From the Improvement Era , December 1965 –

New Star in the Sky

By Berta Huish Christensen

When the storm settled, the weather became cold, the wind saber-sharp. On such a day in mid-December, Benny Gilmer knocked on the Jensens’ front door. He had a stray kitten tucked halfway into the front of his jacket.

“No, it doesn’t belong to us,” Emmie Jensen said, ushering the shivering boy through the hallway into the warm kitchen. Her eyes wandered form is worn cap to his very worn jacket. The overshoes were sizes too large.

“Ma said it was sure to be yours. Since you don’t have any kids, she said you’d sure have a cat.”

Emmie resented the implication. “Well, your ma’s wrong. We don’t have a cat, only a dog.”

“That’s what we’ve got, a dog. Ma says we can’t have both. We can’t keep the cat, not even if I don’t find where it belongs. She says we can’t feed both of them.”

“A little kitten doesn’t eat very much,” Emmie said.

Benny stroked the scrawny body of fur. “That’s what I said, but Ma said that don’t matter. We can’t have any extras until Pa gets the three hundred dollars he borrowed to get us up from Texas all paid back. Texas is where we used to live.”

“Well, put the cat down,” Emmie said, “I guess we can keep it for a wile, anyway.”

Benny Gilmer was nine; and while the kitten lustily lapped milk from a plastic bowl, he told Emmie why they had moved from Texas, how his father was working as a farmhand for Lem Williams, and that there were eight children. At the conclusion of his spontaneous recital, Emmie had been introduced to the entire family by name and age, knew their likes and dislikes and the family problems in general.

When Benny had finished, Emmie said, “Here, take this doughnut. I made a batch this morning. And here’s your cap, Benny. Two miles is a long way for a little fellow to walk in this kind of weather. Mind you, fasten up that jacket; I’ll drive you home in the Chevy.”

That night when Martin Jensen had barely finished reading the county newspaper, the kitten came meowing into the living room. Martin jumped at the sound, and Emmie related the story of Benny and the family from Texas, with all of the details involved.

“The little fellow said his ma was sure the cat belonged to us, since we didn’t have any kids.” She hadn’t really intended to tell him that. Somehow it just slipped out.

Martin bristled. “Is that our fault? Didn’t we want children?”

No one knew better than Emmie how much Martin had wanted to have a son, how much she had yearned for motherhood, and how she had dreamed, hoping against hope, until she knew that it would never happen. She recalled that once they had taken a foster child for a few months, but when the father had remarried he had taken the boy away. She remembered that after the struggling years were past, they had considered adopting a boy, but the agency had insisted that they were too old to meet adoption rules.

Emmie poked the logs in the grate and returned to her knitting.

“Another sweater?” Martin asked, making conversation.

“Yes, Martin, another sweater, but not for you this time. I’ve made a lot of them for you, and socks too. But this one is for Benny, the little fellow who came with the cat. I eyed him up and down while he was here and figured the size of him. He could use a sweater. I guess all their kids could, for that matter. In fact, Martin –”

How should she begin? You’d think, after living with a man so many years, a woman would know how to begin, how to move his mind in any direction, how to understand all his moods, and how to change them. Maybe she did understand the moods, but just how to change them was another thing.

“Martin,” she said, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this afternoon, other afternoons too, for that matter. There’s some things we need, you and me.”

Martin shifted in his chair. “Need?” He lifted his eyebrows. “What do we need now? Didn’t we just get a new window in the kitchen right over the sink so you could see out more?”

“Yes, we did,” she answered without looking up form her needles. Maybe this wasn’t the right night to bring up the subject. But Martin went on.

“Then you wanted a television set, so you could see more things, more people, more of the world. We got it, didn’t we? What more do you want?”

Emmie looked around the room. It was a clean, tidy room, though the furniture was old and the frayed carpet had been mended in many places. She wasn’t seeing the mends. There were other things she wanted more right now than a carpet.

“Just what more do you want, Emmie?” Martin repeated his question.

“You wouldn’t understand, Martin. Not even if I said the words. So –”

“I might. Still, I might not. There’s no making a woman out. Never quite satisfied. A prosperous farm and all that goes with it. that’s what we’ve got and now –”

“You mean the money?” Emmie asked.

“Yes, the money. We’ve got a lot of it now. Little did I think I’d ever have this much salted down in the bank, and in land – good, solid potato land. No one can take ground away from you.”

“But we’ll be leaving it someday, all of it.”

“Oh, I know what you’re driving at now. Want me to start giving it away. This charity, that charity. Not by a darn sight, Emma Jensen, I’ve worked too hard to get it to start throwing it around. And you’ve worked hard too.”

Emmie lowered her eyes to her own brown calloused hands. How truly he spoke only she and Martin and the farm neighbors knew. They had seen her working by his side in the fields, especially in the earlier years, milking the cows, feeding the pigs, sorting the potatoes. There wasn’t much about the farm she hadn’t done some of – even to running the tractor when hired help was hard to come by. She didn’t like to remember it all. It wasn’t the kind of life she had envisioned during that special springtime so many years ago.

Emmie was teaching school in a small town when Martin asked her to marry him, and she had saved enough money for a trousseau. Every girl had a trousseau, she reminded herself with each purchase of ribbon and lace. She recalled the items now, scented away in tender memory: breakfast cloths with crocheted edges; pillow slips embroidered during long winter evenings; and – she caught her breath audibly – nightgowns, long and pink and made of the newest rayon fabric, soft and silky. Since then, nightgowns had all been of cotton or flannel, for the more northern winters were long and severe and rayon more expensive.

It wasn’t like Martin to keep an unpleasant conversation going. When he had finished what he had to say, usually he would become silent or walk into another room, which meant that the discussion, as far as he was concerned, was finished. tonight he did neither.

“Emmie,” he said, looking straight at her, “didn’t we get them both, the window and the television?”

“Yes, Martin, we did, and I’ve been happy about them both. We don’t seem so far away from the world now.” She waited a moment. “But the television – that’s made me think a lot lately, about a lot of things I already knew but didn’t want to believe. There’s problems, Martin, all over. People in need and in trouble. Somehow we don’t seem to be doing anything about it. of course, maybe we couldn’t do much, but still …”

“Yes, that’s what I say. What could we do about it? ‘Course there’s trouble, everybody knows that, but what could we do about it?” His face grew eager. “By the way, Lem Williams was over here today, and he said he’d never seen the likes of our potatoes. A bumper crop, and you know the price. Listen to this, Emmie, twenty-two thousand bags of seed potatoes – that’s what we got this year.”

Emmie repeated in her mind the price and the number of bags. Maybe now was as good as anytime to go on. She really hadn’t told Martin what it was she wanted. Cautiously, she reopened the subject.

“Maybe there isn’t a lot we could do, you and me. But maybe there’s some things we could. Like for instance …” She waited. Martin didn’t say a word. he just looked apprehensive. Emmie ignored it. “We could help the Gilmers. We could buy some of the things they need. Or …” Should she say it? She did. She said, “Maybe we could take care of that debt Benny told about – the money it took to bring them up from Texas.”

“Three hundred dollars! Is that what you’re talking about? Is it, Emmie? Is it?” His voice was a heifer, bellowing with fright. His voice was thunder before summer rain. His eyes widened. “Is … that … what … you … mean?”

Emmie didn’t know she could be so disciplined. “That’s what I mean,” she said deliberately. “I know it’s a lot, and I know it sounds like book stories, like the things they do on television – giving things away, especially at Christmas time. But, it’s not a new idea. Martin. It’s been happening ever since, well, since Scrooge and Tiny Tim and long, long before.”

Her voice was getting higher now. “But it’s never happened to us, Martin, never. It’s got to. We are fifty-seven, and life’s slipping away. The wrong way.

“Now Emma Jensen, don’t you get –” Right here Martin stopped. But Emmie knew the word that should follow. She had heard it before. She knew he wanted to say, “Don’t you get dramatic; it will get you nowhere.” She knew Martin. He was usually deliberate and disciplined, and he didn’t like women to get all worked up and teary about things.

“All right then,” Martin said, “let Lem Williams help the Gilmers out.”

“Maybe Lem Williams won’t. Maybe he’s like us. Maybe he’s just too –” Now it was she who couldn’t say the word that should be said. She didn’t want to say words that would hurt. She wanted to understand, and she felt that she did. “He’s saved for so long,” she said to herself, “he doesn’t know how to spend money, except for tractors and plows or a new potato cellar.” She looked at his face, it was a tired face. Deep lines furrowed the wind-weathered cheeks, and his thinning hair was gray. She tried to soften her voice.

“Maybe Lem Williams will help them out some,” she said, “but eight children is a lot to feed, to clothe, and to send to school. We don’t know, ‘cause we’ve never had any.”

Martin didn’t bluster. He didn’t say, “Now you’re getting dramatic.” He didn’t say anything.

Emmie settled down in her chair, thinking way back. She thought about the early years when the mortgage was a formidable weight. She had hoped that, once the farm was paid for, Martin would relax a little, would become more sociable and active in affairs of the nearby community. She also knew that where a man’s treasure is, there will his heart be also, and the growing bank account from a decade of large-farm prosperity had given him a considerable bank treasure. She feared that his heart was there and not elsewhere. That’s what she had been thinking, though she hadn’t said so.

“Three hundred dollars!” Martin roared again, “for someone you don’t even know, not even a relative. Three hundred dollars and you don’t even know that –” Again he stopped still, dead still, right in the middle of the sentence. But this time he walked out of the room, and Emmie knew that, for the present at least, the controversy was a closed issue.

The snows came late that season. The farmers were apprehensive. After the winter wheat was planted, they looked yearningly at the skies, for rain, for snow. The day after Thanksgiving, snow began to fall. It fell steadily through long night hours and the shorter days, until the whole wide valley was an endless field of white. it was deep. It was heavy. It was beautiful. It was as if a benevolent sky meant to conceal with a gentle covering of unsullied white all of earth that was ugly or worn or unfinished.

Such depth of snow would have meant months of isolation for the scattered farm families, but for the tunneled highway made by the giant snow plows that kept it open.

Emmie was grateful for the plows. She had known isolation, had known loneliness, but as long as the highway was open, she could drive the four miles to town. Town meant a few stores and people to talk to, things to talk about besides the price of seed potatoes.

Today especially, she was glad for the open highway, for she had made plans and was not to be dissuaded by whim, reason, or previous performance. It was now a week before Christmas, and she was going to do some Christmas shopping – not for groceries only; there were more exciting items on her list.

Emmie entered Wilson’s General Merchandise store wearing the same brown coat she had worn for several winters, but the tenor of her mind was new and resolute. She had made her plans. She would buy what she had never bought before, and she would do it now, if she never did it again. She would purchase things and never ask the price.

The saleslady, recalling her previous purchases, looked surprised. Emmie observed her amazement, but ignored it, continuing her purchases of levis, six pair; flannel shirts, six; stockings, woolly, dark, and warm, eight pair. When the saleslady asked for the sizes, Emmie hesitated. “Just mix them up, ages three to twelve. But mind you, eight pair,” she said proudly.

There were other items that caught her eye. Almost tenderly her rough hands caressed the small-girl dresses. “I’ll take these two,” she said; “they’re so pretty. If they’re too long, she can hem them up.”

It had taken long and much thinking to bring Emmie to this state of action, for the habit of practicing strict economy through many, many years had etched a deep pattern.

The important shopping done, Emmie centered her thinking upon Christmas Day. The morning, she knew, would follow the pattern of other Christmas mornings. Martin would do the farm chores, assisted by a man hired during the winter months. For breakfast there would be bacon and eggs, hashed brown potatoes, muffins and raspberry jam There would be no Christmas tree, a useless luxury. Long ago they had decided this, since there were no children to trim it. There would be two presents – a piece of fancy costume jewelry for her, though seldom worn, and some knitted socks for martin.

But Christmas afternoon Emmie sighed under her breath, that would be different. There would be no knitting, no reading, no television, but a visit to the Gilmers. She had baked a pan of cookies and an applesauce cake, and of course there were the articles of clothing, purchased and so lovingly wrapped. There was the sweater for Benny. Emmie could scarcely wait. Reluctantly, Martin had promised that he would go with her as soon as lunch was over.

The Gilmer farmhouse was a volley of Christmas noise. Even before Martin and Emmie opened the wire gate, they paused a moment, trying to make out the words that were fused with laughter and occasional shouts.

Once inside the house, the noise assumed more meaning. There were children everywhere – older boy son the floor, fitting puzzle pieces together; smaller boys tooting tin horns; little girls, sitting under the Christmas tree, trying on beads, and laughing heartily. Benny was eating an apple and reading aloud from a book.

Mr. and Mrs. Gilmer, lean and friendly, seemed somewhat confused as they removed toys from chairs and tried to quiet the noise. But once they introduced themselves and all of the family, everyone felt completely at ease.

Emmie glanced around the room. There was a minimum of furniture, but with so many children, there seemed to be little need or room for furniture. She and Martin sat comfortably on an old but reasonably firm divan. There was a Christmas tree, small but gaily trimmed with loops of popcorn and paper chains, with cut-out stars and bells. Martin said it took him way back to his own young days.

Before anyone was aware of it, the afternoon was gone. Emmie passed the cookies to the children, then removing the neatly folded dish towel, handed the applesauce cake to Mrs. Gilmer. Very deliberately she took the wrapped parcels from the basket. Nothing would do but that they be opened at once. Emmie was happy about that. She wanted to see the children’s faces, and she wanted to see the presents again herself.

While Emmie was helping the girls try on the dresses, Martin and Jim Gilmer sat chatting informally on the long divan. They talked of Texas, of cotton versus potatoes, of climate, of the county schools and many things, inaudible above the noise and laughter of the children.

There were “thank you’s” from everyone; but Benny, who refused to take his sweater off, came close to Emmie and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Jensen, for this,” patting the sweater front, “but ‘specially for keeping the cat.” And the visit was over.

The Christmas Day visit was over, and yet it was not over. Even after the supper dishes were cleared away and Martin had built a fire in the living room, a strange feeling of fulfillment remained – a feeling Emmie had not experienced in years. It was not like the satisfaction of seeing a chicken brood, newly hatched, or of new lambs added to their flock, or of summer fruit bottled and neatly shelved, or of petunias blooming bravely beyond the first frost. These contentments were small and transient. it was not even like that bigger satisfaction of having the farm mortgage paid off. This was different. “It was a success,” she kept saying to herself, “even without the money.”

She wondered if Martin felt as she did. “It’s been a nice day, martin, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, frankly it has,” he said. “A right good day. Turned out better than I expected it would. By the way, those Gilmer kids are cute kids. bright, honest-looking kids, especially that twelve-year-old. I was just thinking, maybe we could find something around our place for him to do next summer.”

Emmie didn’t answer. She wanted Martin to empty his mind, as much of it as he wanted to.

“They’re a pretty nice family. They’d be nice to have in the valley. If things work out right for them, they might be able, someday, to get a piece of land for themselves up here – not go back to Texas.” Then he added, “They seemed mighty pleased about the presents.”

“They were, Martin; they really were. Surprised, pleased, and grateful. But I keep asking myself, who was most pleased, them or use?”

“I guess it’s hard to tell.” Then he asked, “Is it too late to teach an old dog new tricks?”

“Not if it’s a farm dog,” Emmie came back quickly; “they’re smart.”

“Well, Emmie,” Martin coughed a little, “I’ve been doing some hard thinking myself, lately. It’s not been easy for you all these years– being married to me. Not like you hoped it would be. Just working and saving. Working and scrimping and saving, year after year. Not enough love coming in and going out.”

Emmie liked the way he put it.

“Jim Gilmer seemed pleased about the money, too, though he didn’t want to take it.”

“The money! The money, Martin?”

Martin gave no answer. he turned a page of the magazine lying open upon his knee.

Could that be what the two men were talking about as they sat upon the divan, conversing so quietly? Emmie recalled seeing Jim Gilmer wipe his eyes with the back of his hand, and Martin’s face near and smiling. he wouldn’t want the children to see their father accept the check – there’s a man’s pride to consider. It would be like Martin to think of that.

“Martin Jensen, did you really give that money?” She needed no answer now, for Martin looked up from the page and their eyes met. “Oh, Martin, you really did!”

Emmie could stand no more. Tears were gathering – she didn’t want to dry. She tried to laugh lightly, but her voice was broken. She just walked out of the room.

“Cry if you want to, Emmie,” Martin called, following her into the unlighted kitchen.

She was standing by the sink, with the new window above it. As Martin entered the room, she dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief from her apron pocket. Neither spoke. They just stood, silently looking out at a window-square of sky.

“What are you seeing, Emmie?” Martin’s voice was low, and it was mellow.

“Thinking,” Emmie said, “thinking that this special, different day was sort of like the first Christmas Day. ‘Course there was no manger. No heavenly choir. No shepherds. No hills of Bethlehem –”

Martin broke in, “Only miles of potato land.”

“But there was love, a lot of it, and gifts, too. The best ones we cold think of. I’m thinking, and I’m seeing –”

Martin’s arms were around her shoulders. He held her close. “What is it you’re seeing, Emmie?” he asked when she didn’t finish.

“Something wonderful, just wonderful, Martin. I see a new star, in the sky – our sky!”