Banished: Hettie’s Road to a New Life
From Farm to Fortune: Hettie’s Journey from Heartbreak to Hope
It was a hot day to begin a new life. For weeks, she’d wondered what to do, searching for an answer, trying to figure out how to support herself and the one whose subtle movements she was just starting to feel deep in her belly. For a while, she’d hoped things would go on as usual. Maybe Mamma and Papa would let them stay in the back room where she and her brothers and sisters grew up and where she and Samuel still slept after Pauline had married. Mamma seemed to like the idea, especially the prospect of having a baby in the house again, but Papa wouldn’t hear of it.
So, she’d have to go somewhere, but she had no land, no money, no friends, no hideaway. Sometimes, she imagined living in a cottage with a good husband, children, a cow, a pig and a little land around. She was a good worker and knew how to milk a cow, raise peas and corn, make good cornbread, and sew her own clothes. She’d make a good wife for some nice man and the baby would not be a big burden. She knew lots of women who were back in the kitchen just days after their child was born. She imagined the baby playing in green grass under a giant oak tree, cooing and giggling with wooden toys.
But another nightmare threatened the fantasy. In this one, she was walking down a dusty road with a screaming, hungry, naked baby in her arms, stopping at houses, asking for food. For a long time, she’d wondered which dream would come true. Then Mamma told her Papa had found a home for her in Richmond. Richmond — the very name of the city sent shivers down Hettie’s back. She’d heard about how the city stretched for miles — the long wide streets, the tall buildings, the fancy buggies; but she’d never seen Richmond or any other city. She’d hoped someday to see the place; but not like this, not like some vagrant from the farm.
Finally, the dreaded day had come. Papa went out to hitch Old Tom, the brown mule, to the Hanover Buggy he’d borrowed from Mr. Jones over at the big farm by Shiloh Church in trade for hauling a load of watermelons to the market in Richmond. Mamma and Hettie stood silent in the front room shooing the flies buzzing around their heads. Mamma handed Hettie a cornpone wrapped in a shard of white muslin, and a pint of buttermilk in a Mason jar once owned by Grandma.
Hettie stood staring out the open door at the corn patch where stalks stood withered from the drought and the burning Virginia sun. She didn’t want to look at Mamma’s thin face, the dark pouches under her transparent eyes, her mouth drawn tight as wool on a loom, her hands shivering and cold even on this hot August day. Hearing the creaking wheels out front, Hettie stepped out to face the blinding light.
“Whoa,” said Papa. It was the only word she’d heard him speak out loud for over a month. Yet, there must have been talks, visits. He must have talked to a passel of people to make arrangements, but he told her nothing of how it happened. Papa had left it to Mamma to tell Hettie she was going to Richmond to live with other people like herself, where people would take care of her, where people around wouldn’t know what she’d done, what had happened to her, where her shame could be hidden like a candle under a milk bucket.
She picked up the knotted sheet, which held all of her clothes, took several steps across the creaking porch, stepping over the fractured board Papa had been promising to fix since it broke last winter, down the rough stone steps to the side of the buggy while Mamma held her elbow with the slightest, gentle touch.
Hettie put her foot on one spoke of the buggy wheel, reached for Papa’s hand to lift herself onto the bench seat, all the time avoiding his eyes. She didn’t want to see the disapproving glance, the lingering shame, the questioning that lay underneath. Instead, she turned to look at Mamma even as Papa snapped the reins, causing Old Tom to jerk the buggy forward.
Mamma still said nothing, but a tear grew in the corner of her eye, slowly rolling down the cheek and into the canal formed by the wrinkle aside her thin, tightly pressed mouth. As Hettie watched, Mamma’s lips formed the words, “I love you,” even though no sound came out, as if she didn’t want Papa to hear. Hettie moved her lips in reply and waved softly.
Soon they entered the rutted road meandering through the thick woods surrounding the small plot Mr. Jones agreed to rent to Papa when the family came over from Henrico County after the war. Papa said there was no need to go to Richmond then because most men were wandering the streets looking for a paying job. There was much to do, of course, seeing that the city was mostly in rubble after the Yankees burned and shelled it, but nobody had money to pay people for such work.
So, Papa decided he’d best head for the countryside where the land was cheap, the soil good enough for corn, melons, tomatoes, and maybe some tobacco, and where a person could raise a family without much interference from some people Papa called ‘reconstructionists.’
That was over twenty years ago. Since then, Papa had learned blacksmithing and he and Mamma had raised three children. Along with shoeing horses, Papa had worked his small plot, raising enough food to feed the family and to pay five dollars a month rent to Mr. Jones.
Riding along, Hettie looked back at the small house Papa built with his bare hands, sawing the logs to make the clapboard siding, but, after all these years, looked dingy; rotting after constant torture of rain and snow contrasted with blazing sun. Papa paid no attention to Mamma suggesting he paint the place with some of the whitewash Mr. Jones used on his fences. This framed building was the only home Hettie had ever known and the place she’d spent most of her twenty-eight years. She spent almost every day helping Mamma with sewing, cooking, teaching her sister and brother, and working in the garden.
On Sundays, the family would walk a mile through the woods to Shiloh Church for Church services. But, every time they went there, Hettie felt embarrassed to wear the dress she’d made from flour sacks. She was proud of her ability to make clothes for the family and herself, but everyone surely recognized the cloth as being one they saw every day in their kitchen.
The women from the big farms, like Mrs. Jones, came in fine dresses made of shiny cloth, probably silk, although Hettie had never touched such a material. And all the matrons from the big farms wore hats with feathers from peacocks or other rare and expensive birds. The men wore dark suits, fancy shoes, and shirts with stiff collars. In Church, poor Papa and the other tenant farmers looked like thistles in a field of roses.
As Hettie and Papa ambled along the rutted road, Hettie rolled memories of the last months over and over in her mind, wondering what God would think of her now. Is Jesus as kind and forgiving as they say in church, or is God a mean and jealous father as they say in the scriptures? Was the long dirt trail she was taking now, the road to hell?
Somehow she couldn’t understand how it all happened. It seemed like she was doing the right thing. After all, even though Mamma was getting sick and needed her around the place, Mamma and Papa had always encouraged her to find a husband. Pauline, only two years older than she, had married over twelve years ago to a nice young farmer over in Bumpass, and everyone was happy about that. Pauline wasn’t all that pretty, and her housekeeping skills sure weren’t as good as Hettie’s, yet, somehow, the young men flocked around Pauline at Church.
Hettie often looked in her mirror wondering why men paid so little attention to her. The face in the mirror looked attractive enough — blue eyes full of curiosity, a small nose slightly turned up just like Mamma’s, rounded lips, and fairly straight teeth, a rare feature among the girls she knew. Her body was slim, the sign of someone who worked hard. Her hands were a little rough, even though she rubbed them with butter she sneaked from the kitchen every night before bedtime. Her breasts were small, but she knew lots of mothers with small breasts who still could feed babies with no trouble.
She wondered how it would feel to have a man touch her hand, her hair, her cheek. To feel a strong arm around her waist, a man’s warm breath in her face, his lips upon hers. She even dared think about how a woman and man sleep together. Mamma always slept in a muslin gown and Papa in his long johns. Hettie couldn’t understand how or when they came together to make babies. Did they ever feel each other’s bare skin? Oh the thought! God will know I had such a bad thought. She snuffed out the image, but was left with the vague sense of longing she’d felt so often. The sense of being alone of wanting someone who cared about her, to share her secrets; someone to smile and laugh with.
All this caused Hettie to wonder what men wanted from a woman. Papa was no help with this dilemma. She wouldn’t dare ask him such a question. And Mamma didn’t provide answers either, except to say things to encourage her, to say she was a pretty girl, someday she’d find the right man. But Hettie knew Mamma and Papa asked themselves the same question: Why isn’t Hettie married at such a late age? Most girls are married before twenty. Hettie knew by most people’s standards she was on the way to becoming an old maid, and that thought made her feel useless, undesirable, worthless — even though she knew she was a great help to the family.
For a few years, she’d watched Pauline, trying to imitate her easy conversations with the boys. But, try as she might, the boys she fancied had no interest in Hettie. Their attention hardly went beyond the first conversation. One of the Harris boys had swarmed around her like a bee around honey, but his fat, pimply face was enough to scare off a buzzard, not to mention his reputation for being a lazy bum, he didn’t know the first thing about building houses, raising cows, or planting a field. Eventually, he got tired of Hettie’s silent, cold shoulder and began to search out other, more tolerant prospects.
After that, Hettie set aside all hope of finding a husband. Then one day last March, a man walked up the path to their front door with all the dogs hungrily running around him, barking their heads off. He’d tied his horse to a tree. Papa and Samuel were out in the shop and Mamma was working the garden.
“Hello, I’m Alan P. Smith, representative of Argon Farm Supply out of Philadelphia. We carry a full line of goods and supplies for the family farm and I’m here to show you our new catalog, and, maybe with good luck, to take your order.” Smith said, grinning and tipping his straw hat.
Mr. Smith’s white teeth sparkled as if he’d just brushed them with baking soda. His hair was finely trimmed and slicked back with oil. He wore a blue suit, a white shirt adorned by a flowered tie, and lace-up shoes now brown with dust. He smelled like a bed of spring flowers. Smith stared at Hettie with dark eyes as intense as the Joneses' guard dog. And his skin was tanned dark, unusual, Hettie thought, for such a dandy.
Hettie, mouth agape, had never heard such fancy language or seen such a dapper man. But the idea of a catalog with real pictures was a dream come true. For all her life, she’d wanted to see some of the things the rich people had in their houses.
“Do come in,” Hettie said, pushing the door open wider. “Mamma and Papa are out back, they’ll be in for lunch soon. Maybe you can show them the pictures then.” She wiped her hands on the flowered apron, looking down at her bare feet. “I was just making some bread,” she said.
“Well, you just go ahead and finish,” Mr. Smith said. “I’ll wait right here.”
“It won’t take but a minute, I was just putting it in the oven.”
When Hettie returned to the front room, the apron was gone and she had tied her straw-colored hair back with a string. She sat down stiffly in the cane-bottomed chair across from Mr. Smith, who’d claimed the rocker and was slowly moving back and forward causing the floor to creak, looking as relaxed as some old shoe. They sat silently wondering who would say the first word. Hettie had never been in a room alone with such a handsome man. She felt so shy, so inadequate, so ugly, so poor compared to this beautiful person. For an instant, she wanted to run out of the room to call Mamma and Papa, but her curiosity got the best of her. She wanted to learn what such a man was like.
“Do you have a family?” Alan asked. He talked like some of the people in the Church, the people with the fine education. He glanced around the room as if to take an inventory of their sticks of homemade furniture, Grandma’s afghan hanging over a chair, a painted plate hanging on the wall, Papa’s shotgun sitting in the corner, a crock-like churn resting next to the chair.
Mamma, Papa, Samuel and I live here. My other brothers and sisters are married,” Hettie replied, not knowing if he was asking if SHE was married or not.
“I’ve been going from house to house in the county and thought I’d follow your road. Didn’t know if I’d find anybody back here. Guess I was lucky,” He said, with an easy smile.
“Not many people git back here. I was surprised to hear the dogs barking.”
Little by little, Hettie started to relax. She was surprised to discover she could easily talk to such a stranger, especially a man. He seemed so gentle, so calm. Not like the farmers and their sons she knew.
The screech of the back screen door broke her spell.
“Hoy.” It was Papa’s voice.
In an instant, Papa, Mamma and Samuel stepped into the front room, Papa wearing a look that asked who is this stranger bold enough to invade my home, and glancing at the shotgun in the corner, Mamma just looking puzzled.
“Th…This is Mr. Smith. H…He’s here to show us some pictures,” Hettie said.
Alan Smith who had risen out of his chair at the back door’s first sound, stepped forward, hand outstretched.
“Hello, I’m Alan P. Smith. Like your daughter said, I’m here to show you our line of farm and home products,” he said, suddenly realizing he hadn’t bothered to ask Hettie’s name.
Papa’s muscles loosened, but he still wore a stern look. Yet, his upbringing told him to be kind to strangers.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m William Edwards, this here’s Lucinda and this is my son, Samuel. Would you like somethin to eat? Maybe we can look at the pictures after lunch.”
“I made some fresh bread,” says Hettie. “And I can slice some cheese and tomatoes.”
As the four sat around the table, Hettie couldn’t help staring at Mr. Smith, who now, in white shirtsleeves looked even more good-looking. She was surprised that the fancy-looking man from the city could talk so easily to plain country folk. He even seemed to enjoy hearing about the crops, the long drought, the sickly cow, and how long it took to clear this ten-acre plot. And Papa was smiling, even waving his hands while he told the stories.
But Papa soon looked out the window. “I’ve still got a coupla horses to do over at Mr. Jones’ place. So I’d better git at it. Kin we see the pictures later? We can put ya up tonight if you want to stay.”
Hettie couldn’t believe her ears. Papa was inviting a stranger to stay overnight. Where would he sleep? They only had two sleeping rooms. But her heart was in her mouth. This exciting stranger, spending the night in their house!
“Well, sir, I’d really appreciate that. I’m a long way from home and there aren’t many places to stay out here in the country,” replied Mr. Allen. “While you’re working, I’ll get my papers straight. Haven’t had much time to do my record keeping lately, been too busy walking and selling.”
“I’ll clean up the house some and make a pallet for Samuel and me so Mr. Allen can have our room,” Hettie said.
That evening, after supper, when the light was sinking toward the pines, the family gathered on the front porch where Mr. Smith’s catalogs took them into another world of heavy black cooking stoves decorated with paints of many colors, lamps of fine blown and carved glass, dresses of laced bodices and flowing skirts, leather shoes with buttons of pearl, and tools and mechanical things to do everything from making candles to peeling apples. Samuel smiled with delight at pictures of Remington rifles, shotguns, and Colt pistols. Mr. Smith told a story about selling a new Colt .44 to one of Buffalo Bill’s sidekicks.
Mamma sighed and smiled at the dress materials in prints, stripes and in cotton, wool, and silk. There were sewing patterns for fine dresses, coats, and even pants. And the shoes! Some had buckles, others laces — some short for dress occasions, others tall and rugged for working people. Hettie looked with her wondering if Mamma also dreamed of wearing the fine clothes in big house with fine furniture, a piano, and flowered drapes, and books to read.
Such wonderful things. But who could afford them? Dare Hettie dream of someday being able to look as such a catalog and order anything she wanted? Would she someday find someone who could support her and a family in a style such as that? Oh, what a dream. But a small voice deep inside told her not to wish for such a life. “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods it said. Wishing for riches is a sin. Remember you’re just a poor girl from a humble family.
“Look at this, Hettie,” said Mr. Jones, pushing the book toward her and pointing to a fancy bonnet with a high white brim. “You’d look real pretty in that!”
Hettie blushed, yet leaned over to look at the picture. He must have known what I was thinking, she mused. His shirt was open at the collar now. He’d taken off the tie before supper. Hettie was close enough to smell the musty aroma of his skin with a slight hint of flowers or something sweet. She glanced from the picture to his dark eyes, now surrounded by thin wrinkles, the ones his smile always brought.
“I ain’t sure I’d look pretty in any…,” she replied.
“Now don’t say that, he interrupted. “You’re a mighty pretty woman.”
Hettie heard the board squeak below Papa’s chair.
“Humph. It’s gittin nigh bedtime. The sun’s long sunk behind the trees. We got a lot of work in the morning,” Papa said. “It ain’t right for people to sit around wanting things they can’t well afford. But I reckon I might order one of them there pitchforks you showed me. My old one’s about worn to a nub.”
Mr. Smith smiled again. “Well thank you, sir. And I do appreciate your hospitality. So kindly of you to put me up this way.”
Recalling that time, Hettie remembered how she felt when Mr. Smith walked away from the house the next morning. He’d asked her to walk with him to where the horse was stalled in the barn — him smiling and talking, her listening and responding quietly, wondering what his friendliness meant. She felt nervous that Papa and Mamma, who had been outside working since sun-up, would see them walking along together. She hoped he’d come back, to maybe bring the pitchfork to Papa in person, to maybe find some reason to show them the catalogs again. Any reason, any time, just come back!
Standing together by the horse, Mr. Smith said, “I really liked meeting you Hettie and hope I can see you again sometime.”
Hettie stared at him, silently, not knowing what to say, not believing her ears, wondering what it all meant. Could this delightful, educated man be interested in me? She looked up at his face, now shadowed by the straw hat. He looked so proper, so sophisticated, so distant, but he talked easy, softly, warmly.
“Yas, me too?” she said.
Mr. Smith’s hand moved forward as if to shake her’s, but instead he picked up her left hand, gently moving it to his lips and on it planted the most tender kiss.
A shiver went from Hettie’s hand to her whole body. She stood shaking like a pole bean. She felt tears coming to her eyes and she did not want Mr. Smith to see her crying. She turned and ran toward the house, but stopped just before the porch and turned toward where Mr. Smith was still standing. He swept his hand across the sky in a big wave and was still smiling. Hettie waved in reply, timidly at first, then in rapid, almost violent circles. “Yes,” She thought. “Please come back.”
But, Mr. Smith never came back, never sent a letter, just vanished into the distance, taking the catalog and Hettie’s dreams with him. After a while, Hettie realized she’d never see him again. Yet, his visit opened Hettie’s feelings to the prospect of knowing a man and some of the local men began looking better to her.
Thinking about Mr. Smith made the time pass for Hettie. Papa still sat silently on his side of the buggy’s bench, once in a while snapping the reins to push on Old Tom who wasn’t too happy about a fifteen-mile walk to the city. Hettie estimated it would take two or three hours to get there, then they’d have to find the place. Papa’d then have to take the melons to the market and be back home before dark, so he wouldn’t have time to stay around to help her get oriented.
Well, he wouldn’t be much help anyway. He’d never take her side, to see things the way she did. Would the people at the home for unwed mothers be any different? Hettie thought they’d be like Mrs. Priest, a church teacher she’d known, who’d used a ruler to whack the hands of anyone who didn’t listen properly to her lessons on Sunday morning — as if they were being forced to learn about God and Jesus. The women probably thought they were the handmaidens of God, out to do his work, out to reform sinners and wayward girls.
Papa never asked who fathered the baby. He had simply called Hettie a sinner, and she knew most people would agree with him. Thou shalt not commit adultery. Yet, why did she not feel guilty? She was more scared than guilty — scared of the future, scared to be alone, scared of what people might think, scared that God might punish her for what she did and that she hadn’t repented because she wasn’t sure she was a sinner.
And girls. At twenty-eight, Hettie didn’t feel much like a girl anymore. The other people at the home would probably be much younger than she. They weren’t old maids, they were probably pretty and just got into trouble because of it. They’d be city girls who could talk smoothly like Mr. Smith and know the ways of the city folks. How would they treat a country girl in flour bag dresses?
Hettie looked at the countryside at the reddish-brown fields of broom straw moving with just the smallest ripple of August breeze, tossed this way and that by an unknown force. She and Papa passed a big farm every now and then, farms she’d never seen before, some with elegant white houses, green shutters, and tall columns probably owned by descendants of Patrick Henry or some other prominent county gentry
In just a few hours, they would reach Richmond, leaving behind the gentle land, the thick forests, and the undulating fields. Gone would be the sounds of Katydids and Whippoorwills punctuating the summer nights, the aroma of cornbread wafting from the kitchen, and the comfort of a mother’s soft eyes, overshadowed by a father’s silent rejection. The mule’s slow pace and the buggy’s creaking wheels crunching on the gravel marked the bittersweet journey into a new life filled with uncertainty but with also a glimmer of hope for what lay ahead.
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