A Bridge Named Susan Read online

  A BRIDGE NAMED

  Susan

  SHARON CHASE HOSELEY

  Copyright © 2017 by Sharon Chase Hoseley.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017903598

  ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-5245-8993-6

  Softcover 978-1-5245-8992-9

  eBook 978-1-5245-9033-8

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

  Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

  Rev. date: 03/08/2017

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  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 Devastated

  Chapter 2 Feed the Chickens

  Chapter 3 Painting the Barn

  Chapter 4 Where I Found Love

  Chapter 5 Baby, Berries, and Hard Times

  Chapter 6 My Harvest Job

  Chapter 7 Back to School

  Chapter 8 The Telephone

  Chapter 9 Mable

  Chapter 10 Automobiles and Airplanes

  Chapter 11 If You Knew Susie Like I Know Susie

  Chapter 12 Cousin Clothes

  Chapter 13 Sweet Sixteen

  Chapter 14 The Preacher’s Coming

  Chapter 15 The Second Day of Meetings

  Chapter 16 Freedom!

  Chapter 17 The Storm

  Chapter 18 It Happened One Summer

  Chapter 19 A Trip to the City

  Chapter 20 What About Edna?

  Chapter 21 A New Beginning

  Chapter 22 Meeting the Family

  Chapter 23 The Silence

  Chapter 24 The Dress

  Chapter 25 A Call Home

  Chapter 26 Influenza

  Chapter 27 Another Change

  Chapter 28 The Market Came Tumbling Down

  Chapter 29 The Stick Ranch

  Chapter 30 Friends, Old and New

  Chapter 31 The Wall Raising

  Chapter 32 A Family Addition

  Chapter 33 Christmas Surprise

  Chapter 34 Survival

  Chapter 35 Johnny’s News

  Chapter 36 The Garden

  Chapter 37 Raising the Roof

  Chapter 38 An Unexpected Guest

  Chapter 39 Alice’s Deception

  Chapter 40 Heartbreak on the Homestead

  Chapter 41 The Auction and Beyond

  Chapter 42 Baby Silence

  Chapter 43 Christmas of ’34

  Chapter 44 River, Stay Away from My Door

  Chapter 45 The Nightmare

  Chapter 46 Terror

  Chapter 47 Aftermath

  Chapter 48 Family Visit

  Chapter 49 Escape from Isolation

  Chapter 50 Getting Ready

  Chapter 51 Happy Christmas to All

  Chapter 52 A Bridge

  Chapter 53 Sibling Heartaches

  Chapter 54 An Advocate

  Chapter 55 House Hunting

  Chapter 56 Looking Back, Looking Forward

  Chapter 57 We Did It!

  Chapter 58 A Cow of Our Own

  Chapter 59 Unexpected Cost

  Chapter 60 Home Improvement

  Chapter 61 Edna’s Devastating News

  Chapter 62 Snug as a Bug

  Chapter 63 YES!

  Chapter 64 The Announcement

  Chapter 65 Baby Chase

  Chapter 66 It Happened with a Bang

  Prologue

  It was fortunate Idaho began recording reports of “live” births in 1905. It was difficult for some people my age to prove they existed. To qualify for a birth certificate, I had to send an application to the capital in Boise, along with my baptismal certificate and two handwritten statements from people who were present at my birth. A large brown envelope arrived two months later. I eagerly tore it open and read the beautifully handwritten Certificate of Birth:

  Name, Susan Kole

  Date of Birth, June 30, 1910

  Place of Birth, Gifford, Idaho

  Mother, Musetta Zelma Denny Kole Father, John Kole

  Delivered by Maria Kole, midwife, mother of John Kole.

  What a shock! I believed I was born on the Kole homestead in Reubens, Idaho.

  The homestead was eleven miles from Reubens and eight miles from Gifford. Gifford won my birthplace by closest proximity. At the age of thirty, I still struggle with my place in life, where I’m from and where I belong.

  I live on the edge, searching for the real me, trying to prove I’m important and worthy to be loved. I’ve silently watched and learned from a distant mother, a cruel brother, and a silent husband. My observations have produced a strong determination to span to the next generation a tranquil life, filled with love and acceptance. God is the foundation as I build my life bridge, the bridge named Susan.

  The Foundation

  Do good, be rich in good works, be generous

  and ready to share, thus storing up treasure for yourselves as a

  good foundation for the future, so that they may take hold of that which is truly life.

  —I Timothy 6:19

  Dedication

  To Susan, a great storyteller who transported people, places, and events into reality, framing a bridge of love to me, the next generation.

  Chapter 1

  Devastated

  “Stand still,” Mama commanded as she jerked the hairbrush out of my hand and pulled hard through my tangled mop. Instinctively, I screamed. “You will not scream at me,” she threatened. She shoved me down on the stool in front of the kitchen wash basin where I’d been standing on my tippy-toes, trying to see in our cracked mirror.

  I jammed my fist in my mouth and shut my eyes tight, trying to concentrate on the safe place in my mind where I ran through fields of yellow daisies on a warm day.

  Tears ran down my cheeks as she again and again attacked the knots of hair. I was shaking with fright at my mama’s anger. I had crossed the line into being a bad girl. I could never do enough to please my mama. Getting rats’ nests out of long natural curls was impossible for this five-year-old. I tried. Oh, how I tried, but the more I tried, the worse it tangled.

  “You’re not going anywhere looking like this!” Mama yelled. “Why can’t you do anything for yourself? I’ve got more important things to do than comb your hair.”

  The brush hit the floor, and a drawer opened. “I’ll take care of this problem right now. You annoy me to no end, child … nothing but a constant pain in my side,” Mama snapped. I felt her strong working hands gather my curls to the back of my neck. She yanked hard. My eyes flew open and caught a glance of silver scissors in the mirror.

  I choked out, “No!” A grinding sound vibrated through my entire body as she chomped away. “Please, Mama. Not my curls. I love my curls.” I was horrified.

  My mind flew to Grandpa Kole’s words. “I love your beautiful black curls, little black-eyed Susan. I’m lucky to have such a gorgeous little granddaughter.” Could he ever stand the sight of me again? Boys have short hair. Girls don’t.

  She chewed away with the dull scissors that had opened feed sacks, cut paper, string, flowers, and cloth, unti
l each ringlet fell to the floor. Fearful of being poked or losing an ear, I could feel my body turned to stone.

  A grating snip lobbed off another chunk. I let out a screech.

  “Quiet!” Mama demanded as she kept whacking. “At five years old, you should be able to take care of yourself. Never saw such a slow girl in all my days.”

  I pushed my sobs deep inside, feeling uglier with each cut.

  Suddenly, the snipping stopped, the drawer opened, the scissors clanked in, and Mama’s footsteps stomped out the kitchen door.

  I opened my eyes. Piles of black curls lay heaped on the floor. Sobs burst from my throat. I fell to my knees and buried my face deep in the ringlets that were no longer a part of me. They represented my ache for Mama’s love. I tucked two in my apron pocket for a keepsake, then swept up the rest, trying to please Mama.

  I didn’t leave the house or the farm. How could I? I was the homeliest creature on earth. What would I tell people when they raised their eyebrows and joked about my hair getting caught in the thresher? I was ugly, ugly, ugly. Our farm, miles from anyone, gave me a safe sanctuary to hide under my wide-brimmed sun hat while working in the garden. I prayed God would grow my hair out before I started my first year of school in October.

  In August, Mama handed me a bucket. “Get water from the pond and water the garden,” she commanded. “Can’t have wilted plants. Everything will be too tough to eat.” It was all I could do to carry a half bucket, and our garden was big. Dipper after dipper, I watered each plant.

  I sat by the pond to rest. A movement in the tall grass caught my eye. What’s that? I stared at the spot. The plants shook again. I crept closer. A little green frog leaped away and splatted into the pond. I laughed. He crawled onto a blade of grass hanging over the water and sat blinking his big eyes at me. “Hello, little fellow,” I whispered. “Are you going to be my friend?” He answered with one croak and plopped back into the water. I smiled and continued my job.

  Day after day, Froggy met me at the pond as I carted water. Closer and closer he moved to my still hand I reached toward him. One day he hopped onto my hand and stared at me with unblinking eyes. I was giggling inside. I had become the friend of a frog.

  My hand was like the bridge Papa built over the creek to push the wheelbarrow of potatoes from the patch to the cellar. It was a safe way for Froggy to get from his water home to me, his new friend.

  Ah, this is what I want with Mama, I thought, a bridge between us. I want her to love me, to gently touch me, to smile at me, to talk to me. Her face holds smiles and laughter for others, but not for me.

  With deep creases between her eyes, Mama addressed me with a downturned mouth. “Susan, you mustn’t do that. Good girls don’t do things like that.” I never understood what good girls do and don’t do, since that would be the end of the discussion.

  I tried hard to please, to be a good girl. My heart needed her words of thanks that would build a bridge between us or for her simply to say, “I love you.”

  Chapter 2

  Feed the Chickens

  The haircut wasn’t the first time I felt my mother’s anger and resentment. Papa told me stories of when I was a toddler, but my first strong memory was the job of feeding the chickens.

  I entered the world as a farm child on June 30, 1910. It was time for planting in the hills of Idaho, where snows melt late. Orders came from the midwife for Mama: stay in bed four weeks, lift nothing, no steps to be taken, except for a quick use of the chamber pot; sit up only to eat, followed by at least an hour’s sleep.

  Mama’s sisters took turns coming to the house to plant the garden and get meals. Papa told me later I was colicky. My uncontrollable cries demanded too much from a woman of thirty-seven. People waiting on her and caring for her husband and three-year-old son was humiliating. Independence, pride, and responsibility formed her core character. At the age of eight, she had endured a nine-month wagon-train trip with her homesteading parents and younger sisters. Her demanding father never allowed complaining or laziness.

  On top of the inconvenience, frustration, and worry about getting seeds into the ground for winter’s food supply, I was a girl. “A girl’s no good at running a farm,” she told Papa. “I’ll see she’s fed, dry, and warm enough, but that’s it.” As far as Mama was concerned, I was to be invisible; tolerated only as long as I did what I was told.

  I learned quickly to abide by that rule. By the time I was five, I scrubbed clothes on the washboard, swept and hand-scrubbed wooden floors spotless, weeded rows of baby radishes, and fed the chickens. I gathered eggs, picked berries, dried dishes, set the table for dinner and supper, and made the beds. Mama kept me busy from the time I got up until bedtime. I was a good girl, always trying to do what was asked, but not earning recognition from my mama. More than once, the hairbrush that I couldn’t get to tame my curls became the consequences for some task I couldn’t accomplish to Mama’s expectations. What more could I do to please her?

  It seemed to me Mama had too high expectations of me and no expectations for my brother, Johnny, who was three years older. I was given jobs with no directions and learned by failing. Johnny, on the other hand, did very little. When he went to the fields to work with Papa, he would simply quit and go to the house. No one dared make him do anything. I was jealous.

  My first real job assignment was feeding the chickens. We only fed them in the evening after a free-run-of-the-farm day. Farm chickens have three jobs: eating bugs and weed seeds, laying eggs, and providing chicken dinner. At my young age, I didn’t understand why they lived with us. I only knew they were noisy, smelly, and sometimes downright scary.

  Right after my third birthday, Mama gave me a small pail half full of chicken feed. “Here,” she said. “It’s time for you to start earning your keep around here. You’re gonna feed the chickens.”

  I’m sure my dark brown eyes grew as big as the saucers Papa drank his coffee from. Fear gripped me down to my little bare toes. I didn’t dare say a word. My mama had said it, and I’d do it. I’d prove to her that I was a big girl. Then she’d love me. I took a deep breath and headed toward the open chicken-pen door. I had watched Mama feed the chickens. She’d call, “Here, chick, chick, chick.” The chickens would come running, knowing sweet wheat or oats waited as dessert after their day’s feast of seeds and bugs. It was also the way to get all of them into the pen. Mama locked the door after the feeding, so they were safe from fox and coyotes at night.

  My three-year-old mind kept repeating over and over. “Go feed chicks, go feed chicks.” I was now inside the pen. One old red hen spied me and started running toward the gate. “Chick, chick …” I began. I was swiftly surrounded by hens and one white rooster nearly as tall as me. They were demanding; not a bit polite. They screeched and squawked and stuck their heads in my little bucket, fighting for a more than their fair share. When they started pecking me, my brave face dissolved into tears and terrified screams. Surrounded by beaks, feathered wing-beaters and long sharp toenails, I was trapped. I dropped the bucket and fell to my knees, curling up into a ball with my hands over my head while the chickens fought over the wheat spilling from the can.

  Wailing as only a three-year-old can, I felt a pair of large hands go around my middle and lift me from the dirt into strong, safe arms. My papa had rescued me. My hero! I snuggled my face into his broad shoulder and clasped my arms around his neck as he carried me through the gate and locked it. My sobs came slower as he carried me to the house. I heard my mama and Johnny laughing. Well, I didn’t think it was funny! Papa sat in the old porch rocking chair, quietly singing and humming, and held me close until my last tear fell. The vibration of his voice lulled me to sleep.

  I had failed at my first job.

  Chapter 3

  Painting the Barn

  My favorite jobs were in the fields with Papa: picking up rocks the plow turned over, riding Old Bess out to fix the fence, and run
ning the seed spreader. Mama allowed me to go if I had my other work done. Papa was kind, gentle, hummed to himself, and had a hearty little chuckle.

  One day late in June, right before my sixth birthday, he woke me early. “Susan,” he whispered, “I’ve got a special job for you today.”

  “Hmmm?” I murmured my sleepy question.

  “Get dressed in house clothes and meet me at the barn,” he whispered again and left to wake Johnny.

  It was getting daylight when we stumbled to the barn. Papa was waiting for us. He covered our clothes with old gunny sacks and gave both of us a small bucket of red paint. “We get to paint the barn,” he announced with a wide smile on his face. “The first four boards ’round the bottom of the barn are yours, Susan.” He handed me a brush. “Johnny, now that you’re nine, you’re tall enough to do the next four. I’ll do the rest. Don’t want you kids on the ladder.”

  The snow had melted; it hadn’t rained for several weeks. “The boards are dry enough to hold the paint,” Papa said. Johnny groaned. I was proud to think I was trusted with such a big job. I’d show everyone I was a perfect painter.

  “Go with the grain,” Papa said as he picked up a brush and demonstrated. “That way the paint will get in the cracks. Don’t want the rain and snow to get in there. It’ll rot the boards.” Papa put Johnny on one side of the barn and me on the other. Good idea. Johnny and I could never work together without getting in an argument. I painted as fast as I could. After a couple of hours, my aching arm moved slower and slower. By breakfast time, I was exhausted, almost too tired to eat. Would I admit it? No sir! I somehow managed to down my potatoes, eggs, and bacon and get back to my job.

  Around one o’clock, we stopped for dinner. I had switched to using my left hand. It didn’t work to good, but my right arm throbbed. My fingers couldn’t even hold the brush. Worst of all, I wasn’t even halfway down the barn. It didn’t seemed so big when we started. I was so used up, I fell asleep at the table.