I realized a few days ago that I was doing it again. The relentless productivity monster inside of me was trying to rob me of the joy I feel when I’m wrestling with ideas and just plain old writing. I thought a break from Instagram would fix matters in my head. That was a mirage.
When I’m writing novels, I have no expectations about posting progress on a weekly or monthly schedule. Now, here on Substack I’m sort of all over the place and I need to consider why I first enjoyed writing here—and reading here. At first, I thought I’d write breezy monthly posts about seasonal living, but I realized very quickly that while I wish I was breezy I’m kind of not.
Everything is way messier for me than that and at some point, I need to make peace with it—even more than trying to make peace with technology or religion. I’ve always felt the need to insulate people from the person I am with a smile or light talk, but I can only keep it up a while before feeling really burnt out. So, here’s what I’m thinking (I mention it so that if you happen to stop by you know what I’m doing—if I stick to it):
I’m going to force myself to only post twice a month. I love seasonal themes so that’s not going away, but for the nonfiction posts I’m giving myself more leeway to explore whatever stuff comes to mind even if it’s not lovely or light. I like going deeper into family relationships and human complexities and I don’t want to feel like I’m glossing over things. Yet I’m really not a pessimist at all (see how much I feel the need to reassure you?).
For the other post, I’ve become intrigued by the family of characters I wrote for my little Christmas story in December so I’m going to see where they take me each month with a goal of maybe a seasonal novella by next Christmas. I could change my mind tomorrow though.
I have a post in the works about something quite messy, but it’s not finished yet so this week will be the second installment of fictional Jane Shaw and her soldier’s story. It’s going to have a happy ending so not to worry—or at least I won’t worry. :)
HERE’S the first installment if you missed it:
Chapter Two
Jane Shaw and Her Soldier
The fullness of Grandfather's farmhouse at Christmas hid only briefly the barren landscapes of each room in January. At Epiphany, they all said goodbye to the aunts and uncles who had taken up farming in the next county. By then, Francis Eaton, the soldier of only eight toes, had been moved to the gray extra room furthest from heat upstairs. It was a known thing here in Apple Valley that the Shaw men often married cold and unforgiving women to balance out their fiery temperaments. Grandmother had noted with dismay, the way young Eaton gazed at Alma (Jane's older sister) and had also noticed the way his eyes fell upon certain things of value kept in her kitchen. And so just after the new year when the snow outside was thickest and the wind greatest as it gusted its way through the unheated upper rooms of the house, she demanded the Shaw men move the convalescent soldier to his own room away from the girls and her secret stash of pin money kept in the cracked crock at the back of the pantry.
Grandfather complained that Francis could hardly have been aware of the crock from his cot by the fire, but Grandmother waved his words off. "Charity is fine with you Shaw men, but the boy's in the way of my cooking now, and I need some peace of mind keeping a stranger who's changed his name for reasons unknown. You thats against the tin peddler being let in the back door should understand my concerns a little."
Jane had also noticed how the soldier's eyes had flitted around hungrily seeking something, but it was with a touch of embarrassment when he saw that Jane had been watching him. Her feelings were mixed when she was told to take the old mantel clock from atop the set of drawers in the spare room yesterday. Surely Grandmother didn't think Francis would want an old ticking clock to steal off with! It seemed to Jane to be just too uncharitable. As Francis had looked on with hungry fevered expression she lied. "Bet this old thing ticking in here keeps you awake so I'll just take it out of your way."
"Your grandmother doesn't want me to have it, but thanks for trying to spare my feelings."
Jane, despite owing the soldier her life, could not find it in her heart to like him anymore. It was odd that he'd said his name was Elias and then more recently Francis. True he'd been in fever, but what bothered her young heart more was the way he stared at Alma. He wasn't friendly with Alma the way he tried to be with Jane and at times it almost looked to Jane that he held some grudge against Alma. Once Alma had called him Frankie. He'd politely, but firmly asked that she call him by his rightful name.
"And which one is that? Elias or Francis?" Alma had replied dismissively but with her usual sass and unfeeling eyes.
Jane knew Alma had her hopes set on boys with bigger futures than those of mere farm hands with backward manners and no sense of humor. Alma always talked about wanting a humorous man. her dead soldier had been a rarity. Jane wondered where she might find another one in Apple Valley where the bare bones of winter sobered most round-cheeked boys into men who broodingly glanced up at the skies with hands in pockets as they walked their sleeping fields in January.
Last night two great gusts of wind broke the limbs off the big maple outside Jane's bedroom window. This morning she'd be sent out to gather the broken pieces of the tree's life to bring to the porch for kindling, but as she hurriedly pulled her stockings and underthings on, she heard Francis taking his first tentative steps since the blood poisoning nearly took his leg. She finished dressing and tip-toed up to his closed door. Not an ounce of heat made it this far down the hallway. It was cold in her room too but at least she could escape it.
"There you go, Elias. It's so frightfully cold up here after so much time by the fire. How will I bear it another day being cooped up in this room?" he said to himself. The sound of his mild voice drew Jane in.
She knocked lightly on the door knowing her grandmother would disapprove of her seeking him out. "Francis? Do you need more blankets?"
She listened as he limped back to bed. "No, I'm fine but thanks very much. Now you get before we both land in trouble."
Glancing down the hallway, she turned the knob of his door as quietly as possible, wincing a little as the hinges squeaked. From beneath a heap of quilts and even his great coat from the army he peered across the room at her with hard, proud eyes. Jane knew he hated being seen as an invalid. Did he know they also suspected him of being a thief? Aside from his nose, red in the frosty air, his skin matched the dull gray of the painted walls. The cold and damp of this room prevented it being papered in the warm tones of the parlor and dining room and was only ever offered to summer visitors.
"What do you want?"
"It's only right I look after you a little what with all you done for me."
He waved her off. She worried about the glassiness of his eyes.
"I heard you saying you were cold and it's so especially frozen in this room and — Elias—" she hesitated. "You spoke of Elias. I heard you from the other side of the door just now."
"You shouldn't be a spy now, should you?"
"I worried it was the fever."
"Yes, yes. Now I'm trying to be nice, but will you please leave as it's making me nervous what your grandfather will say."
Jane knew Grandfather Shaw had daily climbed the steps to Francis' room to bring him the paper and a cup of dark tea. Occasionally he even brought him an extra slice of bread with apple butter. All on the sly this was but one Saturday when Grandmother was out visiting, Jane had listened from her room to the sound of Grandfather's footfall on the steps as he struggled a bit to climb them. For a moment she'd been jealous.
"It's Grandmother who worries that … that you like Alma."
"Yes. But you won't say a word about Elias please."
"What's there to say?" she asked but caught a strange expression on his face. "Francis, is Elias a nickname or maybe a brother?"
"It's what some folks called me long ago, tis all. Never you mind. I'm not feeble minded or anything."
"That's not what I thought."
"You're a nice little thing, but I want you to go."
Jane left with a pit in her stomach just as Grandmother called her for breakfast. Alma passed her with porridge for Francis. Grandmother waited at the foot of the stairs until Alma returned, making a big show each day to Grandfather about how she distrusted "that Eaton boy."
As they sat at the kitchen table Grandmother talked and talked as Grandfather read his newspapers. "Some thats come back now never do seem to recover themselves. I wonder was that more spirited lad of Christmas only a characteristic of his fever. And some see when they got it good with charitable people so's they don't want to mend."
Grandfather's face reddened and hinted at the Shaw temper rising, yet something kept it in check. He glanced up at his wife as if testing his hand at cards. "I aim to wait. Give the boy a chance."
"But if he can't work the fields this spring then we can't afford another mouth to feed."
Jane took a bite of her apple fritter. "He hardly eats a thing, seems to me."
Her grandparents did not abide by children under the age of sixteen adding their thoughts at mealtimes, but Jane thought she spotted a twinkle in her grandfather's eye when he shushed her—a twinkle that warmed Jane's lonesome soul. Alma sided with Grandmother. "Seems an odd thing he won't write his father to go home soon. He's awful gray and don't seem to like your cooking, Grandmother."
Jane huffed before taking a sip of her lukewarm tea. She knew Alma was just being mean to Grandmother at Francis' expense.
"Probably don't eat 'cause you make him feel bad about it, Alma," Grandfather said before pushing from the table.
Jane glanced up at him in surprise. He wasn't one to get to the bottom of people's feelings and make comments on them.
Just then they all turned to the sound of Francis descending the stairs and then his uneven footfall as he joined them in the kitchen dressed in a faded butternut blouse with fraying sleeves and his army trousers tucked into his gray wool socks dotted with red darning. He stood in the doorway in awkward silence. Only the sound of the kettle on the stove beginning to boil and the dripping of snow at the south window made noises.
"Where you off to, young man?" Grandfather asked with a hint of aggression.
Francis glanced at Alma and then Jane for a second. "I'm feeling much better and thought I should try and be some help—earn my keep mebbe. Go to the barn and milk or …"
Grandmother gave Grandfather and then Francis a severe look. "Nobody around these parts milks in January. A farmer would know that …"
"Oh, there. Stop it," Grandfather interrupted. "There's some who do. It don't mean anything."
"Oh, I'd say it does!" Grandmother said, with a triumphant toss of the head.
"Might be his fever," Jane said, noting the way Francis' face reddened.
"I—I've lost all sense of the seasons is all …" he said as if drowning. "Mebbe, I could come with you, Mr. Shaw to clear snow?"
“Oh, you’ll be strong enough soon to come join me though I won’t have you take a drop of Mrs. Farnsworth’s eggnog full of whiskey. That’s so.”
This irked Francis. Jane saw it in the way his mouth tightened. He didn’t like the old man’s shaming him over the reputation he'd briefly made for himself in town. For that’s what it looked like to Jane. And that feeling of shame—oh how it burned. To shame someone was to do the worst thing. Grandfather may have realized his mistake when he patted Francis on the back and told him to sit by the fire today. It was clear to Jane neither the soldier nor Grandmother were happy with his decree.
"And Jane, you'll be late for school if you don't get outside to clear those branches," he said as he threw on his coat and tossed on his cap.
They all watched him as he passed the window on the way to the barn to tack up his horses. Alma took the better chair away from the window as she set to her lacemaking. She had a real talent for it and her work was in great demand throughout the county. Jane understood why Francis would not relish the idea of returning to his lonely and frigid room, but she saw that he struggled to follow his benefactor's orders. As he passed before a train schedule tacked beside the door, he ran his fingers over the times with a sigh before taking the less comfortable seat.
Grandmother stared at him just long enough to see him squirm with a sickly smile before turning to Jane. "You heard your grandfather. What are you standing there gaping about?"
Jane hurried to the crowded mudroom, laced her boots and buttoned her coat. She glanced back once and noted a look of sorrow on Francis' face as he stared at Alma who was oblivious to him. She slammed the door behind her, grumbling to herself about the unfairness of life but soon forgot her troubles in the bright sunshine and the tedious but easy work. Just as she set the last of the twigs on the porch, admiring her neat little piles, Francis came from around the house with her schoolbooks and lunch tin. He hadn't put on a coat and stood shivering in his unlaced boots.
"Your Grandmother wants you off to school now."
"Of course she does," she said taking her books. Something in the way he stood there forced her to say something to brighten his mood. "I know they h'aint no fun in there, but at least it's warm."
"Yes."
"Sometimes I think they don't like you even more than they don't like me," she said as a joke and clumsy attempt at solidarity though there was no reason to feel in solidarity with him.
He laughed a little too politely, and she knew she'd said the wrong thing, but Shaws were taught never to make matters worse with explanations.
"Goodbye, Jane Shaw," he said with a more genuine though sad smile. "You'll be late now."
"And I won't mind a bit," she said with a wave as she trotted off toward the road with the morning sun in her eyes. She turned and waved again but the bright sun blinded her to all but his outline—and outline she suddenly realized she'd grown a little fond of.
Alma stepped on to the porch now folding her arms in the cold. " Get to school, you!" she shouted before slamming the door behind her.
I'm here for every moment of 'wherever' you're headed; b/c this post resonates with me on so many levels.♡
P.S., Technically, I'm there for you on IG too...but honestly, less frequently. 😉