side of my face. She placed her left hand between the rod and my face as she rolled my hair, like she had when I was a child, making sure that if I fidgeted, the hot iron would burn her fingers and not my cheek. Looking sideways, I saw her hands just an inch away. At home she had pushed back her cuticles and rubbed in lotion every night. Now her nails were ragged, and windblown grit had tattooed fine lines in the folds across each knuckle.
She eased the rod from the coil of my hair and stood back so everyone could see the straw-colored corkscrew dangling along my cheek. While the iron was still hot, she made a matching ringlet on the other side of my face. I held my arms slightly away from my body and turned slowly in the firelight, like a mannequin, so everyone could see. I closed my eyes, feeling the heat of the fire first on one side, then the other.
My mother was in great demand as a hairstylist for the rest of the evening, as women, children, and even a man or two lined up for curls in her fireside salon. The Indians I had been so afraid of two hours ago shared their food and fire with us. I wondered how long those three men had followed us earlier in the day before deciding we might appreciate their help.
Just before sealing the story into an envelope addressed to Mr. Doré, I decided the story wasn't good enough and wrote a new letter with just our schedule. The next day I decided that if I couldn't get my story published where I knew someone, I'd never get it published anywhere, so I revised, re-revised, and re-re-revised. After two more days, erasing and changing until I wore holes in the paper and my
Deseret Evening News
pencil was worn down to the eraser, I finally sealed the story into an envelope and mailed it to Mr. Doré. I kept a near-final draft for myself, and copied a slightly shorter version of it in my letter to Arthur, Johnny, and William.
Three months ago, who could have imagined meâboring Claraâcamping out with Indians in Utah! Even if I spent the rest of my life back in Mica Creek, I'd have memories like that night to remind me of the world outside a patch of wheat. Besides saving the farm, was that what Ma was looking for on this trip, too? For both of us?
CHAPTER 16
SOMEONE TO LISTEN
July 20, 1896âDay 76 Somewhere in Wyoming
I WAS lonesome for company besides Ma, so I trod the miles imagining soulful conversations with Mr. Doré. He would ask me what prompted me to strike out on this adventure and I would quote Walt Whitman's lines from "Song of the Open Road": "Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road, / Healthy, free, the world before me..." He would say, "Why, Whitman is my favorite poet!" and ask me if I knew that Whitman was a newsman, too.
Next, he would say I reminded him of Nellie Bly, girl reporter for the
New York World.
I would blush becomingly at the comparison. He would say, "We are truly kindred spirits," and I would agree that indeed we were.
July 21, 1896 â Day 77 Still nowhere, Wyoming
More lonesome walking through miles of flat scrub. Counted three dead porcupines on the tracks. When I left the trail to see what ravens were squabbling about in the brush I discovered a hoofed leg protruding from a pile of dirt, loose fur, and twigs. As I turned back to rejoin Ma, I almost stepped in a pile of fly-crusted, coiled innards, then lost my breakfast.
Ish da.
"Are you all right, Clara?" Ma asked as she walked toward me.
"Just ravens cleaning up after a cougar, Ma." I took a sip of water from my canteen, swished, and spit to wash away the sour taste in my mouth. Cougars didn't like the intestines, so as soon as they bit off the belly fur and ripped open the undersides of their prey, they dragged out the intestines and piled them up out of the way so they could get at the liver. I thought about a cougar piling up my intestines for the ravens, and wondered if human liver tasted as good to them as a deer's.
We had already been carrying sticks to
She eased the rod from the coil of my hair and stood back so everyone could see the straw-colored corkscrew dangling along my cheek. While the iron was still hot, she made a matching ringlet on the other side of my face. I held my arms slightly away from my body and turned slowly in the firelight, like a mannequin, so everyone could see. I closed my eyes, feeling the heat of the fire first on one side, then the other.
My mother was in great demand as a hairstylist for the rest of the evening, as women, children, and even a man or two lined up for curls in her fireside salon. The Indians I had been so afraid of two hours ago shared their food and fire with us. I wondered how long those three men had followed us earlier in the day before deciding we might appreciate their help.
Just before sealing the story into an envelope addressed to Mr. Doré, I decided the story wasn't good enough and wrote a new letter with just our schedule. The next day I decided that if I couldn't get my story published where I knew someone, I'd never get it published anywhere, so I revised, re-revised, and re-re-revised. After two more days, erasing and changing until I wore holes in the paper and my
Deseret Evening News
pencil was worn down to the eraser, I finally sealed the story into an envelope and mailed it to Mr. Doré. I kept a near-final draft for myself, and copied a slightly shorter version of it in my letter to Arthur, Johnny, and William.
Three months ago, who could have imagined meâboring Claraâcamping out with Indians in Utah! Even if I spent the rest of my life back in Mica Creek, I'd have memories like that night to remind me of the world outside a patch of wheat. Besides saving the farm, was that what Ma was looking for on this trip, too? For both of us?
CHAPTER 16
SOMEONE TO LISTEN
July 20, 1896âDay 76 Somewhere in Wyoming
I WAS lonesome for company besides Ma, so I trod the miles imagining soulful conversations with Mr. Doré. He would ask me what prompted me to strike out on this adventure and I would quote Walt Whitman's lines from "Song of the Open Road": "Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road, / Healthy, free, the world before me..." He would say, "Why, Whitman is my favorite poet!" and ask me if I knew that Whitman was a newsman, too.
Next, he would say I reminded him of Nellie Bly, girl reporter for the
New York World.
I would blush becomingly at the comparison. He would say, "We are truly kindred spirits," and I would agree that indeed we were.
July 21, 1896 â Day 77 Still nowhere, Wyoming
More lonesome walking through miles of flat scrub. Counted three dead porcupines on the tracks. When I left the trail to see what ravens were squabbling about in the brush I discovered a hoofed leg protruding from a pile of dirt, loose fur, and twigs. As I turned back to rejoin Ma, I almost stepped in a pile of fly-crusted, coiled innards, then lost my breakfast.
Ish da.
"Are you all right, Clara?" Ma asked as she walked toward me.
"Just ravens cleaning up after a cougar, Ma." I took a sip of water from my canteen, swished, and spit to wash away the sour taste in my mouth. Cougars didn't like the intestines, so as soon as they bit off the belly fur and ripped open the undersides of their prey, they dragged out the intestines and piled them up out of the way so they could get at the liver. I thought about a cougar piling up my intestines for the ravens, and wondered if human liver tasted as good to them as a deer's.
We had already been carrying sticks to
Similar Books
