The Diary of Mattie Spenser Read online

  If the sod house is not ready in time, says Husband, we will have to live in the barn, with the animals during the bad months, since winter blizzards are fierce here. He will build the barn first, having already laid the foundation. We shall surely perish if we spend the winter in the wagon, predicts Luke, although I am told two brothers near here, having arrived Christmas before last, when the prairie was covered with snow, lived three months in their Conestoga. I looked at the backsides of our oxen for too many miles over the plains and do not relish sharing my hearth with them. Our Lord Jesus Christ may have been born in a stable, but He was not forced to spend a Colorado winter in one. I would as soon flee into Egypt.

  O, I should not indulge in such blasphemy, but I will need my funny bone if I am to survive here.

  My heart sank when Luke pointed out our new home, though I would not for anything let him see my disappointment, saying instead it was as pretty a picture as I ever saw. How he recognized our place, I do not know, because there are no landmarks. It looks just like the hundreds of miles of prairie recently crossed o’er by us, so repetitious and uneventful that I saw no reason to write in this book after leaving Fort Kearney. Colorado Territory is too big; it frightens me. I would like a little clump of trees or a pond to break the open space, something human-size that would make this land not so vast. I think I could get lost right out here in my front yard. The endless prairie is the loneliest place I ever saw.

  Luke must have thought me a goose on our journey for going on so about the cheery brooks and flowery meadows that I expected to find in Colorado. I knew our place would not be like a farm in old Iowa, but I did think that we would pass over a hill and see a pretty green valley, and Luke would take my hand and say, “Mattie dear, here is our home.”

  When Luke disappeared this morning, I sat down on my little trunk and had a good cry, my first real cry since our marriage. Then I dried my eyes, for if a thing can be helped, I help it. But if it cannot, then I shall try to make the best of it. If I do not, Luke might wish he’d married someone else, like Persia. That foolish girl would not last a day out here. Of course, Luke knows that, and I hope he counts himself lucky that he fell in love with me, not her. I said at the outset that I was practical and not given to pretty phrases. So it was right that Luke did not promise me a home in a dell. I will not make Husband sorry he brought me here. I shall content myself with the blessings I have, believing, as the songwriter says, “Better times a-comin’.”

  Besides, Luke is happy here, and that should be happiness enough for Wife. Last night, as we lay in our bed in the wagon, Luke pointed out the “drinking gourd” among the stars, and he said, “My cup runneth over.” I did not know if he meant he was satisfied with the land or with me or both. I fancy I was at least part of that full cup, because Luke kissed me on the mouth, twice, and he hugged me some (which I enjoy), before he did what he enjoys.

  I begged Luke to let me go into town with him today, in hopes I would not forget what a tree looks like, and perhaps even have a sociable visit with another woman, as I don’t want to forget what a woman looks like, either. But Luke said someone must stay here or Pikers, as the Godless tramps from Pike County, Missouri, are called, will steal our things. He does not seem to care that Pikers might steal me!

  July 28, 1865. Prairie Home.

  Luke is off to town again, and though I had been hoping to go with him, I am glad for a little time to tend to Self. I have taken a bath as best I could, heating water in the teakettle and pouring it into the largest cooking pot, which I also use as laundry tub. I am adapting. I pretended the vessel was the size of a horse trough, then took a leisurely bath right out in the open, throwing modesty to the winds. The rattlesnakes were shocked! I even washed my hair in salts of tartar, which was the first time since my wedding—if I do not count the soaking it got in rainstorms on the trail.

  Of course, I was not entirely wanton, because I poured the dirty bath water on the thirsty plants in my kitchen garden. Even with a well, which Luke had dug in the spring, we are careful of water and do not waste a single precious drop. I saved enough of the hot water in the kettle to brew a pot of tea from my little hoard of leaves carried from Iowa. The tea Luke brought last time he went to Mingo was so common that we use it for our daily drink and save the good for special occasions. I have declared this to be such an occasion and am throwing a nice tea for Self and journal, setting out my good china cup, as well as china plate for the molasses sponge cake brought to me by my neighbor, a Mrs. Smith.

  I was glad for her visit on Sunday last, even if she is a queer goose. She did not present me with her calling card, because such etiquette is unknown in this land, and because she cannot read, I think.

  Oh, yes, the word is out that Mr. Spenser and wife are at home, and Eban and the aforementioned Mrs. Eban Smith were our first callers. I do not know her Christian name, because after telling my own, I asked for hers, and she replied, “I am Mrs. Eban Smith,” with the emphasis on Mrs. So “Missus” she will always be to me.

  I am glad my “house,” which is mostly fresh air, made up of the wagon cover attached to the foundation of the barn, was in good order, because Missus inspected every inch of it. “You’re none like your mister described,” said she, pulling out a drawer of my carved dresser to see what was inside. She clucked with disapproval at my hair wreath, which I had displayed on my trunk for the occasion, but said naught, then returned to her original subject. “I thought you’d be a bitty thing. I can see you’re not. Be glad for it, I say. This land chews up and spits out the weak.” To emphasize her point, she removed the little corncob pipe she had been smoking since her arrival and spat upon my earthen floor. I almost did not mind, as she tickled me so. I must remember to twit my husband for his presumption in telling his neighbors when he was here in the spring to stake his claim that he was going home for a wife ere he made known his decision to his intended. I laughed to myself when I thought what Luke would have said to them had I had turned him down.

  The “mister,” too, looked me up and down whilst he moved his quid of “tobac,” as he calls it, from one cheek to the other. Then he sat down and began to pull the beggar-lice from his clothing. (They are are not real lice, but little burrs that stick to everything they touch.) I will have to get used to the manners of the country.

  “He talked about you plenty. That’s for sure,” Mr. Smith said. I dipped my head to acknowledge the compliment, feeling inside as if I would burst with pride. To think I did not even suspect Luke was sweet on me! Mrs. Smith says they thought I might be a city girl, because Luke had hired a man to witch for water and then dug a well before going back to Iowa. The Smiths have been on their land for more than a year and still haul their water. I wanted to tell her I would not have moved west without assurances of a well, but I said nothing, as I did not want her to think me pert. Besides, ’twas not the truth. I knew so little of this land, it had not occurred to me to question Luke about water.

  I set the sponge cake on my Delft plate and brought out silver forks and china plates, instead of tin ones, even though Missus sniffed and said, “Well, ain’t you the fancy one. They’ll be soon broke out here.” While she is a friendly woman, she is large and coarse, with a face like a ham, and is none too tidy, which made me wonder about the cake. No matter how scarce water is, I intend to keep my person as clean as possible.

  Still, I am not one to stand on ceremony, so I did not inspect the cake too closely, and it did taste all right. She said she “needed Sally Ann bad,” and asked for the loan of a teacup of it. After some confusion, I determined “Sally Ann” was saleratus. So I gave it to her, saying it was not a loan, but a gift, for I would distrust anything she returned. As I did not want to give her the cup as well, I looked about for a container for the saleratus, but Missus came to the rescue by removing her cap, pouring the powder into it, and tying it up with the cap ribbons. She is almost bald, false hair being not so esteemed here as at home.

  I was glad for the company,
especially as Mr. Smith brought us a present of a clump of pieplant, which I have set out, for I do like rhubarb pie. Luke says he thinks I passed inspection.

  Missus told me that earlier this year, a woman was killed east of here by Indians, and scalped, and she seemed surprised Luke had not mentioned it. I was vexed at Husband and told him so, but he says it was the work of renegades, who have already removed themselves to Kansas. There are too many whites in Colorado Territory this season for their liking. We are in far greater danger from the ragtag Rebels moving west, Luke says. Besides, he added with his smile, which always makes my insides melt like jelly left on a hot stove, if he’d told me about the Indians, I might not have come. Though I shivered with the thought of savages, his answer suited me.

  When we arrived here, we slept in the wagon because we did not have a tent. (Did that make us discontented? I asked.) Then Luke decided to attach our wagon sheet to the foundation of the barn, and we have a regular fresh-air house for the summer. Luke calls it a portal, which is a Spaniard word, meaning “porch.” He set up the stove outside, and the view from my “kitchen window” is so far off that I think I can see the earth curve.

  Our crop is in the ground, and a lot of work it was, though Luke had planted most before he went to Fort Madison. For a time, we were in the field day and night. While Luke plowed the remaining furrows, in line with the North Star, I dropped in the seeds. Then I scurried to cook and clean, as much as one can clean an outdoor house. There, I knew I would find something in this living arrangement to like!

  We still rest on the Sabbath. Luke reads the Bible aloud, and sometimes he gets a little preachy. I do not know if that is his nature, or if he is trying to act as he believes an old married man should. Afterward, we sing fond old hymns, always ending with “Abide with Me.” It is my favorite time of the week, and Luke’s, too, I think. Last Sunday, whilst we sang, Luke took my hand, and when we finished, we sat without talking, looking out over our farm. It may not be the home I had dreamed of as my bridal bower, but the husband who goes with it is first-rate!

  I am having my monthly unwellness now, another reason I am glad for a day of leisure, as my back troubles me so at these times. As a married woman, I shall watch closely for signs that signal the onset of the menses. I don’t want a baby yet, especially out here on the prairie, with only dirty Mrs. Smith to act the midwife. We have so much work to prepare our home, and I am just getting to know Luke. But I suppose the Lord will make that decision, with a little help from Husband.

  There is a spray of dust on the horizon, like a puff of smoke. Most likely, it is Luke. I must hurry and clean up after my tea party, and put you away, my little friend, so Luke will not think I have spent the day in idleness. I hope he is hurrying because there are letters from home. We have not had a word yet.

  No letters yet received from the folks, but I knew I could count on Carrie, whose letter I paste here. She is always in my thoughts. When writing in this journal, I often pretend I am having a conversation with that dearest soul mate.

  Friend Mattie

  Yours of the trail, expressed from Frt. K’rny, at hand. When Will left for the post office yesterday, I said I would give ten dollars for a letter from you, and upon returning, he held out his hand for the coin. As I did not have one, he agreed upon ten kisses. Now I believe I know how to get rich.

  I am glad I may write frank. You are to do same, since Will don’t read my mail either, and you know I shall reveal nothing of a personal nature to another soul. My silence is forever. I can write just a line because the hired man is saddling old Nell for a trip to town, and he won’t wait but a minute for this. Men think theirs is the right to tell us what to do, even the hired hands. I want this to go today, so you know you haven’t been forgotten by your friend.

  There is exciting news to tell. I am enceinte and expect to deliver in February. Don’t write of it to nobody, because I want to be in society as long as I can. Will says he’ll hire all the women I need at harvest, for he don’t want me to have to cook for threshers. I would have a baby every year to get out of that work! I am feeling fine, except a little tired of an evening. Will treats me as good as a china plate. I know it’s bold to say, but I miss the romps that me and Will had before we knew of my condition. I hope things are better for you that way. In the beginning, when Will was in such a hurry, I found it best to put my mind to embroidery stitches, and that helped me through the act. It was then that I thought up the one we call Hen’s Foot. I advise you do same. It puts that time to beneficial use.

  All friends are fine. Your sister Jemima tells it about that you have a brick house and red barn, though I heard Persia say it is a lie. I asked of her, “How would you know?”

  “How would I know?” she repeated in that annoying habit of hers, like she can’t think fast enough to give an answer. “How would I know? Well, I know. That’s all.”

  I saw her at the milliner’s, wearing her corset laced so tight, she had to breathe like a lizard. She is keeping company with Abner, though he don’t seem so happy with her as he was with you. She trifles with him, and he will be sorely disappointed if matrimony is his goal. If he should succeed on that score, he will be sorrier yet, as she must always be top hen on the roost.

  I asked Will if the baby was a girl, could we name it for you. Says Will, “Name her anything you like, because he is sure to be a boy.”

  I know Luke was your heart’s desire, and once you had fallen in love, you couldn’t get out. But I wish you had found a boy willing to stay at home. O, friend Mattie, I miss your company!

  Now I must put down my pen. May you be well and not forget the affectionate girl you left behind in old Fort Madison is the ardent wish of

  Carrie Fritch

  August 8, 1865. Prairie Home.

  The dreary sunbonnet that I once vowed never to wear is my constant companion, keeping not only sun but hot wind and its cargo of dust off my face. The only shade we have is the portal, where I sit now, grateful to take off the hateful bonnet, which traps the heat about my face. I never saw a place so hot or so dry or so brown—or a woman the same. My hands are walnut in color, and freckled from the sun, and my face is so dried up, I must look like a snake. I don’t know for sure, however. I did not put a looking glass into our wagon, and if I had, I think I would not know the woman staring from it. Still, I am a little curious to see if she has changed with marriage. The reflection in the dishpan is not a true likeness.

  I wish I could love it here as Luke does; he believes homesteading to be a noble experiment. But each time I find something to like—the cool, dry evening air is quite refreshing—I wake up to a terrifying storm that splits the heavens asunder with jagg’d flashes of white, or to another cloudless sky, where there is not a moment’s relief from the yellow orb of day, as the poet calls it. Luke asked me once on the trail if I thought Colorado would be too near sunset. Not too near sunset, but it is too near the sun for my liking.

  My plaints are only for this little book. I strive not to let Luke know my true feelings. Last evening, he asked what I would think of moving back to Fort Madison. My heart leapt up, but I was cautious and said that, like Ruth, I would follow wherever he led. Then I added, “Of course, I should miss our honeymoon cottage on the prairie, and this life in a new land.” Luke put his arm around me, drew me close, and said he was glad he had chosen a woman with courage and good humor. I felt aptly rewarded for my little falsehood.

  The sun’s glare caused me another headache, making me feel as if a red-hot poker has been struck through my head. I am glad Luke is away today so that I can enjoy my misery in solitude. He has little sympathy for any weakness, so I must do my best to hide my pain. I enjoy these days alone when Luke goes into town, as it is a chance to spend time with my journal. I decided at the outset that this book would be mine alone, not to be shared with anyone. That means I do not record the weather and events of each day but, instead, wait until I have time to reflect upon my life. As I have not met a woman who c
ould be my dearest friend (and will never meet one as true as Carrie), this book serves as a silent companion, a witness to my joys and sorrows and confessions. It helps to confide to my journal the things I can confide to no one.

  Well, I will have to confide them another time, as I have a more important task. Luke’s birthday will be here shortly, and as there is no jewelry store where I can buy him a memento, as he did for me at St. Joe, I have put aside this day to make him a shirt out of a red-and-yellow-striped skirt that I scorched whilst cooking over a campfire. Fortunately, there is enough good material left, and as the skirt was new, the fabric will make up into a handsome garment.

  Before I close this book, I must record that Husband took me with him on his last trip to “civilization,” and I have no desire to return to the town of Mingo, Colorado Territory, thank you. Of course, I did not expect fine stores or even a Christian house of worship. Nor did I even hold out much hope of meeting a refined class of people. Still, I believed it would be a town of some slight substance with a dry goods, where I might have social intercourse with a woman of my class. But no sir!

  Mingo, which Missus described as an “awful, sinful place,” is just one shabby building, no more than a doggery inhabited by rascals. It serves as saloon and stage station, post office, lunchroom, and hospital. I saw a sign reading, “Haircuts 25 cents. Blisters removed 50 cents. Toes removed $5. Legs amputated $20.” I assume the leg was removed with the toes attached, and, therefore was a bargain. Provisions, however, are very dear, and I paid twenty-five cents for a spool of thread. Others may think me as cheap as a three-legged mule, but I save and reuse my basting thread.