The Spinster's Hope Chest
By Robert W. Spencer
An excerpt from pages 93-94
Note: Protagonist Lizzie Millett left the security of her family behind in Westbrook, Maine during the 1870’s. She went to Biddeford/Saco to join young people from many countries in making a better life for themselves working in fabric mills on the Saco River. Here we see her sharing life with the Flaherty sisters from Ireland. In exchange for six twelve-hour days of monotonous work, Liz, like other mill girls, received a wage of $5.25 per week. Such regular pay would make it possible for her to pay for room and board, as well as purchase little luxuries: jewelry and stylish clothes made locally to European designs. After covering the boardinghouse rent, she still might, if careful with expenses, have money to send back to Westbrook every month. Such financial freedom was a new experience, one that she and the other girls in her boardinghouse relished, given the limitations of their rural upbringings. Liz felt much in common with two Irish sisters with whom she shared a room. Maeve and Mary Flaherty had left behind a broken home in a small town in western Ireland. During the potato famine years of the 1840s, their father had immigrated to America. When their mother passed on, their grandmother was left to raise them, just as had happened to Liz. Mary, the elder at twenty-five, had brought young Maeve to St. John, New Brunswick in Canada before crossing the border into Maine, promising to make a new life in America and to send money back to their family in County Clare each month. To cut expenses and allow for savings, the two women slept in the same bed. Since it was something they had done since childhood, it did not bother them, though the other residents found it odd. When Liz spent time with these girls, the manner in which they held onto and doted on each other reminded her of her own close relationship with Hattie. Often on Sundays, the three women went together with others to the Opera House, where actors dressed in exotic Chinese costumes or as American Indians performed one-act dramas. Even though Sunday was the Lord’s Day, it was also the only day when the mills were closed. There might be church in the mornings, but the afternoons and evenings were times to enjoy. One afternoon, the three women left the theater after attending a political drama about President Lincoln’s assassination. As they strolled toward the boardinghouse after the show, Maeve noticed that a group of young factory boys who had been standing about, smoking and passing a bottle between themselves at the theater door, were walking close behind them. “We be wantin’ to keep an eye on those ladies,” Maeve whispered. “They look harmless to me,” said Liz. She had not seen any of the young men before, but that was not unusual with so many people working and living in town. “Harmless you say, but I’d not be trustin’ ’em if I was alone right now.” This time it was Mary who spoke. Her voice was a tense whisper. The three linked arms as they walked toward home. Liz laughed as the Irish girls attempted to imitate some lines they recalled from the play. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that indeed, the six young men were catching up with them. “Let’s move a bit faster, girls. Those ‘laddies’ seem to be interested in us,” said Liz. Maeve turned abruptly, pointed her fist directly at the men and shouted loudly, “Get lost, you feckers! We don’t like boys, if you get me drift.” So shocked were the stalkers that they stopped short and turned away. “Maeve, you’re quite the lady there with that language!” said Lizzie. “The mother tongue I have. Brought it over with me from County Clare.”
Conflicting Roots
By Robert W. Spencer
In this excerpt from Conflcting Roots, Matty Wheet is starting to realize that her ancient ancestors lived in a world with long lasting influences on her own life. Let me know what you think. – Robert On waking the next morning, she was confused and struggled to make sense of her surroundings, feeling that she had just returned from living in another world. It seemed as if she hadn’t slept, but she couldn’t be sure. She was no longer on the bed but sitting instead in Granny’s stuffed easy chair staring out at the bright sun, which made her eyes hurt. It was difficult to focus on anything. She noticed a post office special delivery truck pull into the driveway. The driver walked to her door and rang the bell. She went to the door, even though she knew that she must look a mess. “I have a special delivery parcel for you, ma’am,” said the young man who looked somewhat familiar. Perhaps it was the Shanks boy from Pratt Free School days, but she couldn’t be sure. Taking the package, she inspected and saw it was addressed to Abigail Wheet. “This is for my grandmother. She’s been dead for a few months now.” “Very sorry for your loss. You’re Matty Wheet, right? I remember you from elementary school. Do you remember me, Brandon Shanks?” “Of course I remember you,” she tried to put her hair back in place and straighten the necklace, which was twisted. She placed the gems in her pocket. “Miss, if you look at the small label beneath the address, you can see that whoever sent this included you as Abigail Wheet’s caregiver.” “Well, I guess I’m next of kin, after all. There isn’t anyone else left in the family who could sign for her.” Shanks couldn’t take his eyes off her as she signed the receipt. It bothered her, so she quickly stepped back and started to close the door. “Miss Wheet, I love that tattoo on your forearm. The turtle. I have one almost the same on my ankle. Wanna see it?” “What tattoo? I don’t have a tattoo on my arm, do I?” She looked down and it was there. A willow branch long enough to reach from wrist to elbow. It was huge! A turtle crawled along the branch. How did it get there? She acted so shocked that the man backed away. “Oh, I’m sorry to be so personal. We mail carriers are not supposed to upset our customers. It’s just that your tattoo is so much more detailed than mine. Take a look.” She peeked out and watched him roll up his pants leg to reveal a small turtle just above his ankle. “Who made yours? It’s so much better,” he said. “I’m not sure how I got it,” she answered in a confused whisper. “Miss Wheet, please forgive me. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said as he covered his leg. “It’s not that you’ve upset me. I really don’t know how I got this tattoo. It wasn’t there yesterday.” At that he hurried back to his vehicle, threw in the satchel, and drove away in a rush. Matty hadn’t meant to chase him away. He was just a friendly guy who wanted to compare body art. But how did she get it? If it had happened during the night, wouldn’t she have felt something? She went to the sink and with a wet sponge tried to wash the tattoo away, but it wouldn’t fade. It was permanent. Turning her attention to the parcel, she noticed that there was no return address and the date stamp was illegible because it had been smudged out. The entire envelope was so stained and wrinkled it looked as if it had been rained upon, then dried. All four corners were curled, and when she stuck a finger behind the glued flap, a particle of dirt fell to the floor. Afraid that she might damage the contents, she placed it carefully on the kitchen table and pulled a letter opener out of a coffee cup on the counter. When the opener sliced through the top of the envelope, the ragged edges of what appeared to be a drawing were revealed. Matty lay the paper on the table and blew on it to clear off a layer of grit. It was a faded pencil sketch of a simple cabin with one window and what looked like the opening of a door with a blanket partially draped across it. Attached to the sketch with a rusty paperclip was a note. “Wenunchus’s cabin” was all it said. “It must be from Tim,” she said aloud. “Damn him! Is he trying to torture me? But what if it’s not from him?” She wondered how anyone could have even the slightest idea what that cabin from Granny’s story might have looked like. She gasped, shocked to think that the drawing might have something to do with the tattoo appearing mysteriously on her arm. If body art could come out of nowhere, why not a ragged, faded drawing? She walked slowly toward the bedroom. She needed some real sleep before she went crazy. As she lay back on the pillow, the visions continued to come out of Tim’s story, running through her brain.
