As spring warmed to summer, and both Papa and I reentered the world of the hale and healthy, he began to approach our days with a vigor I’d never before seen in him. One morning, a humid one filled with an irregular breeze and the loamy odor of the surrounding cow pastures, Papa whisked me away from Mrs. Gregory’s parlor to take a walk outside. Our outings always resulted in some adventure. Sometimes we’d walk to the banks of the nearby Kalamazoo River and look for the fish jumping. Other times we’d remove our socks and shoes and, if the day was warm enough, dip our toes in Battle Creek or skip flat stones across its surface. Sometimes we’d walk to the depot and watch the trains coming and going, their smartly dressed passengers bound for far-off places like Chicago and Kansas City, San Francisco and New York.
The city of Battle Creek was already awake and bustling with purposefulness that day. The streets teemed with horse-drawn carriages and clattering wooden carts bearing the bounties of fresh produce that came from the many surrounding farms: potatoes, eggs, timber, creamy milk. A gentle breeze rippled through the busy town, carrying on it the scents of railroad smoke, horse droppings, fresh-tilled soil, and hope.
We walked slowly, Papa and I, enjoying each other’s company. Enjoying the fact that we could take such a stroll together—something that had not been possible for us on so many of the days before this one. “See that over there, Budgie?” I nodded as we passed the new school, a large brick building where girls were allowed to attend up through high school. “I don’t hold with this idea that girls are any less capable than boys when it comes to schooling,” Papa declared, looking down at me with a sideways grin. “Why, anyone who would claim such a thing has clearly never met my clever little Budgie here.” He gave my hand a squeeze.
I smiled and turned from Papa, looking back at the school and then over the buildings all around it. Everywhere, it seemed, there were new structures rising up like stalks of corn climbing out of the fertile earth: sawmills and factories, new churches, wooden beams promising new houses for young families. A trolley clamored up the wide street, and Papa gripped my hand tighter as we waved at the streetcar, its bell jangling as it passed. I turned to Papa with an excited laugh, and we kept walking.
Some of the homes we passed had windows and doors ajar, and occasionally I could make out the smells of breakfast and cookstoves as we walked. Just then the milk wagon in front of us paused, and the capped milkman hopped down from his perch to fill the empty pails left out on the front steps beside us. “Mornin’， Marty,” Papa said, greeting the milkman by name.
“Charlie Post, good to see you,” the man answered, offering a smile for Papa and then one for me. The milkman continued his morning delivery in front of us, and Papa and I watched as housewives and children opened front doors and greeted Marty before retreating back indoors with their cold, cream-filled pails. A few of them said hello to us as we passed; some knew Papa by name.
Papa squeezed my hand as we paused at the intersection of Van Buren Street and Washington Avenue. “Budgie?”
“Yes, Papa?”
“Did you see how that lady took her milk jug in a hurry and then had to get right back inside?”
I nodded. In truth, I had not noticed, of course; as a young girl, I was much more excited by the noisy streetcars and the horse-drawn carts, but I knew that Papa always had something important to say.
“It’s because they’ve all got to get back to their chores. Always chores. Just like our Mrs. Gregory. She wakes before the sun to get the fire going, to fry up the eggs and bacon, mix up batter, heat the kettle. Then as soon as breakfast is served and cleaned up, it’s time to start fixing lunch. And same goes for supper.”
I could tell by the way his light blue eyes glistened, fixing on some distant point, that Papa had a mind full of thoughts just then, and so I listened, always happy to be his confidante. He went on, sure as I’d known he would: “I’ve been thinking…wouldn’t it be nice to make their lives just a bit easier? So that all of those mothers and wives could be out here enjoying the day as we are?”
I shrugged, nodding. “Sure, Papa. That’d be nice.”
Papa seized on a lull in the traffic and guided me across the street, my legs running at double time to keep his pace. “Where are we going?” I asked as we walked.
“Right here”—he gestured—“Osgood Jewelry. See if we can’t find something pretty to cheer your mama up.”
In contrast with Papa, Mother had been in low spirits lately. Even though we were all healthy once more, there were some days when she hardly left her bed; when she did, she had little appetite for food or company. Maybe she was fed up with taking care of sick people, I figured. I did hear her complain to Papa about the lack of money, that we were now living off the last of the funds that she’d brought to the marriage in her dowry. I thought it a shame that her spirits had started to sink just as Papa had finally come out of his sick spell, but they never did seem to agree on much, and I guessed that included when to feel good and when to stay in bed, feeling rotten.