Arthur.” She squealed like a child and squeezed her shoulders to her ears, face frozen into a smile of obnoxious glee.
Jeanie’s hands flew to her waist. Her knees nearly buckled from the mortification that dripped over her like honey. Before Jeanie could respond, Lutie bounded down the side of the dugout and quite effectively skipped like a six-year-old. She placed the bucket at Jeanie’s feet. “Pleased to meet you Mrs. Arthur. My sister Ruthie and I have both of your books and ten of your columns. The very chivalrous and debonair Howard Templeton is always kind enough to bring a copy of your column when he comes back from the city. You have a fine, fine husband and I can only say that I hope when the time comes, I can fetch a boy just like him.”
Lutie stuck her hand out to shake Jeanie’s. It was a tiny, smooth thing, with bones no larger than little Katherine’s. Lutie’s face, molded into a perfect oval, boasted wide-set eyes and lush lips like Jeanie’d only seen in Harper’s Bazaar. Her slim waist seemed to only get smaller and smaller until it belled out as just the right juncture to make her appear as though an artist had drawn the essence of woman and Lutie came to life right off the paper.
Mostly, Lutie’s youth and vibrance struck Jeanie, making her feel instantly dowdy and unworthy of her wiry, electrified husband. The word divorcee kept leaping to mind, making Jeanie immediately suspicious of the kind of woman who could possibly divorce and be so happy thereafter.
“My, my, my. A pleasure to meet you, Lutie. Call me Jeanie.” If Jeanie had learned anything from her father and mother it was that a woman should never let anyone recognize her insecurity as it related to her looks or her husband’s intentions. Such weaknesses, displayed for others was like blood in the water, calling all interested sharks to feed at the trough of one’s husband.
“Oh, I will,” Lutie said, “that’s right pleasant of you. You just put me right to work as my sister Ruthie and I have sort of relaxed our conduct, not so much as to be scandalous, but in terms of keeping home. We’ve narrowed our work load to the nitty-gritty so to conserve time for music, song, and well, gardening and such. Your books are like home-keeping fantasy novels, fairytales that we can enjoy in print, but the chance of us bringing your words to life, are well, as slim as Cinderella herself riding over that plain there. But we are thrilled that you will be able to do just that. Imagine it. The great Jeanie Arthur, right here in Darlington Township. Our very own big-bug come to town to bestow us with great knowledge, eloquently bestowed, I’m sure.”
Jeanie shifted her weight and shyly glanced at the others who were listening. In light of the current condition of her home and body, she couldn’t have been more self-conscious of the mess it put her in to have written those books and to be held to their standard. Lutie didn’t seem to notice the discomfort as she gushed on.
“And your Frank just about had a fit when he saw how we were mistreating our cows with improper milking technique. He said you were the fastest milk maid in Des Moines at one time,” she rambled on.
“Well now, Jeanie,” Greta said stepping into the conversation. “You didn’t mention one bit of this—your skill as a milker. A writer of all things gracious, I know you said you dreamt of writing again, but I assumed it was letters you spoke of. Well, that’s right wonderful seeing as Lutie and Ruthie neglect to milk at all half the time, why don’t you, Lutie, offer Jeanie the cow in return for milk every few days?”
“Oh, no, we couldn’t. We plan to buy livestock after we bring in the first crop or after Frank sells some of his furniture commissions,” Jeanie said.
“Oh, why, Greta,” Lutie said. “That’s right intelligent of you, for an unread woman to come up with that. Well, okay, that’ll give me a chance to see you Arthurs on a regular
Jeanie’s hands flew to her waist. Her knees nearly buckled from the mortification that dripped over her like honey. Before Jeanie could respond, Lutie bounded down the side of the dugout and quite effectively skipped like a six-year-old. She placed the bucket at Jeanie’s feet. “Pleased to meet you Mrs. Arthur. My sister Ruthie and I have both of your books and ten of your columns. The very chivalrous and debonair Howard Templeton is always kind enough to bring a copy of your column when he comes back from the city. You have a fine, fine husband and I can only say that I hope when the time comes, I can fetch a boy just like him.”
Lutie stuck her hand out to shake Jeanie’s. It was a tiny, smooth thing, with bones no larger than little Katherine’s. Lutie’s face, molded into a perfect oval, boasted wide-set eyes and lush lips like Jeanie’d only seen in Harper’s Bazaar. Her slim waist seemed to only get smaller and smaller until it belled out as just the right juncture to make her appear as though an artist had drawn the essence of woman and Lutie came to life right off the paper.
Mostly, Lutie’s youth and vibrance struck Jeanie, making her feel instantly dowdy and unworthy of her wiry, electrified husband. The word divorcee kept leaping to mind, making Jeanie immediately suspicious of the kind of woman who could possibly divorce and be so happy thereafter.
“My, my, my. A pleasure to meet you, Lutie. Call me Jeanie.” If Jeanie had learned anything from her father and mother it was that a woman should never let anyone recognize her insecurity as it related to her looks or her husband’s intentions. Such weaknesses, displayed for others was like blood in the water, calling all interested sharks to feed at the trough of one’s husband.
“Oh, I will,” Lutie said, “that’s right pleasant of you. You just put me right to work as my sister Ruthie and I have sort of relaxed our conduct, not so much as to be scandalous, but in terms of keeping home. We’ve narrowed our work load to the nitty-gritty so to conserve time for music, song, and well, gardening and such. Your books are like home-keeping fantasy novels, fairytales that we can enjoy in print, but the chance of us bringing your words to life, are well, as slim as Cinderella herself riding over that plain there. But we are thrilled that you will be able to do just that. Imagine it. The great Jeanie Arthur, right here in Darlington Township. Our very own big-bug come to town to bestow us with great knowledge, eloquently bestowed, I’m sure.”
Jeanie shifted her weight and shyly glanced at the others who were listening. In light of the current condition of her home and body, she couldn’t have been more self-conscious of the mess it put her in to have written those books and to be held to their standard. Lutie didn’t seem to notice the discomfort as she gushed on.
“And your Frank just about had a fit when he saw how we were mistreating our cows with improper milking technique. He said you were the fastest milk maid in Des Moines at one time,” she rambled on.
“Well now, Jeanie,” Greta said stepping into the conversation. “You didn’t mention one bit of this—your skill as a milker. A writer of all things gracious, I know you said you dreamt of writing again, but I assumed it was letters you spoke of. Well, that’s right wonderful seeing as Lutie and Ruthie neglect to milk at all half the time, why don’t you, Lutie, offer Jeanie the cow in return for milk every few days?”
“Oh, no, we couldn’t. We plan to buy livestock after we bring in the first crop or after Frank sells some of his furniture commissions,” Jeanie said.
“Oh, why, Greta,” Lutie said. “That’s right intelligent of you, for an unread woman to come up with that. Well, okay, that’ll give me a chance to see you Arthurs on a regular
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