Where Lilacs Still Bloom Read Online Free PDF Page B

lard on the worst parts, her fingers cool against my hot face. “There’s a recipe in my ladies’ magazine for a face cream. Let’s try it.”
    “They’ll know I’ve been out in my garden, is all. And lard is just fine for the burn.”
    “But what woman forgets her hat, Mama? For so long?”
    “Yes, yes, I know. I’ll remember tomorrow.”
    But I didn’t, and I caught the looks of my church friends at the Bible study on Wednesday evenings when Woodland’sfaithful of many denominations gathered. With raised eyebrows, they’d ask what I was working on now.
    “Lilacs,” I said. And yes, I noticed a frown or two that I didn’t think was just about my tanned face. I was doing something simple housewives didn’t do and, even more salacious, taking pleasure in it.

S EVEN

L OST IN S EEKING
Hulda, 1902
    M y girls grew up, despite my wish to keep them at my side. So, when they were all three together, it was a festive time, even though we had work to do. I hated ironing and was glad when my girls reached an age where I could convince them that ironing shirts and sheets would develop their characters. At least that’s what my mother always told me while she heated the flatiron for me. On a spring afternoon, I heated the irons for Lizzie and Delia and Martha as they worked their way through the baskets, while I perused seed catalogs for ornamentals. I already had my kitchen garden planned. My girls had apparently been planning events as well.
    “We’d like to have a double wedding, the way you and Aunt Amelia did,” Delia said.
    “You would? Have you chosen your intended, or are you still piddling around with your travels?”
    “I’m not piddling.” Lizzie held the iron midair. “I climbed Mount St. Helens because I like the challenge.”
    “I can understand that. But challenging your brain is a better use of your time.”
    “She’s had college, Mama,” Martha said. “She needs a body challenge more than a mind one.” Martha was the only one of our children who didn’t have pearl-pale skin. Hers had that wholesome look of warm sun, but of course that wasn’t the fashion then. I think it made her self-conscious, adding to her quiet ways.
    “I guess you’re right. Mountain climbing is a challenge that never appealed to me.”
    “It would build your character, Mama,” Delia said. She left her ironing board to pour kerosene into the one modern iron we had. She took her time.
    “I have other things to do,” I quipped. “Like surviving three chattering girls avoiding ironing.”
    “We’re doing it.” Lizzie’s clear voice rose above the groans of her sisters. “I’d rather entertain you on the piano.” Lizzie had a lot of interests, including music. I was proud that Frank and I could afford to send her off to Portland for schooling and music lessons and a piano. I’d graduated eighth grade at Lee Lewis School and wished I could have gone on further. But I met Frank, married him at sixteen, had Lizzie at seventeen, and that was that.
    “Ha,” Delia said, coming back to task. “I should be baking.”
    “Your father likes his collarless shirts pressed well. See how important you are.”
    “You’ve been waiting years to have us do this,” Lizzie said. She had the same oval face of her sisters and cocoa brown hair like them too.
    “If you’re going to have children, make them be girls. A mother can always use the help.”
    I thought back to when I had only daughters. With Martha’s arrival two years after Delia, I had three young girls underfoot. I set aside a plot where the two older ones could make their mud pies while Martha slept in her basket beneath the cedar tree. I kept the sun from her face, but she still looked suntanned even in winter. She took after Frank. They all had big brown eyes, though, taking after mine, I guess. Inside the house, the room heated up with the irons and the hot cotton. As much as I disliked housework, this afternoon of ironing and conversation was turning