Set in the New Year of 1899, I had this idea of someone going to the old Walt Whitman home on Long Island. Please Enjoy this cozy historical fiction for the holidays.
Summary:
Lacy Cardsmith, who owns one of New York State's first motorized coaches, is going to visit Mary Elizabeth Whitman on her last birthday (Walt Whitman's little sister, "Born in Huntington, Suffolk, New York, USA on 3 Feb 1821 to Walter Whitman and Louisa VanVelsor. Mary Elizabeth Whitman married Ansel F Van Nostrand and had 5 children. She passed away on 6 Aug 1899 in Suffolk, LI, New York, United States.") in 1899. Lacy is a fiesty Manhattanite who had relocated to settle farmland in the Southern Tier of NY and has a book as a gift for Mary Eliza, a dear friend of her deceased mother.
…
Before the Birthday Party, in the spring of 1898 near Keuka Lake
The pitter patter pattern of rain on the thin pane glass window kept me up all night. I tried to sleep and dream but that was a fantasy. The cat had no compassion for me, with her volcanic spurt of energy at four in the morning.
I tried to rattle the junk from my brain, and in a fog I rose from bed. I planned a journey for later that day. I made my way in the dark through the hall and put a picnic lunch together in the kitchen. I had often gone without candlelight in the early morning, preferring to let my eyes adjust to the creeping morning light. Even on gray rainy mornings, the gloom lightened up and my vision adjusted to the room.
I figured I had confused my ground mustard seed with my mayonnaise emulsion, but my sandwich still had potential. The flavor profile of my meal would be a true rollercoaster with my assembly in the dark. My responsibility to make a small charcuterie sampler at this hour couldn’t be trusted. I would have to be at peace with that once I opened this basket at lunchtime.
After my late day hike, I broke into my meal to find an unspeakable monster of a smell! Gorgonzola rocked me nearly off the bluff and my eyes broke into tears.
…
Driving from Manhattan, Late January 1899
After spending the night on the Parisian couch of a friend’s apartment, I damned my horseless carriage that morning. The cold winter air was not kind to my various moving parts, all blood and flesh and motorized. What I had to reiterate was that a real horse was more reliable.
This is a time before Pluto was a planet but women did have pockets. It was Walt Whitman’s sister’s 78th Birthday soon and my mother had been good friends with her. I was on my way from my plot of land nestled in the Southern Tier of the state to the center of Long Island to deliver one of my mother’s beloved books to Mary Elizabeth Whitman. She and her husband still resided at her parents house in Huntington Station in Suffolk County.
Instead of barreling through to the Station I stopped in the Village to rest at Job Sammis’ House that evening. I walked up to the single room cabin that had once served as an emergency armory for George Washington’s troops, now a homely drinking hole. I pulled up a chair as men’s eyes watched me drink rum punch. Local women suddenly poured in, it seemed like they had been campaigning. I overheard they had just closed the mayoral polls, and had allowed women the vote! The men shot us all stony and sour looks over the rims of their glasses.
…
Fuel up in Westchester
Late January, 1899
Being out in the snow wasn’t my best idea. Trying this horseless carriage in this weather was an interesting experiment but I’d much rather prefer the reliability of a horse in this muck. I am the one who waited past Eight in the morning to embark on this journey. I was making good time, leaving Keuka Lake on my way through Westchester County now was exceptional. I saw mostly farms but still no gas stations yet. This predicament reinforced my preference for the horse yet again.
This was a time before Einstein, when we reimagined our horseless carriages as ‘cars’ and someone like me would be labeled a ‘weirdo’. At this time I was just a feisty woman, unusual in my foreign textiles to keep me warm. I wrapped them loosely around my head and shoulders.
I approached a farmhouse looking for a spot of anything with caffeine and perhaps some fuel. The lady of the house had coffee on the cast iron stove, and informed me that the neighbor could help me with the fuel. The neighbor was also her father-in-law. How convenient!
She was very informative and happy to receive a visitor. We had a leisurely time for coffee, and afterwards I made my way to the nearby house. I knocked but found no answer, but the door slightly opened upon the force of my fist. I stepped in and announced myself, and found an old man on a ladder painting a swirl of reindeer galloping on the ceiling of his foyer. I asked him if the fresco really made them weightless. He agreed that dancing on his ceiling was their preference.
He said he had heard my horseless carriage pull up, and anticipated my need for fuel. I could not have conceived of a better predicament! He directed me to the barn, where I could find the fuel. I gladly accepted and offered him some monetary reward, but the gentleman refused. He complimented my scarves and asked if I had an appropriate funnel. I surely did, since I learned my lesson the first time in a horrible stinking mess.
…
My motor carriage sputtered down the road, I was serious about reaching my destination. I had a chuckle as gigantic turkeys clamored after each other, clumsy birds! The morning welcomed me, though cold and blistering. Sunshine was streaming through my half foggy windshield.
On one side of the road spread out a vast forbidden forest, protected by the very mean and endangered king grouse. The small ground birds with whooping calls are vicious at times! The noises they make are good for a giggle. Twice, I caught some in my courtyard in the house I grew up in. Unfortunately they make for a dry dinner. I had a happy home, in my memory I strolled, on my way finally unimpeded to Mary Eliza’s birthday party.
…
Whitman Family Home, Feb 2, 1899
Blue skies were above me as I pulled my coach up to the Whitman's family home. There was an old servants alley by the kitchen where snow had fallen over the thatched roof. Understand, someone had shoved a piece of cardboard under the thatch to try to reinforce it. The snow sloped down and covered the kitchen entrance anyway. I felt mild anger as someone who has, over the years, developed adequate carpentry skills.
I also found some old basement stone disheveled under the front stairs as I approached. I stepped into the drawing room, a fire dying down, but still the iron back plate of the fireplace was radiating heat. It was a beautifully crafted back plate depicting the face of a fox in fine detail.
It was a Sunday and I could smell the wafting odor of peach preserves from summertime being heated up along with a bubble and squeak of clotted cream, no doubt for crumpets. I announced myself and heard a warm and welcoming voice emanating from the kitchen. It was Mary Eliza!
The calico cat was weaving between my ankles, nearly tripping me as I made my way through the generous hall. The cat was a fixture on the property for sixteen years. This calico was unusual with it’s long fur in a curly pattern, imagine a wavy thick blanket of tri color filament.
…
As I sat down at the long wooden table, I removed my driving gloves and was served a hot cup of coffee. I peered out the window, looking out at the small lake. The leaves on the trees were long gone, but there were leaves frozen on the water's surface. It reminded me of pennies on a mirror.
A Letter to a Friend
Dear Christopher,
It was a happy day with friends in the sunshine streaming in from the windows. Despite the cold of February there was excitement in the home of the Whitmans. Mary Eliza’s birthday was upon us and I could hear her youngest executing a playful piano tune. He began narrating an adventure of a turtle and a toad along with his jaunty notes sounding so joyful while Mary Eliza whistled along. Apparently this was a game to them.
Mary’s oldest grandson was stuck on the shores of Paumanok. But her second oldest grandson had shared something with him, they both had a peculiar way of pronouncing the word party. When he entered the door he exclaimed “The par-tay has begun!” As he brought the cake in a very crisp edged box wrapped with twine.
The Birthday Lady’s middle child was nearly 50 years old now. He had the duty of putting the poor dog outside in the barn in this terrible cold. He fluffed up some hay and laid out two flannel blankets. The poor bitch was in heat and just couldn’t get any comfort inside the main house.
The six smallest grandchildren had hard candies in their pockets from Mary Eliza’s stash of Tate’s Bake Shoppe Lemon Drops, a fairly new place out near Montauk Point. She replenished her stockpile of sweets in the summer months. Mary Eliza said it was one of the few pleasures she had left.
I finally gifted the Birthday Lady an Alice in Wonderland pop up book with intricate die cut details and fun turning dials. It was a book to be passed down, not for children to fiddle with. In Mary Eliza’s case, I knew her children and grandchildren would lovingly take care of it for generations to come.
I was glad that I had the chance to celebrate what would become Mary Eliza’s very last birthday. I left with a full heart in the small morning hours. The creeping sounds of birds' songs adding awesome and ethereal feelings to the dawn.
Warm Regards, Lacy
…
The Height of the Party
During the height of the party, Mary Eliza was treated to the world’s shortest aria from one of her granddaughters. The wind was kicking up outside when a small bird grazed the single pane glass, the reverberation a tinge in the ear that swiftly passed. A tumultuous winter’s day outside, but warmth and a bit of boisterous conversation inside. Dallying around the hearth were the grown men talking about the prospect of crops in the coming spring. While women were at the card table still with the excitement of the mayoral election on their tongues.
One of Mary Eliza’s granddaughters had been sullen in her solitude, holding a frame covered in a large textile. Nearly about to burst out into a crying fit, I asked her what was wrong. With her head sagging she said she only had her sampler to give her grandma this year.
I was suddenly ecstatic! I loved samplers, I said excitedly, but in a hushed tone. I told her all about how my mother was a seamstress in Bronx and she taught all the girls in my area, and how I was her worst student.
Suddenly the men were loud in their conversation, and someone asked ‘Who will be our bard this evening?’ A shy slender boy came forward to sing ‘Amazing Grace’ to a quiet room. A peaceful blanket was thrown upon us, with the honey voice of this young gentleman.
“It’s his destiny to sing!” Whispered the woman next to me. After the performance, Mary Eliza sat down to open gifts from the grandchildren. The oldest was a fisherman, still docked at Paumanok due to the choppy waves. His absence was felt deeply. His portrait was hanging above the crackling fire, along with the family portrait.
The littlest girl, the crying sullen gal from before, made her way to the front. She looked determined to get over her fear and get it over with. Mary Eliza giggled but stifled it for the child’s sake. The proud grandmother unveiled a stunning sampler, the embroidery looking very dimensional, inset with a bevel edged glass to show off the dynamic piece. It was also the most structured and technical sampler I had ever seen. The alphabet was beautifully proportioned and the Arabic numerals were very symmetrical. Below and all around was an alternating border of a long haired calico, a half moon, a new automobile, a fox, and a ground grouse warbler! It was serendipitous, all the things tying my trip together. Above it all was stitched, “The Whitman Sampler”.
A trio of young boys with mops for hair bright forward a large tanned sheepskin rug. One boy seemed to be angry, he said this sheep was his particular favorite, “So you better not put him on the floor grandma!” He stated.
Ecstatically, Mary Eliza replied, ``He shall live on my bed, don't worry.”
…
The Evening Before
Mary Eliza and I, after coffee, went upstairs to her little office, which used to be the children’s playroom. It’s where she now kept her dried bug collection. Now an avid collector, she had in her youth collected shells or husks of shedded beetles or other creatures and made small dioramas with other dried matter like flowers or ornamental grasses. She always had an interest in biology, which evolved into flights of fancy into a realm of fantasy.
Alice in Wonderland was a house favorite of the Whitman Clan. Mary Elizabeth’s inspiration to create these dioramas came from the rich illustrations of the caterpillar and the flowers as well as the other critters in the book. It did envelop her sole interest as more than a hobby.
She did have a miscellaneous area dedicated to contain mismatched parts. Driftwood and rocks, things with the imagination to devote later to to serve as a base for just the right grasshopper or cicada.
Nothing in the diorama room was average. Each contained a story in a small little world. The dioramas were all in different vessels, like a wine jug cut out with a glass cutter or a storage jar cracked very precisely. Small creatures would sometimes make a pattern while others were boldly holding up little swords made of whittled tooth picks. Mary Elizabeth’s ability was so evolved that once she was done, she was never really truly done with a piece. Sometimes she would allow a piece to go into disrepair in order to scavenge its parts for a new project.
The hall leading to the small office entrance at the back of the house was lined with framed prints of butterflies. The calico cat came round the corner in a hurry but suddenly stopped. She huffed for air and I called Mary Eliza right away. She tried to dismiss it but all at once the kitty coughed out what first looked like a wet piece of bread. Upon closer inspection it was a very fluffy sopping wet hairball.
The calico looked much relieved, and began to beg for its supper.
