb! The bible says, ‘Each day you shall give him his wages, and not let the sun go down on it, for he is poor and has set his heart on it; lest he cry out against you to the Lord, and it be sin to you.’”

My grandma beams.

“Deuteronomy 24:15!”, Polly announces.

“Polly, you and your sister are the smartest girls this side of the Arkansas River!

Maud returns. “I’ll go check on the chickens, Mama. You stay put.”

 

Chickens do not lay a lot of eggs in the winter, but Maud finds four. You put three aside for your daughter and present the fourth to Corky.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Hubbard.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’m happy to be of service!”. Corky goes to the front door to store the egg in the softness of her coat pocket. “Mama, I think Pa is coming!”

“Well, it’s about time!” Maud gets up and begins gathering the girls’ things. The carriage is approaching fast. “Mama, can Herman stay the night? I hate to wake him”.

“Sure thing, sugar.”

 

My grandma darts out the door in her stocking feet. The screen slams behind her. She runs towards the carriage, her treasure in her out-stretched hand: “Pa, I earned an egg!”, she hollers. Paul takes her into his arms and holds her tight, stumbling to the porch.

 

“Ma, get your coat.” Maud and Polly are at the door now, too.

“Maudy, honey, stay here with the children. There’s been an accident.”

“Paul, what in tarnation?!

“Corky, go to your Mama!”

You are already in your boots and coat.

“Pa, I want to go to the store and trade my egg!”. My grandmother remained a willful woman all her life.

“Not now!” Paul’s voice catches. 

 

Maud wrests my grandmother from Paul’s arms. You are already seated on the carriage bench, wrapping your shawl around your hair. Paul snaps the reins and says “Git up! The horse begins to walk. He bellows “Heeyah!!” and snaps the reins angrily. Maud, Corky and Polly stand on the porch in their socks, watching the horse and carriage tear off into the darkness.

“It’s Ezra, Ma. He’s been shot dead. They hit Pa, too.”

You and Paul ride in silence. He’s not wearing a coat. You take a horse blanket and wrap it around his shoulders. There’s egg yolk on his shirt.