solidarity among farmers, for the benefit of both individual farmers and farmers as a class. Antitrust, transportation, and education laws were agitated for, cooperatives established, research promoted. There was a social side to the Grange, too. Dances, harvest suppers, lectures. It all seemed extremely innocuous today—although, of course, at the time, it had been considered quite radical and dangerous.
But through all his readings, Edward began to accumulate the feeling that this surface level of activity was not everything, was not even the most important reason for the Grange’s existence. There was something unspoken beneath the primary texts of a century ago, half a century ago, even two decades ago, something that popped up only now and then, as if it were too powerful to keep completely submerged, rearing its massive green head like the crown of an ancient thick-boled oak bursting full-grown and -leafed through the bland surface of the earth.
And the unspoken secret seemed, Edward slowly realized, to revolve around a woman—or women—known as Sally Lunn, and how she was … well, there was no word for it but worshipped.
From a privately printed, anonymously authored book titled Gleanings and Chaff: An Amateur Agriculturalist’s Experiences with the Patrons of Husbandry , 1879, whose spine was broken and pages flaking:
Sallie Lunne was present that night, for the first time since I had attended the Grange, and I was told to show all proper respect and deference to this old dame, although how she differed from any farmer’s elderly wife I could not immediately apprehend. I was told by the Grange’s Thresher that Dame Lunne was not her baptismal name, but an appellation given to the woman who filled the role of Grain Mistress, and that therefore each branch of the Grange boasted its own Mistress Lunne, simultaneously in attendance all across this broad land—nay, even the globe.
Mistress Lunne seemed a taciturn, even dull, sort, and spoke not a word during the Grange meeting itself. But afterward, when I was brought forward to be presented to her, I was forced to revise my hasty first impression.
Her exact words I do not recall, but know with a certainty that they most favorably impressed me with her strength of character and Demeter-like vitality. She seemed a veritable fount and wellspring of pastoral virtues, her high office having caused her to transcend herself, and her touch was correspondingly galvanic. It is hard to overstate her effect on those made of lesser stuff.
Even more difficult of relation is the aspect she dons during certain private Granger rituals. But I can say no more.…
One morning, prior to leaving for the city, Edward took his coffee out to the back porch. Lucy was still in the shower. Edward hadn’t told her what he was doing on campus each day; she thought, he believed, that he was working on his book.
His eyes drifted toward their vegetable garden. It was nine days since he had turned the soil with such backbreaking labor, and he hadn’t paid much attention to it in the interval.
The tomato plants were spilling over their wire cages, heavy ripe fruit bedecking their leafy sprawl. Peas were ready to pick, as was an abundance of lettuce, eggplants, cucumbers, and zucchini.
Lucy emerged, barefoot, robed, and toweling her hair. “Oh, I’m sorry—did I scare you?” she asked.
Dabbing ineffectually at his coffee-soaked shirt, Edward said, “Just clumsy, I guess.” He set his empty cup and saucer down noisily on the porch rail. Then his eyes caught on what was nailed above the back door.
Lucy followed his gaze. “It’s a sprig of touch-leaf,” she explained. “Saint John’s wort. Aren’t all those golden flowers beautiful?”
“Beautiful, yeah, they are. I guess. Why’s it there?”
“To guard against thunder, lightning, and fire. There’s a spray over the front door, too.”
Lucy regarded her husband as if waiting for him to inquire further, or contest
But through all his readings, Edward began to accumulate the feeling that this surface level of activity was not everything, was not even the most important reason for the Grange’s existence. There was something unspoken beneath the primary texts of a century ago, half a century ago, even two decades ago, something that popped up only now and then, as if it were too powerful to keep completely submerged, rearing its massive green head like the crown of an ancient thick-boled oak bursting full-grown and -leafed through the bland surface of the earth.
And the unspoken secret seemed, Edward slowly realized, to revolve around a woman—or women—known as Sally Lunn, and how she was … well, there was no word for it but worshipped.
From a privately printed, anonymously authored book titled Gleanings and Chaff: An Amateur Agriculturalist’s Experiences with the Patrons of Husbandry , 1879, whose spine was broken and pages flaking:
Sallie Lunne was present that night, for the first time since I had attended the Grange, and I was told to show all proper respect and deference to this old dame, although how she differed from any farmer’s elderly wife I could not immediately apprehend. I was told by the Grange’s Thresher that Dame Lunne was not her baptismal name, but an appellation given to the woman who filled the role of Grain Mistress, and that therefore each branch of the Grange boasted its own Mistress Lunne, simultaneously in attendance all across this broad land—nay, even the globe.
Mistress Lunne seemed a taciturn, even dull, sort, and spoke not a word during the Grange meeting itself. But afterward, when I was brought forward to be presented to her, I was forced to revise my hasty first impression.
Her exact words I do not recall, but know with a certainty that they most favorably impressed me with her strength of character and Demeter-like vitality. She seemed a veritable fount and wellspring of pastoral virtues, her high office having caused her to transcend herself, and her touch was correspondingly galvanic. It is hard to overstate her effect on those made of lesser stuff.
Even more difficult of relation is the aspect she dons during certain private Granger rituals. But I can say no more.…
One morning, prior to leaving for the city, Edward took his coffee out to the back porch. Lucy was still in the shower. Edward hadn’t told her what he was doing on campus each day; she thought, he believed, that he was working on his book.
His eyes drifted toward their vegetable garden. It was nine days since he had turned the soil with such backbreaking labor, and he hadn’t paid much attention to it in the interval.
The tomato plants were spilling over their wire cages, heavy ripe fruit bedecking their leafy sprawl. Peas were ready to pick, as was an abundance of lettuce, eggplants, cucumbers, and zucchini.
Lucy emerged, barefoot, robed, and toweling her hair. “Oh, I’m sorry—did I scare you?” she asked.
Dabbing ineffectually at his coffee-soaked shirt, Edward said, “Just clumsy, I guess.” He set his empty cup and saucer down noisily on the porch rail. Then his eyes caught on what was nailed above the back door.
Lucy followed his gaze. “It’s a sprig of touch-leaf,” she explained. “Saint John’s wort. Aren’t all those golden flowers beautiful?”
“Beautiful, yeah, they are. I guess. Why’s it there?”
“To guard against thunder, lightning, and fire. There’s a spray over the front door, too.”
Lucy regarded her husband as if waiting for him to inquire further, or contest
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