By Hattie Carson, as told by Seriah R. Getty
Texas, 1944
The broiling Texas sun leered down on us as we stood on the platform outside the train-station. Dust choked my throat as tears stung my eyes and I blinked rapidly to keep them back. Dad leaned over me in his new uniform, smelling like peppermints as always.
“Promise you’ll pray for me Hattie,” he’d said, hugging me tightly. “For all us boys.”
“Promise you’ll come back,” I’d said, not letting go of him.
Dad gently untangled my arms from his waist and knelt down on the dusty boards to look me right in the eyes. “You promise me you’ll take care of Aunt Henrietta,” he’d said, pretending to be stern. We looked at each other all squinty-eyed, trying to make the other person blink first.
“Deal.” And we shook hands on it.
☘ ☘ ☘
Texas, 1946
(Two Years Later)
“Deal.” The word still rang in my mind, as fresh as the pain I felt when day after day, Dad never came back. I kept my side of the deal, but in my opinion Aunt Henny did not want or need any help whatsoever. And she’d tell you so too. Or rather, yell at you. Nothing about Aunt Henny was quiet. Her voice, clothes, dog, her cooking and music--all loud.
“Girl!” She’d screech at me. “Ain’t nobody’s gonna look after you now that yer father’s done and got hisself kilt in the war!” She would shake her wooden stirring spoon at me threateningly. “And the Lawd knows I wouldn’t send a poor orphan off halfway ‘cross the world to live with that man.”
I would have liked to point out that my father wasn’t dead, just Missing In Action, but Aunt Henny never really cared. “Missin’s as good as dead when yer not there to pay the bills!” She’d shout over the noise of the dog barking. And I almost began to believe it. But, I’d remind myself, I made a deal, and a Carson never breaks a promise. So I kept waiting. Not an orphan. Not alone. Just waiting.
Who exactly “that man” was, I could never find out, for when I tried to ask Aunt Henny about him all I got was a glare that could wither flowers and a thump on the head.
“Girl! Why’s you got to ask so many questions? Can’t a body get a little peace ‘round here?” Seemed to me that Aunt Henny made up more noise round there than I ever did, but one day that changed.
One day Aunt Henny went into town to get eggs and she never did come back. They never found out what happened to her. Never found her pocket book or her floppy hat with the loud pink flowers on it. Aunt Henny was gone. Just like Dad.
Some Important People decided it would be best to send me off to “that man”, since he was my only living, relative. I tried to explain that my Dad was coming back, but nobody seemed to hear me. I just hoped “that man” wasn’t as bad as Aunt Henny. It wasn’t until sitting on the train with my escort that I finally got someone to tell me who he was.
“Why,” said the escort, a plump lady with fluffy red hair, “He’s your great-uncle--on your mother’s side, I do believe. Haven’t you ever met him before?”
I shook my head. “Where does he live?” I asked.
“Haven’t you been paying attention at all, child? Your Uncle Murtagh lives in Ireland, that’s where we’re sending ya.” What kind of a name was Murtagh? The Red-hair lady pronounced it “Mur-tah” and the way she said it gave me shivers.
Well, I thought, determined to look on the bright side of things. If Aunt Henny didn’t like Uncle Murtagh, then he must not be too bad.
And that was that.
☘ ☘ ☘
Clipskein, Ireland, 1946
My arrival into Ireland was wet, dark and all-together dismal. Rain rattled off the tin roof of the old train-station and thunder rumbled above. Uncle Murtagh was there to meet me, driving an old green wagon pulled by a grey-speckled draft horse. We stared at each other, rain dripping off the end of my freckled nose. Uncle Murtagh didn’t say anything, and neither did I.
“Hop on,” He finally said, offering a wiry hand to help me up. I sat down next to him, only half sheltered by the top of the buggy. Uncle Murtagh silently handed me a weather-beaten black umbrella, with several spines missing. I tucked my carpet-bag under the seat and crossed my legs against the chill, wishing I’d worn a thicker pair of socks.
I sneaked a sideways glance at my new-found Uncle. Murtagh looked quite weather-beaten himself, deep wrinkles creasing across his forehead and crinkling around his piercing blue eyes. His knobby nose jutting out above his pointy chin and his white hair stuck out at odd angles beneath his hat. It was a funny looking thing, that hat. It was flat, with a little brim peeking out the front, and it was flecked grey, just like the horse.
Uncle Murtagh’s face was set in an indecipherable expression. I just hoped he wasn’t a shouter, like Aunt Henny. Thinking of Aunt Henny made me think of home, back in Texas. I missed home. A sudden thought struck me: What if Dad returned home and I wasn’t there? Who would tell him what had happened to me? How would he know where to look for me? I sniffed hard to keep back the tears that were threatening to join the raindrops sliding down my cheeks. Uncle Murtagh glanced at me and fished around in his pocket, coming up with a limp handkerchief.
“Here,” he said, offering it to me awkwardly.
“Thanks,” I whispered. Maybe Uncle Murtagh wasn’t all that bad.
The next morning, when I woke up, I laid in bed for a while, just staring at the ceiling, which sloped down to the floor on either side of the long, narrow room. (The ceiling, by the way, was plaster, but dreadfully water-stained.) The little room that was to be mine was really the attic, but it was a cozy attic, with a small round window at one end and a ladder leading down through the floor at the other. A dusty, brass-bound trunk filled the space beneath the window, and my bed was shoved up as far as it could go against the peaked roof. A squat dresser sat peeling against the other wall, my carpet bag leaning up against it. I
A loud clatter sounded downstairs and I started up out of bed, the metal frame creaking underneath my weight. The bed didn’t seem all that sturdy--I hoped it would stand up to my nightly tossing and turning. Slipping into my warmest clothes, which weren’t very warm at all, I climbed down the ladder and crept along the hall. Peering around the doorframe to what I assumed was the kitchen, I saw Uncle Murtagh bent over, picking up several copper pots and pans off the floor. Glancing up, he saw me standing in the doorway.
“Oh,” he said, “You’re up.” Uncle Murtagh glanced down at the skillet in his hands and then back at me. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“I was already up,” I assured him. There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Well,” said Uncle Murtagh, setting the skillet down on the stove. “Top o’ the mornin’ to you, then.”
I smiled, stepping into the kitchen to pick up a small saucepan from under the kitchen table. “Uncle Murtagh,” I began, intending to ask him about what to do about my father.
“No, no!” He said hurriedly, “Everyone calls me Mac. Uncle Mac, iffen ya like.”
“Oh.” I had suddenly lost my train of thought. There was another long silence as neither of us seemed to know what to say.
“You see,” said Uncle Mac, “I was just tryin’ to make some pancakes for your first mornin’ here an’ all. But I make a pretty poor cook… I usually just burn the things...” He trailed off and suddenly, Uncle Mac did not seem quite so stiff as he had last night.
“Do ya like eggs?” he asked abruptly. I nodded and set the pot down on the table.
“Well! Why didn’t you say so? I’ll just go an’ get some from me girls.” And with that, Uncle Mac spun on his heels and went out the kitchen door. I watched him through the window until he disappeared around the corner of the cottage, then turned back to the kitchen. Curiously, I opened the nearest cupboard. A tin of cocoa and a collection of chipped rosy-pink mugs huddled together on the bottom shelf. I had already started some milk warming on the stove when Uncle Mac came back inside with five eggs balanced in one of his hands.
Uncle Mac fried the eggs and I finished the cocoa, setting two places at the table with more chipped dishes and a few tarnished forks and knives. We sat down and I picked up my fork, but Uncle Mac bowed his head. I blushed. When it was just Dad and me, we would always say grace together, but Aunt Henny had never said it, and I had fallen out of the habit of praying before meals. Setting down my fork, I bowed my head. It felt good to hear a prayer said out loud again.
“Heavenly Father,” began Uncle Mac, “We thank Thee for our breakfast, and that Miss Hattie could join us for it. In your name, Amen.”
During breakfast, we didn’t say much, but the silence was more of a comfortable, people-having-a-good-breakfast kind of silence, only interrupted by Uncle Mac’s massive black dog, Beowulf, begging for scraps. As we stood to clear the plates, Uncle Mac cleared his throat.
“I suppose you’ll be wantin’ ta see a wee bit more a’ the place, seein’ that it’s light an’ all.”
I nodded enthusiastically.
“I had planned to take you on a bit of a tour myself, but I have business down in the village and--”
“It’s alright,” I told him. “I can explore myself.” I’d like to by be myself, I thought. It’ll give me a chance to write.
“You’re goin’ to be needin’ thicker shoes than those,” Uncle Mac wisely pointed out. “I’ll loan you a pair of my boots.”
The boots were much too large, but with an extra pair of thick socks and a lump of the morning’s newspaper in each toe, they worked--to a fashion, at least. Uncle Mac showed me the barn and introduced me to the goats--Tynan, Moore, and Lewis--before he left. After I waved Uncle Mac off down the little dirt lane, I ran back into the house and clambered up the ladder to rummage in my carpet bag for my notebook and my ball-point pen. I hugged the little cardboard covered notebook to my chest and went back to the barn. Sitting across from the goats on a stack of feed sacks I explained:
“This is the notebook Dad gave me, right before he left to go fight,” I said. “He gave me the pen too, ‘so I would stop stealing his,’ he said.” I smiled at Tynan and leaned closer to tell her my secret. “I like to write poems in here,” I whispered. “Little stories--things other people would laugh at.” I had made the mistake once before of letting Aunt Henny see a poem I had written about the moon.
“Poems are a waste of time!” She’d yelled. “Now go shell those peas and get your pretty little head out of the clouds!”
Feeling quite rebellious, I went and wrote a poem about Aunt Henny instead. That was in my notebook, too. I was almost out of pages to write on. I heard it start to rain outside. Leaving the goats to watch over my notebook, I went outside to watch the rain-drops dancing off the leaves and slip softly to the grass. It was so very . . . green here. Walking nowhere in particular, I headed past the barn and into the meadow.
Coming across a little path, I followed it into a patch of woods, pine and oak, mostly. Deeper into the woods I found a grove of birch trees, tall and proud, forming a ring around a large tree stump. The stump was fairly wide, and covered in a thick, springy green moss. Despite the fact that it was wet and slick, I sat down on it, tipping my head back and letting the warm spring rain fall on my face. Without a reason, I laughed.
This, I decided, was what poetry was. Warm rain on an upturned face, matching Heaven’s gaze … droplets sliding down the sky, falling through the haze …
A yelp and a loud CRACK! startled me out of my poetic reverie as I jumped up from my stump. “Hello?” I called, walking towards the sound.
“Don’t stand thur’ all day!” piped up a voice from underneath a large leafy branch lying in the ground. “Help me up!”
I heaved the branch upwards and a boy about my size crawled out from beneath it, sopping wet and covered in leaves.
“You took long enough,” the boy remarked darkly as he picked the soggy leaves off his clothes. “Could ‘a died under there.”
“But you didn’t,” I dared to say. The boy glanced up at me, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, nearly covering his sparkling green eyes. “Ya sure have some pluck--fer a girl.”
I snorted. “You sure have some pluck to be spying on people, anyhow,” I challenged.
The boy grinned. “Ya got me there.” He stuck out his hand. “Name’s Kip. What’s your’s?”
“Hattie,” I said, shaking his hand.
“Your accent’s funny,” we both said at the same time, then we laughed.
And that was how I met Kip, the boy who named this story. We became fast friends, and got into all sorts of scrapes (sometimes literally) together. Kip taught me some words in Gaelic, how to fish and catch frogs; I taught him how to climb trees without falling. But that would happen later...
☘ ☘ ☘
On the next Sunday, Uncle Mac took me to the little church on the edge of the village. The pastor was a short man with a round, bald head and a merry laugh.
“Welcome to Ireland, Miss Carson,” He said, shaking my hand. “Tis nice to see such a lovely young lady takin’ care of her poor old uncle. And havin’ ta put up with the burnt pancakes, too!” He winked at me, and clapped Uncle Mac on the back; then turned to greet another family walking in the doors. I wondered how he knew about the pancakes.
Uncle Mac and I sat near the front, and I was once again reminded of home. Though, the church back home did not have a thatched roof, to be sure. The wooden pews were not very comfortable, and to keep my mind off them I looked up at the thatched ceiling and the ancient stone walls. People around us were taking their seats, laughing and talking with one another. The rows were fairly full when Pastor O’Neal closed the doors and took his seat in the front pew.
Up the aisle came the choir, small in number, probably only eight or nine people, all dressed in white trailing robes. Taking their place at the front of the church, a woman wearing a white blouse and a yellow and green plaid skirt stood up to direct them. The small choir began singing. I couldn’t understand the words, but the tune seemed familiar.
“‘Be Thou My Vision,’” whispered Uncle Mac. “They’re singin’ it in Gaelic.”
“Oh,” was all I said, because one of the singers closest to us had just sneezed in the middle of the song. Taking a closer look at his face I realized it was Kip. I was surprised to see him here, and singing in the choir, too! He looked nice in a choir robe, almost like a mischievous version of an angel I had once seen illustrated in a children’s Bible. Kip caught my eye and grinned at me, and I smiled back.
And then--oh, then, the pastor began to speak; it was not the dry, stale, lecture of the pastor back home, but a father’s speech to his children, excited for them to be learning with him the glories of God’s Word. The sermon was on Jesus, how he was both Son of God and son of man. And that made me think: If Jesus was both man and God, did that make Him a ruler of Heaven and earth? was Jesus then ruler of all nations, not just America? England and Ireland too? Even Germany?
“It says right here in John...3:16…” there was a pause as Pastor O’’Neal flipped to the spot in his large Bible. “‘For God so loved the world that he gave His one and only Son, that whosoever believeth in Him, shall not perish, but have eternal life.’” There! That was the answer--For God so loved the world. Not just the Allies, not just the Jews, but all the nations!
The moment was so beautiful I cannot even begin to properly describe it, but I was so overwhelmed with the sunlight pouring in the windows and the sermon, with my newest revelation--the words welled up within me, demanding to be written:
Fairest Lord Jesus, Ruler of all Nature,
O Thou of God and Man the Son.
I will honor you, I will give you praise…
Pulling out my notebook I had brought along to take notes on the sermon, I scribbled down my verse. No, no. That last part was wrong. Maybe I should use “Thee” instead of “You,” I thought.
Thee will I honor, Thee I will cherish…
There--that sounded much better. Now for the last line:
Thou my soul’s glory, joy and crown.
Reading over what I’d written, I thought: It sounds right--although my soul does not have glory. Or a crown. At least, not yet, anyways. It still felt unfinished, though. What could I add?
“Uncle Mac,” I asked on the way home. “Do you believe in angels?”
Uncle Mac was quiet for a long ways. As we came up the dirt lane towards the house, finally he spoke:
“Angels are out there, Hattie. Of that, you can be sure.”
Maybe I would put something in my poem about angels…
☘ ☘ ☘
That afternoon, I walked across the meadows and through the woods, following the trail that I had followed the first day, all the way into the woods, where I found my little grove of trees with the mossy stump. Perched on my writing stool, I took out my pen, twirling it in my fingers and chewing on the end of my braid. Nothing was coming. I sighed. Maybe if I journaled for a bit, that would help. So I wrote about the morning, about the sermon, and pastor O’Neal, and about Kip.
With his choir robes all about him, I wrote, Kip looked different from the boy who romps around the meadows with me. Almost...nice. Almost.
“Hi!” Said Kip, right behind me. “I resent that!” Startled, I clapped my notebook shut, looking up to see Kip standing there with his arms crossed. “I look nice all the time.” Kip said, assuming an offended air. “P’raps even dashing.” He waggled his eyebrows at me and I struggled to maintain a straight face.
“Kip Sullivan O’Brady,” I said sternly. “You shouldn’t read over people’s shoulders!”
Kip looked slightly repentant. “A’right. I’m sorry. But you never told me that you were a writer.”
“I’m not--” I began.
“But you were writing?”
I sighed. Trying to come up with something to say, but really, I supposed I was a writer…
“What do you write?” Kip asked, reaching for my notebook.
“Things.” I jerked the notebook out of his grasp and leaped away. I started walking for home through the forest.
“Yes, but what kind of things?” Kip pestered, following me. When I didn’t answer, he stepped in front of me, blocking the path. “Well?” I tried to duck around him, but he reached out a hand a snatched my notebook as I passed.
“Kip! I cried, chasing him back up the path. “Give it back!”
Kip laughed as he raced down the path. “You’ll have ta catch me first!”
Coming upon a small mountain of boulders, Kip tucked the notebook in his suspenders and began climbing. I scrambled right up after after him--dress and all. Kip, having reached the top of the rocks, leisurely flipped open the the notebook. He would read it--I knew he would--every silly word. And then he would laugh. I couldn’t bear it!
“Let’s see … what has Hattie written that could be so interesting as ta not share it?”
“Kip!” I repeated, tears threatening to spill down over my cheeks. “Please don’t read it! Please!” Kip looked down at me and his expression softened.
“A’right,” he sighed dramatically. “I won’t.” He stepped closer to the edge to hand me the notebook, but his foot caught on a clump of lichen and the notebook went sailing out of his hands. My hands slipped as I tried to see where the notebook landed and I fell, scraping my hands and knees on the face of the boulder. I landed hard on my rump, the wet grass thoroughly soaking my dress. The notebook had landed in a puddle of muddy water at the base of the boulders and I crawled on my hands and knees to get it, tears blurring my vision.
“Hattie, are you a’right?” Kip asked, jumping down beside me and offering a hand to help me up.
“No! I am not ‘A’right’!” I shouted at him, slapping his hand away and clutching the water-logged notebook to my chest. Palms stinging and tears falling, I stormed off, leaving a bewildered Kip standing by the boulders.
☘ ☘ ☘
The next morning, after Uncle Mac had left for the village, I headed out the barn to clean out the goat stalls, Beowulf bounding along beside me, nipping at my hands.
“Beowulf, stop!” I said, still feeling snippy from my interaction with Kip. Beowulf sneezed and bounded off behind the barn. I sighed and went over to the shed to retrieve the pitchfork. Opening the door, I spotted the pitchfork, out of arm’s reach, setting against the back wall. Leaning precariously over a rusty piece of farm equipment, I reached one hand out to grab the pitchfork, steadying myself against the wall with my other hand.
“Hattie,” said a voice, right by my ear. I yelped and jumped, my hand slipping off the wall, my weight being thrown forward. I toppled headfirst into a large tub full of what appeared to be rotten potatoes. Spiders scurried away in alarm as clouds of dust billowed up around me, making me cough.
“Oh---Hattie! I’m so sorry!” A hand reached out to pull me up and over the side of the tub out of the shed. It was Kip.
“Kip!” I coughed. Oh that boy! First the notebook, now this! I was so mad I couldn’t stop myself. My hand flew up and I smacked Kip up the side of the head--hard.
“Ow!” said Kip, looking genuinely sorry. “I’m sorry--I--I didn’t mean ta scare you. Honest I didn’t.” Instantly I felt remorseful.
“I’m sorry too,” I said, blushing at the ground. “I shouldn’t have hit you.”
“Ah, it’s fine,” said Kip. “I just wanted to show you something--to sort of … make up for yesterday an’ all.” I looked up at Kip’s hopeful face.
“Where is it?” I asked dubiously.
“Just aways--not far.”
“Alright,” I said, and then I looked at my sweater, which was coated with dust and cobwebs and smelled like rotten potatoes. “But first I want to change.”
“Good idea,” said Kip, grinning. “Rotten potatoes are manky!”
I didn’t know what “manky” meant, but I was pretty sure it was not good, so I went to change.
“Kip!” I said, half an hour of hiking later. “How much farther is this thing?”
“Just a wee bit farther,” he called back.
“You said that ‘just a wee bit’ ago!”
Kip didn’t answer. While the hike was steep, and I’d worn the wrong shoes, the view from the top of the hill was gorgeous. After hiking some ways on the crest, Kip had led us on a small path cutting down the hill into a tight valley of trees. Now I could see something through the pines--a flash of light here and there.
Kip stopped abruptly. “There ’tis,” he said. “It’s my secret place--my own loch.”
I walked up the trail to stand beside him. “Kip,” I breathed. “It’s … beautiful.”
And it was: The steep sides of the valley sloped down to a small lake, glimmering green in the weak sunlight. Tall grasses poked out from the edges of the water, a spiky green crown encircling the loch. Following the path down to the loch’s edge, we walked through a patch of large boulders, pale green lichen creeping down their sides and spilling across the trail. Water droplets clung to the pine-needles from last night’s rain, twinkling through the foliage as a million glittering jewels.
I stood at the water’s edge, just breathing and staring at the beauty of the valley around me. Kip walked behind a large rhododendron and heaved a small canoe into view.
“Care for a ride, miss Hattie?” He asked.
“Of course!” I grabbed one end of the canoe and helped Kip carry it to the water.
“Know how to steer?” He asked, holding the canoe steady as I got in. I didn’t, so Kip had me sit in the front and he sat in the back. Grabbing a wooden paddle from the bottom of the canoe, he pushed us off and handed me the other. “Like this,” he said, showing me how to hold the paddle. “Ya pull it t’rough the water … like so--” Copying his movements, I dipped my paddle in the water, pulling us forward. We fell into a sort of rhythm: Dip--pull--dip--pull--dip--pull--
In the middle of the loch, we paused in our paddling, just sitting, marveling at the world. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath of pure content. Then the words came.
Fair are the meadows, fairer still the woodlands,
Robed in the blooming garb of spring
Nothing could be more beautiful than this, I thought. But … what about Jesus? If He was so beautiful, as Pastor O’Neal had said, then He must be even more beautiful than this.
Jesus is fairer, Jesus is purer
Then … what? I drew a blank. Repeating the first three lines over and over in my head, to make certain I wouldn’t forget them, I paddled on the loc with Kip for a long, long time.
That evening, when Uncle Mac came home, I told him all about Kip’s loch. Uncle Mac just smiled and listened, never interrupting to ask silly questions. As we sat down at the table, Uncle Mac and I said Grace, then began to eat our supper. Suddenly a question came to me.
“Uncle Mac,” I said. “What do you do in town?”
“Why,” said Uncle. “I thought ya knew: I run the wee bookstore down on the corner. I brought ya something--” He dug around in his sweater pocket. “I keep ‘em in a bowl on the counter. I thought ya might like ‘em.” Uncle Mac placed a small paper bag on the table. Opening it, I was startled by the smell of peppermints.
Peppermints. The kind that Dad always had a few of in his pocket, for little girls who climbed up on his lap with a scraped elbow, or any sort of problem. “Peppermints can cure just about anything,” Dad would say. “‘Cept a broken heart.”
My eyes watered as I stared at the paper bag in my hands. I missed him so much. A tear slipped down my cheek. Uncle Mac looked surprised.
“You don’t have ta eat ‘em iffen you don’t want to, now,” he said quickly.
“It’s not that,” I sniffed. “I just miss Dad.” I laid my head on my arms and cried. All the ache that I had kept back, all the suppressed doubts, all of it came up in one painful sob.
He’s never coming back, a voice whispered. Never. Never. Never.
“There, there, Hattie,” Said Uncle Mac, awkwardly patting my shoulder. “You’ll see him agin--don’t worry about tha’. Someday, we’ll all be there--”
“No!” I cut him off--cut off the voices of despair in my heart. “He’s not dead! He’s not--he’s not!” I shoved my chair back from the table and ran from the room, pausing at the door when Uncle Mac asked, “Hattie, would ya mind iffen I prayed for ya?”
I nodded, then looked away quickly.
“Father,” prayed Uncle Mac, “We don’t always p’hraps … understand why You do things tha way that Ya do, Lord. But please, would Ya spare some comfort for a wee lass tonight, for she’s missin’ he Da.” Uncle Mac’s voice cracked. “ I know what it’s like ta lose someone ya love … Would Ya please give us Yer Grace ta-night, comfort our woes, liken a muther hen a’gatherin’ her chicks to ‘er. Amen.”
Turning back from the door, I ran to hug my uncle, then went up the stairs, greatly comforted. Kneeling by my creaky bed, I kneeled down with a quick prayer of my own.
“Jesus,” I whispered. “I know my daddy’s still out there. Please take care of him for me.” Remembering what Dad had said all those years ago I added, “And all the other soldiers, too. Amen.” Slowly I got up, and walked across the room to sit on the steamer trunk.
The rain clouds from earlier had dissipated, leaving trails of glittering stars surrounding and almost-full moon.
Who makes the woeful heart to sing…
☘ ☘ ☘
Over the summer, Kip had tried to convince me many times to camp out in the meadow with him, without a tent, just under the stars. Every time I had said “No”.
“Why not Hattie?” Kip would whine, making puppy-eyes at me. “It’ll be fun!”
I didn’t want to tell him the real reason, so instead I told him that I didn’t want to be rained on in the middle of the night. The real reason was that Dad and I used to do it, just him and me--under the stars out in one of the grassy fields outside of town. I felt like it would be disloyal to sleep under the stars without Dad.
One particularly hot day, towards the end of August, Kip had told me that there was to be no rain that night.
“C’mon, Hattie!” He had pleaded. “This’ll be one of the last nights we can camp out!”
At lunch I discussed my fears with Uncle Mac.
“I just don’t want to do it without Dad,” I said. “I’d feel like a traitor or something.”
“Or something?” chuckled Uncle Mac. “Hattie, don’t ya think that if yer Da were here, he’d be out campin’ with ya? How about you do it in honor of yer Da? I let ya take the ol’ camera an’ you can take some pictures for ‘im.”
I brightened. “That would be nice,” I admitted. “And then Kip would stop pestering me.” I grinned. “I’ll go tell Kip.”
Uncle Mac came with us (‘to keep us from gettin’ inta too much trouble,’ he said) and we picked a hill in the pasture with thick, springy grass to set up our bedrolls. It was a warm night, and Uncle Mac had brought his telescope so we could star-gaze. The three of us took turns, exclaiming whenever we found something new in the sky.
After we had eaten the cookies we packed, Uncle Mac declared it was time for bed. Laying on my sleeping bag, I looked up at the stars to see one shooting across the black expanse above us. I wish you were here, Dad, I thought sadly. The night here is even more beautiful than the day. I needed to write.
Pulling out my battered notebook and pen I wrote,
Fair is the sunshine, fairer still the moonlight,
And all the stars above,
Following the pattern of the first two stanzas I’d written, I continued.
Jesus shines brighter, Jesus shines purer
Than all the…
All the What? What rhymes with above? Love...dove...shove… No, no … no. Maybe I should change the line about “above”.
And all the twinkling stars…
Starry … host! I thought triumphantly.
Fair is the sunshine, fairer still the moonlight,
And all the twinkling starry host
Jesus shines brighter, Jesus shines purer
Than all the angels Heav’n can boast
There, I thought, tucking my notebook back under my pillow. For you Uncle Mac--there’s your angels.
And I smiled to myself in the dark.
☘ ☘ ☘
What happened that fall was one of the worst things that ever happened to me. It was also one of the best things that ever happened to me.
Kip likes to call it: The Great Adventure of Songbird and Her Sidekick, Kip the Great.
I, on the other hand, prefer to call it: What Happened When Kip Stole My Notebook.
Whatever you wish to call it, it started on September 16th--my Twelfth Birthday. Uncle Mac took me to his bookstore and I helped him all day--shelving books, managing the cash-register, and creating a display in the front made out of old paperbacks. Afterwards, Uncle Mac took me to his favorite restaurant for dinner. It was a wonderful evening, and on the walk back in the chilly September dusk, my only thought was that the day could only have been more perfect if Dad had been there.
When we got back to the cottage, I went upstairs to write in my notebook. Pulling off my boots, I heard a soft thump! from up above.
Oh no! I thought, Beowulf’s gotten into my socks again!
Ready to do battle for my favorite socks, I charged up the stairs and barged into my room. “Beowulf--” I started, but I didn’t finish. There was Kip, picking up the lamp from the floor… with my notebook lying open on the bed.
I was so angry that I marched over, grabbed the notebook and brought it down on Kip’s head--hard. “You wicked, wicked boy!” I shouted, smacking him again as he scrambled for the door. “How dare you read my notebook! How dare you?”
“I just--I just--” Kip tried to explain. My cheeks grew hot as my eyes stung.
“Just leave, Kip--get out of here!” Kip looked about ready to cry himself as he ran downstairs. I heard the door slam and fell on my bed crying. How could he? How could he invade my private notebook--the only piece of Dad that I had left? Uncle Mac came up the stairs.
“Hattie,” He asked, confused. “What was that?”
“I don’t know,” I sniffed. “He--Kip--he read my notebook.”
“I don’t see how that’s grounds to go a’whackin’ him and screamin’ like a banshee. Did ya even know why he was up here?”
I lifted my head and for the first time, looked around the room and noticed the smell of paint. The walls had been painted a fresh, buttery yellow, and the peaked and water-stained ceiling had a fresh coat of whitewash on it.
“T’was for your birthday,” said Uncle Mac. “He asked me if he could surprise ya.”
I felt ashamed of myself. How could I have let my temper carry me away like that?
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“Well,” said Uncle Mac. “You’d best tell that ta Kip, not me. But wait until the morning, Hattie girl--it’s too dark now.” Uncle Mac got up and walked to the door. “Goodnight, Hattie.”
I changed and brushed my teeth, then picked up my notebook and crawled into the creaky old bed. I stuffed the notebook under my pillow, frowning at myself in the dark.
Dear God, I prayed silently. Please forgive me for being so awful to Kip. I’m truly sorry that I hit him. And please help him not to be too mad at me. I promise to go make it up to him before breakfast.
The next morning, I felt like I’d been run over with a steam engine--twice. Uncle Mac checked my temperature told me that I had a fever. I couldn’t even keep down my breakfast, so Uncle Mac called up the neighbor, Mrs. Hammeratty, and she came to stay with me while Uncle Mac went to work. Mrs. Hammeratty was an elderly lady who had moved to Clipskien from England.
“You have the worst case of influenza I’ve evah seen, you poor deah!” She kept saying.
I was sick for two whole weeks. The pastor’s wife, Mrs. O’Neal, came to see me, and Uncle Mac brought me some books from the shop when I felt well enough to read. The cheerful yellow on the walls made being sick a little more bearable, but I felt even worse looking at them because I couldn’t go talk to Kip, and he didn’t come to visit. I figured he must be pretty mad at me--and rightfully so.
On the Saturday I was finally back to feeling like my old self, I decided to write about Mrs. Hammeratty’s … interesting … stories that she had told me about growing up in England. I opened my notebook for the first time since my birthday. Flipping through the pages, I sadly realized I only had eight blank pages left. Flipping to the first blank page, I noticed that there were shreds of paper along the seam, as if someone had ripped several pages out. I turned back a few pages to figure out which of my writings were missing.
My poem! The one that I had been adding to and refining ever since that first Sunday in Ireland. I had been saving it, hoping to show it to Dad whenever he came back, but now it was gone! I wasn’t sure if I could even remember all the right words. I knew that Uncle Mac wouldn’t have done it, and I never would have--Kip! He must have torn them out when he read through my book! Why had he done that?
I stormed down the stairs, fully intending to march over to Kip’s house and take my poem right back. Uncle Mac was sitting at the kitchen table with a thick book and a mug of cocoa. He looked up as I entered the room and took my boots out of the front closet.
“Woah there, lass,” he said as I pulled on my boots. “Where do ya think you’re goin’?”
“To Kip’s,” I said tersely.
“Well, yer not goin’ in this downpour--you’ll be soaked to the bone an’ catch cold.”
“Uncle Mac--” I began.
“No,” said Uncle Mac, returning to his book. “You can wait ‘till tomorrow.”
Tomorrow is Sunday, I thought on my way back upstairs. I’ll just have to go before church.
That’s what I’d thought. But once again, my plans were not to be. Tanyan, the goat, gave birth to triplets in the night, and I helped Uncle Mac deliver all three of them. Both of us slept in, and then when we realized how late it was, we had to hurry to get to church on time. Uncle Mac hitched up the work-horse to the wagon, and instead of walking, as we usually did, we rode to church.
When we got to church, Pastor O’Neal was just shutting the doors.
“Hattie!” he exclaimed, shaking my hand. “‘Tis so good to see ya again, lass!”
We entered quietly and found seats near the back. The choir walked up the aisle and lined up behind the pulpit, as usual. Mrs. O’Neal got up to direct them in song, but unlike usual, she turned to the congregation.
“Good mornin’ folks,” she said warmly. “I know that we usually sing an older hymn for our worship, but today,” Mrs O’Neal grinned. “We have a special treat for ya all.”
Mrs. O’Neal turned around and picked up a pencil to direct the choir and the organist ruffled her papers. There was an expectant hush and I tried to pick out Kip in the choir. There he was, two from the left. Did he look--worried? But I had no time to think about it because the organist began to play. The chords were unfamiliar, but the simple tune was very beautiful.
The choir began to sing.
“Fairest Lord Jesus, Ruler of all Nature…”
I gasped. It was my poem! I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry--Kip had turned my poem into a song! I sat next to Uncle Mac, not even knowing what to think. Kip had made my poem into a song. He’d written music to my poem...
“Than all the angels Heav’n can boast!”
The song ended and Uncle Mac whispered,
“Wasn’t that just beautiful, Hattie? I wonder where they found it…”
I had a fluttery feeling in my chest and I regret to say I didn’t hear a word of the sermon. Afterwards, Kip hesitantly approached me. He took a deep breath.
“Hattie,” he began, but I interrupted him.
“Kip,” I cried. “I’m so sorry and now I don’t know whether to hug you, or cry, or hit you again!”
Kip grinned sheepishly. “I think I’ll take tha first option.” I threw my arms around him and hugged him tightly. “Thank you, Kip.” I whispered.
“You’re the little Songbird, Hattie,” He whispered back. “Ya just didn’t know it yet.”
☘ ☘ ☘
Clipskein, Ireland, Christmas 1946
I watched anxiously as Uncle Mac unwrapped his gift.
“Why, Hattie--did ya write this yourself?” He asked in surprise. I nodded and hugged Beowulf, who sat on the floor next to me.
“But Kip carved the frame,” I quickly pointed out.
The gift was a poem I had written about a pine tree, and it went like this:
The Pine Tree and I,
Alone we sit
On a Mountain of Stone
In the Woods
We listen to the Leaves
Whisper softly
Hear the murmured songs
Of the Stream
And the Pine Tree and I sit quietly
In the endless dance of the Sun
Lichen hugs the rock
--My Throne--
And the Pine Tree nestles close
Wisps of Grass
Blow in the Breeze
Teasing the hair in my eyes
And the Sun casts shadows all around
Just the two of us--the Pine Tree and I
It’s a baby tree,
This little Pine
Just my height on this rocky perch
I wonder sometimes, if Someone Else
May come along someday
To share in the setting of the Sun
With my little Baby Pine
But for now, it’s just us:
The Stone and the Breeze and God--
Just the Pine Tree and I
“Hattie! It’s beautiful,” Remarked Mrs. O’Brady. “Just lovely.” I blushed as Kip grinned at me.
All of us were together--Kip’s family and Uncle Mac and I--crowded into Uncle Mac’s tiny living room, even tinier with the Christmas tree taking up room. There was one present left under the tree: a small, lumpy package, wrapped messily and tied with a huge blue ribbon.
“‘To Songbird,’” Kip read out loud. “Does anyone know any Songbirds around here?” Kip peered at Beowulf, then wrinkled his nose and looked at the tag again. “Oh! It must be for Hattie!”
We all laughed as Kip carelessly tossed the gift into my lap. “S’from me,” he added.
“Well, then,” I said, untying the bow, “I’m sure it’ll be marvelous.”
Peeling back the mis-matched wrapping paper, I felt the silky-smooth grain of wood.
“Kip,” I breathed, speechless. I stared down at the tiny carved bird in my hand, delicate little feathers raised along its tail and head. One eye of the bird was closed, as if in a mischievous wink, and carved in small swirling letters on the chest of the bird were the words,
“Who Makes the Woeful Heart to Sing”
“D’ya like it?” Asked Kip.
“Yes!” I cried, hugging the bird to my chest. “I love it--thank you.”
We would have spent the whole morning like that, carrying on and telling stories (Kip’s favorite to tell was about the time I fell in the bin of manky potatoes) but there came a sharp rap at the door.
“I’ll get it,” Kip volunteered, jumping up and dashing out of the room. The conversation continued, but I strained to hear who was at the door. Who would be out on Christmas morning?
“Hattie,” Kip called loudly. “C’mere a minute, would ya?”
Puzzled, I got up and picked my way around the wrapping paper and presents strewn about the floor. “Who’s th--” My heart stopped.
Standing there in the door, framed by the blinding white snow, stood--
“Dad!” I screamed, flying into his arms. “Hattie,” Dad said, his voice husky. “Hattie.”
“I missed you,” I whispered, tears streaming down my cheeks and wetting the front of Dad’s jacket. “I missed you more,” He answered.
Uncle Mac came in the kitchen and stood stock-still, staring at Dad and I.
“Bert--but you--I thought--but...” There was a short silence, but Kip quickly broke it.
“Merry Christmas!” He shouted, laughing so hard he doubled over. “Merry Christmas!”
That night, tucked up in my bed, I listened to the wind howl outside and the grown-ups’ muted conversation downstairs. I thought of the year--I thought of Aunt Henny, and her loud life, never stopping to appreciate the true beauty of God’s creation; Uncle Mac, the quite old man who changed my life; of Kip--his friendship and mischievous antics; of the O’Neals, their kindness and zeal for the Lord; But most of all, I thought about Dad. I knew I would just burst if I didn’t write something, so I pulled out my battered, mud-stained, much-hugged notebook, grabbed a pen and wrote.
Beautiful Savior! Lord of the Nations!
Son of God and Son of Man!
Glory and Honor, Praise, Adoration,
Now and forevermore be Thine!
☘ THE END ☘
