From the Improvement Era, April 1941 –

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By Christie Lund Coles

Papa was home! As I stood in the stuffy parlor that had hardly been opened since he left, with its red plush sofa, newly dusted organ, and high book-cases, my very blood seemed waiting and my heart hit like unkind knuckles against my scrawny ribs.

Seeing him again, the last two years seemed like a dream. It seemed only yesterday that he had stood here to say goodbye. The air had had the same weighted stillness, a sort of breathlessness such as a room has when the dead are lying there — a stillness punctuated only by the late-summer drone of bees and the quick chirp of birds.

I had felt myself older and more controlled than either he or my mother as they said goodbye. He had asked us not to cry; yet his own mouth had quivered behind his soft, black beard, and Mother had wept openly on his shoulder. The other children had whined like small puppies — with no idea of why they were whining. I, alone, had not wept.

Papa had taken me into the small green summer-house off the kitchen earlier in the day and explained to me that every Mormon man hoped to fill a mission for his Church, hoped to go out into the world and make converts no matter what personal sacrifices he was called to make. He was to go without “purse or scrip” and the Lord would provide, would open the way for him and for those at home. He concluded by telling me that since I was the oldest child at home my responsibility would be great. I must help Mama care for the smaller children, must take a man’s place in caring for the three cows, the chickens, the garden, and the chores. He said, patting my head from his impressive height, “You be a good boy, Neils, and I will give you half a dollar when I come home.”

The most I had ever had at one time was a nickel. Fifty cents was all the money in the world. No wonder I could not weep.

Yes, the full significance of the parting had escaped me. After all, I was only eleven. I did not know that Mama was expecting her seventh child; I did not know how far Denmark was from this small Utah town, nor how long two years could be; I did not know how hard money had been to get even when he was home working. I only knew that it was an honor and a privilege for him to go . . . and that I was to be the man now.

The autumn after he left was golden and sweet. The air was spicy. There were apples from the trees beside the shed, potatoes in the pit, home-cured pork in the cellar.

It was fun to bring the cows from the pasture through the long lane of poplars that were shedding their gold on all sides of me, to feel the cool sand between my bare toes, to go home and see the lamp lighted in the kitchen, the long oil-cloth-covered table set, the children laughing and scampering about the huge cook-stove.

Responsibility rested lightly on me at first, but when winter came and John was born and I had the care of the others and most of the cooking — although Eliza who was nine could help quite a little — I began to know what it meant. I understood more, when the boys would come after me to go on potato fries or bob-sleigh parties — and I couldn’t go.

The second year was the hardest. Most of our food was gone. There was no money to buy more. We had only what we could raise in the garden. Often, that second summer, when I was out in the pasture with the cows, I would eat the tall, green alfalfa to fill up the emptiness in me. I would lie down in it, loathe to go home to the meager meal, to the question in the eyes of Jimmie and ‘Manda and Emeline, who couldn’t quite understand. You couldn’t explain missions and tithing to them.

The eggs and milk had to be sold and the money sent to Papa or paid in tithing. For, as Mama said, we had a roof over our heads and some- thing to eat, but Papa had nothing which he did not have to buy; and none of us would have anything — not even life — were it not for the goodness of the Lord.

Still, many a night as I lay on the straw tick which was my bed, I wondered about things. I wondered what Papa was doing. He was so handsome and so smart. Maybe he had met a king or a queen. Maybe he was eating in a palace. Then, I visioned all the good things we had had to eat before; big platters of steaming poise, home-cured ham, thick slices of head-cheese, milk, warm as it came from the cows or cool and covered with cream after it had stood in the vine-covered window of the rock pantry. There was no milk now.

But all in all, I didn’t really mind so much. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t known Papa was coming home and was going to reward me for the long hours I had weeded in the sun, gathered eggs, and pastured the cows, milked, cleaned the barn, helped in the house, yes, and even gone out and helped a neighbor thin beets or pick fruit to earn a little to give Mama.

Now, Papa was home! Everything was all right. I could cry now with the others, cry with relief and joy. I was filled with a sense of pride for this thing well done.

I looked at him as he stood with his arm around Mama, the baby on his other arm, and I noticed that the collar of his broadcloth, long-tail coat was frayed, that his shirt was patched, and his trousers shiny and worn. He was thinner than he had ever been, and there were points of gray in his black hair. I knew, suddenly, that in spite of his cheerful letters home, always full of hope and encouragement and “the goodness of the Lord,” he had sacrificed, gone without meals even as I had done. I felt very close to him; and very, very proud of him.

I could hardly wait until we could go outside together and I could show him the garden and the barns and the animals. I could picture him saying, “That’s fine, son; you have more than earned your fifty cents.” And I could see him handing me the silver piece — large, shining —

I could see myself going to the store, picking out the penny candies I would share with the other children — licorice, gum drops, jaw-breakers; buying Mama a handkerchief to pin on her dress on Sundays; something for Papa, for the baby.

I could hardly wait, but Mama and he seemed to have so many things to say to each other — Jennie’s sick spell, what the Doctor said about her heart; Jimmie’s running away several weeks before; the trip; dozens of things that they could just as well say some other time.

Finally, Mama went to start dinner, and I had a moment alone with him. I knew I must come to the point quickly before one of the other children came tugging at his leg, shouting at him.

“Papa,” I began and he turned to me, though his eyes had a sad, faroff look in them, “Papa, I’ve kept the garden and tended — to things — I’ve — ”

“I know, son,” he said gravely, “Mama has written what a help you have been.” Then, he put his arm about my shoulders — just as I had imagined he would — and I could scarcely stand still for the trembling that shook me. He said solemnly, “Yes, you have helped fill a mission.”

I waited breathlessly for him to say more, but he just stood quietly, his hand pressing hard on my shoulder. I knew he had forgotten. A lump rose in my throat despite my pity and my understanding.

He made no sign of going with me, so I walked out alone, to the garden. I stood very straight because I was telling myself that I was too big to cry. For several moments I could not see anything. When things went into position before my eyes I saw the garden, green and fresh from watering; I saw furrows straight and clean of weeds.

I did not understand the emotion I felt, but later I knew I was happier than I had ever been . . . in a funny, aching sort of way.