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Dedication

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 Mind Meanders Like the Creek

April 1917

My Crooked Mind / Muriel

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

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

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

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 claiming 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

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

Fragrance of Lilacs, Sweet Scent of Skunk

May 1917

Deep Quiet / Emma

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

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

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

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

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

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?

I’m still steaming about all this

when Frank offers me his arm to walk

from the school to the dance hall. The soft swish

of my dress doesn’t stop me from stomping along,

arguing point by point with Arthur’s speech.

Why is everyone just doing what they’re told?

The presidents of all the countries should

meet somewhere and fight this war themselves

if they think it’s worth fighting.

What are they sacrificing? Have they asked the mothers

who gave the best years of their lives to raise

these boys the presidents are sending into battle?

No! Women don’t even get to vote—it isn’t fair!

Frank listens for a while, then says, You’re starting

to sound like one of those Woman Suffragists, Muriel.

It doesn’t sound very patriotic. But who cares?

You graduated! Let’s dance! And so we do,

together, and with other friends—I dance with all

the boys except for Arthur, who doesn’t ask me,

and Frank dances with each of the twelve girls

in my class, and then he and I dance

the last dance, relaxing into each other’s arms,

Frank’s heartbeat steady in my ear. I have to admit,

I’m enjoying this, and when the dance is over,

it’s nice to walk outside into the night,

with Frank, my almost-but-not-quite brother.

Someone / Muriel

Someone

Muriel

The horses clip-clop down the road ahead of us—

the fragrance of lilacs, then the sweet scent of skunk,

a chorus of crickets and spring peepers. It’s not often

Frank and I are alone together, neither Emma

nor Ollie with us. Frank clears his throat.

Did you know, Muriel, that Ed and Howard

enlisted yesterday? I say nothing. He goes on.

John and Hal are planning to sign up next week. It’s dark—

Frank can’t see me roll my eyes. The ants go marching …

is my only comment. That childish song is still

singing itself in my head as we come home

and Frank holds out his hand to help me

from the buggy, as if I were a fine lady,

and he Sir Galahad. And then: May I

kiss you, Muriel? So gently asked,

a sweet surprise. A kiss would change

so much—I hesitate. Ordinarily, he says, I wouldn’t be

in such a hurry; you know me, I always take my time.

But—I’ve been trying to tell you—

I’m going to France. I leave next Monday.

It would sure be nice to have a girl

back home to write to—someone waiting

for me, someone to keep fighting for.

A girl. Someone. He doesn’t have time

to choose, to court, to fall in love,

and here I stand. It must seem easy, obvious.

But— No, Frank, I answer, I can’t

do that for you. I’ll be glad to write to you;

you know we all will. Grace will keep on

sending you her little drawings. We’ll miss you—

I’ll miss you—more than I can say.

I wish you wouldn’t go. I wish no one would …

Frank shakes his head. Am I confusing him?

Has he planned how this should work—get a girl,

go to war, come home a hero, and get married?

His smile fades—if I believed that one sweet kiss

could bring it back, I might

want to give him that small comfort.

But no. Frank signed up for this.

I didn’t. It is not up to me

to make it easier.

Would It Hurt? / Emma

Would It Hurt?

Emma

A kiss is not a marriage vow,

I argue with Muriel. For pity’s sake,

would it hurt you to give Frank a little dream

to tuck into his heart before he leaves? One kiss—

you wouldn’t be engaged, just something for my brother

to hang on to in the lonely times when he’s far from home.

I don’t know exactly what happened between you last night,

but from Frank’s face today, it’s not hard to guess. He might

not come back from this war! Are your ideas so set in stone

that you can’t put them aside, or at least consider another,

more gentle point of view? Believe me, Muriel, I hate this

war as much as you do, but truly, in the overall scheme

of things, would one little kiss be so hard to take?

Muriel’s only answer is, I don’t know.

Right in Front of Everyone / Ollie

Right in Front of Everyone

Ollie

Light in the eastern sky has turned

from red to gold in the hour we’ve been

standing here with Frank, waiting for the train

to take him back to camp. Emma looks at her brother

as if she thinks he’s already been to war and is returning

home a few feet taller, covered in ribbons and medals. She

stands on tiptoe and kisses him on the cheek, then folds her

hands around his arm. (For a look like that from Emma, I’d

roam the earth, swim across oceans and fight lions.) Muriel

has not yet said goodbye. Looking up at Frank, she says,

You don’t always have to be the hero. You stay safe now!

Commanding him with such ferocity that he jokes,

Come here and say that. And when she does,

right in front of everyone, he kisses her!

Circles for the Crossing Stones / June 1917

Circles for the Crossing Stones

June 1917

Would You Be Willing? / Muriel

Would You Be Willing?

Muriel

Look, Mama—Papa forgot his lunch—

Ollie’s over at the Normans’, helping

with the planting—I’ll hitch up the horses

and take this to Papa at the lumberyard.

It’s good to be out on this warm day,

half an hour into town, and half an hour back,

time to think my own thoughts, sing to the horses,

wave to men out in the fields—though lately

half the people in the fields are women,

and at the lumberyard, six women, wearing overalls,

are working just as hard as men. They’re filling in

for men who have been drafted, Papa tells me.

All the way home, and all afternoon, I think about

applying for a job myself—I’d earn some money, and

it’s considered “the patriotic thing to do” these days.

But at supper, Mama tells us she has decided to go to work

at a shop in town. The bookkeeper was drafted,

and the manager asked Mama to help out

“for the duration”—that’s the phrase they’re using, to avoid

having to say “war.” (No one knows, of course, how long

the duration will be.) Muriel, would you be willing

to take care of Grace and help with the housework?

“Help with the housework”—ironing and mending,

washing dishes, cooking, milking, churning, mopping.

And, oh yes, “take care of Grace,” as if that’s

a little thing you do when all the other work

is finished. Mama and I together are barely

keeping up with everything; I don’t see how

I’ll do it all myself. But this is not a question.

It’s a request that will define my days—

for the duration. Grace shines a little grin

my way when Mama turns her back—

no doubt thinking of some mischief

I’ll allow that Mama wouldn’t.

The Gentleman Should Always / Muriel

The Gentleman Should Always

Muriel

Grace draws a picture: our two houses with the creek

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