breakdowns, was given occasionally to unaccountable roarings the humanvoice could barely surmount. Should you ring up past eight o'clock in the evening, you got an operator out of bed (since the switchboards were located in homes), and not always grudgingly, as the pleasure of listening in made up for the disturbance. If you called a party, you could be assured of a dozen or so listeners. Gossip pieces together like scraps of a quilt.
Lurie refused to listen in, but her sister was not so abstemious.
More than a year and a half passed before Velvet collected the bits and pieces about Anson's first visit to the grave of his son. During this time, Lurie had lived at the home of her parents, who had retired to a house next door to her brother, the cotton broker. She was leaning toward spinsterhood, to the concern of her brother. Her brother's wife saw to it that her social life was not lacking, that eligible unmarried men and a widower or two knew of her existence, were invited to dinner, and to Sunday evening socials. Suitors are not hard to find when the girl has property, along with gentle rearing and beauty. One of them might have made his way into her heart had it not been for her memory of Anson. He stood between her and any other man. Moreover, Irena had married at last. And there was no news of any matching up with Ellafronia, as handy as that might have been.
Eventually, talk of Anson's being crazy died out, so talk of him petered out, too. Lurie was suddenly deprived of any certain knowledge of Anson. For some six months he had lived at the ranch, and then the word was he had returned to Chinaberry, making himself busy with the production of cotton. As therapy, it was assumed. The tales had it that he actually worked occasionally in the fields and got his hands dirty. All three of the Winters brothers had long since given up cowpunching. Hired hands herded the cattle.
To occupy the time, Lurie enrolled in practical nursing classes at an Amarillo (pronounced Amirilla in those parts) hospital. Her bent was toward the illnesses and care of children. The courses were generalâphysiology and nutrition. Next, as much a prank as anything else, she took a charm class taught evenings at a beauty parlor. Above all else she learned about âhair culture,â which was the care and feeding of the female scalp, as well as the many ways she could âput upâ her shoulder-length hair, which was to me as corn silk in sunlight. Her sister-in-law had put her up to it, to enhance still further her opportunities toward matrimony.
The time was hard to endure, the distance impossible to bear. So she went home to her sister. She would have rented a house or lived in one she owned, but it was not socially feasible for a lady of her age to live alone. Nor was it considered safe. For a widow perhaps, but not for an unmarried twenty-seven-year-old. It had been fifteen years since she had stood at the schoolyard fence and told Anson, âYou are my doll.â
Lurie and anson had dressed me like a toy cowboy. On my head was a small Stetson, on my feet, cowboy boots with sharp toes. My pants were store-bought, but the shirt was one Lurie had cut out and sewed to match Anson's.
The occasion for my outfit was a trip out to the ranch, where Anson was taking us that Sunday. When a job required his presence there most of the week, he usually spurned returning on Saturday or Sunday. Two months from now, during shipping season, he would have to be there seven days a week, so he cherished his weekends at home. But he wanted me to meet his parents, so he and Lurie had agreed to have Sunday supper at the main house.
Anson had been telling me about the ranch, the cows, the horses and their foals, the feeder calves, the cowboys. About the herd that grazed for miles and miles on a free range. We would see cowboys in action. He told me about Pop Cod. He talked somewhat of cotton farming, but there was nothing I needed to be told, as I
Lurie refused to listen in, but her sister was not so abstemious.
More than a year and a half passed before Velvet collected the bits and pieces about Anson's first visit to the grave of his son. During this time, Lurie had lived at the home of her parents, who had retired to a house next door to her brother, the cotton broker. She was leaning toward spinsterhood, to the concern of her brother. Her brother's wife saw to it that her social life was not lacking, that eligible unmarried men and a widower or two knew of her existence, were invited to dinner, and to Sunday evening socials. Suitors are not hard to find when the girl has property, along with gentle rearing and beauty. One of them might have made his way into her heart had it not been for her memory of Anson. He stood between her and any other man. Moreover, Irena had married at last. And there was no news of any matching up with Ellafronia, as handy as that might have been.
Eventually, talk of Anson's being crazy died out, so talk of him petered out, too. Lurie was suddenly deprived of any certain knowledge of Anson. For some six months he had lived at the ranch, and then the word was he had returned to Chinaberry, making himself busy with the production of cotton. As therapy, it was assumed. The tales had it that he actually worked occasionally in the fields and got his hands dirty. All three of the Winters brothers had long since given up cowpunching. Hired hands herded the cattle.
To occupy the time, Lurie enrolled in practical nursing classes at an Amarillo (pronounced Amirilla in those parts) hospital. Her bent was toward the illnesses and care of children. The courses were generalâphysiology and nutrition. Next, as much a prank as anything else, she took a charm class taught evenings at a beauty parlor. Above all else she learned about âhair culture,â which was the care and feeding of the female scalp, as well as the many ways she could âput upâ her shoulder-length hair, which was to me as corn silk in sunlight. Her sister-in-law had put her up to it, to enhance still further her opportunities toward matrimony.
The time was hard to endure, the distance impossible to bear. So she went home to her sister. She would have rented a house or lived in one she owned, but it was not socially feasible for a lady of her age to live alone. Nor was it considered safe. For a widow perhaps, but not for an unmarried twenty-seven-year-old. It had been fifteen years since she had stood at the schoolyard fence and told Anson, âYou are my doll.â
Lurie and anson had dressed me like a toy cowboy. On my head was a small Stetson, on my feet, cowboy boots with sharp toes. My pants were store-bought, but the shirt was one Lurie had cut out and sewed to match Anson's.
The occasion for my outfit was a trip out to the ranch, where Anson was taking us that Sunday. When a job required his presence there most of the week, he usually spurned returning on Saturday or Sunday. Two months from now, during shipping season, he would have to be there seven days a week, so he cherished his weekends at home. But he wanted me to meet his parents, so he and Lurie had agreed to have Sunday supper at the main house.
Anson had been telling me about the ranch, the cows, the horses and their foals, the feeder calves, the cowboys. About the herd that grazed for miles and miles on a free range. We would see cowboys in action. He told me about Pop Cod. He talked somewhat of cotton farming, but there was nothing I needed to be told, as I
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