* * *
There was a ladder down from the attic, but most days Big preferred to leap into the barnyard. On this day he landed in a mudhole occupied by the sow Arabella, who thrown one eye open to hidy Big and gone back to sleep. Next to greet him were the chickens, who clucked their hidys as they fled from his stomping across the yard.
From the kitchen came the next hulloa of
MIND YOUR FOOTING, BIG
Mrs Tabitha Stiles known from experience that Big were already dripping mud and soon to kick something over. Even as Big hidyed back, he tumbled over a pail. Mrs Tab’s head shot out from the half door of the kitchen and eyed my brother like he were a mess to clean – like her stare were soap.
Despite the hard looks, Mrs Tabitha had an abundance of love for us. Only that she gone about loving like wringing the head off a chicken – best do it fast and hard. Her mothering were almost ferocious. Food were an example. She would get a corncake in your mouth as soon as you come within her reach. Often you did not even mark her approach with the corncake – she struck like a panther.
As Big drew up a bucket of water from the well Mrs Tab come after him with the first cake of the day. Even as Big chewed his breakfast, he spoke, scattering crumbs to the chickens.
Today is the day, Mrs Tab
I expect it is, Big
Today is the day I find honest work
She gone after him with another cake. I believe there were times when she fed a person only to keep them from talking.
I will never be useless anymore, Mrs Tab A shower of crumbs and another Today is the day like he were convincing himself.
Judging from her aspect – if I imagine her mind – Mrs Tab were not sure God had made Big to be useful – not sure anyone in history had ever been useful enough.
But all she said to Big were While you are making yourself useful take that busted harness to Mr Philo
* * *
Big climbed on the tall bay Agnes and went toward usefulness at a walk – just as I come down the ladder looking for my own day’s work. I waved at Big’s back and greeted the other creatures – a hulloa to the pigs and chickens, a scratch between the ears for Asa the ox – and submitted to my corncakes from Mrs Tab. I did not find Mr Job in the yard or barn, so I went into the homeplace.
Can you see the Stiles homeplace?
Two rooms, one sat on top of the other – the upper for sleeping, the lower for every other chore. A front door faced the lane but were never used – everyone known to call at the kitchen door in the back, which looked out on our barn. In our younger years Big and Cloe and I had slept in the homeplace with Mr Job and Mrs Tab. But as their natural children multiplied and Big took to the occasional night-fry, we migrated to our attic for propriety and comfort. Cloe slept in the homeplace still, as the governess of the seven little Stileses.
Job Jr age fourteen – John twelve – Jonah ten – Joseph called Joe eight – Josiah six – Jomes called Jom four – and little Joy two.
I found the entire regiment gathered in the downstairs for morning lessons. As I come into the kitchen door I saw Cloe’s back, and before her the seven little ones sat on three coffins laid out as pews.
We favored coffins for sitting on account of Mr Job’s work.
You will say it is morbid to have coffins for furniture.
It is only good sense.
The first hour of the day was set aside for a shouting-school. Their little hands would be set to chores but not before moral and mental improvement. Cloe were leading the seven through their alphabets by a memory game – they were to remember a Bible person for every letter.
J? said Cloe.
Six Jesuses and a babble from little Joy.
And what did Jesus do?
He made miracles, said Joe on behalf of the assembly.
K?
Seven silences.
Never mind K L?
La-za-russ, said the older young ones. Lab-ar-aaa, said the younger young ones, and a breath later Joy added zarss
And how did Lazarus do?
The sound of small brains churning. He died but Jesus woke up him said Job Jr. He got doctored added Josiah, thoughtful.
Good Now the letter M?
Meed! I yelled from the behind them.
You are not a Bible mister shrieked Jom.
Don’t stand there and watch Meed it makes me itch
Itch or no, Cloe went along with my fooling. And how does Mr Meed do?
* * *
Myself I mostly helped Mr Job with the coffins. You can live without a coffin but you cannot die without one – make it a coffin from Stiles and go in style.
I apologize for the Yankee peddler talk – it is a habit of enterprise.
Coffins is what kept the family fed and watered. In a shop at the back corner of the barn, Mr Job and I knocked together burying boxes and other small furnitures. You might startle to hear of a coffin called furniture but give it thought. A good coffin will do as a bench – a chest of linens – a sideboard if you stack two – a wardrobe if you turn it on end – it has even got rope handles for easy transport. The idea is keen thrift – you are expecting to be buried by 1850, or 1860 if you are careful of your health. Consider what a good coffin will cost in twenty years’ time. You can cinch yours at the 1837 price or swap us a shoat. You get a chiffoneer into the bargain. I never like to see a neighbor buried but better for them to ride in Stiles. We bring the box to you – fill it however you like.
As the school lesson moved from Meed to Nebuchadnezzar, Mr Job stuck his long goose’s neck into the kitchen door.
Hitch up Asa We have got deliveries
* * *
You ought to meet the monarchs of the manger.
Big loved Cloe most but he loved Agnes first. She were a tall bay mare, good hearted and headstrong. She were also a fiend for grooming. You never saw such vanity in a creature. Agnes would grab a brush in her nimble teeth and drop it at your feet. If you did not take the suggestion, she might bite after your ears until you heard her. Once, I swear, Agnes brought me silk ribbons in her teeth – she meant for me to tie them into her mane.
Another vanity – Agnes would not work beside another horse or mule. She did not care for the company of other creatures at all, apart from Asa.
Agnes were hardly the only one partial to Asa the ox. He were the most congenial citizen of Ohio, known and loved by folks in every corner of the city. I do not think it strange to say that Asa were my good friend. He had the heart of a four-legged dog, would follow you on chores and supply good company. Even the swing of his hindquarters had cheer in it.
* * *
Those hindquarters was particularly galvanized that morning, and we near to flew along even with a dozen coffins piled on the wagon. The bustle of Ohio city at day’s beginning. Hammers and hoes falling like birdsong – progress gnawing the very air. We swapped hulloas with neighbors as we gone, and a few loose dogs and day pigs chased along to greet Asa. We rolled past churches and jail and the steam-powered chair factory, which Mr Job held in disdain – coffins were good enough for sitting, and hands enough for working. Past the office block and the ARGUS news paper and rope walk and a dozen stores spilling their wares out onto the street like cracked eggs.
There is no quiet season for coffin work. Folks generally die when it suits them. You could make a burying box with confidence that it would find filling before long, and merchants on both sides of the river had standing orders for Stiles readymades on account of the fever season coming. With a Stiles readymade, all you want is nails mallet and shovel. I suppose you also want a deceased person and a preacher as well.