Sons and Daughters
Chapter 1
“Well, ma’am,” he said as he started to flush red, “I’m here about a loan that your husband made. You see, he borrowed from the bank for some land and cattle. The loan hasn’t been paid in two months, and I’ve come to make arrangements for the back payments as well as the current payment. Perhaps I can return when your son is available to discuss this with me?”
“You can talk to me about this. How much is the total loan and how much are the monthly payments?”
“Do you mind if we go inside and sit down? I can try to explain all of this to you.”
Karoline invited the banker into her kitchen, the place where she felt the most confident. She had never talked money with any man, especially one she didn’t know. She felt like she was on shifting ground, and she didn’t have sure footing with this topic of bank loans.
Taking out his papers, Horace Twigg started to explain the history of the farm loans.
“Well, Mr. Olsen borrowed at first for ten acres and then leveraged that to borrow for another ten. Overall, he owes on the total twenty acres. He bought the land for $24.00 per acre. That brings the loan to $480.00 without interest. With interest we’re looking at near to $500 plus a few more dollars.”
Moonshine by Moonlight
Chapter 9
Two years before Earl “Skeet” Miller was made kingpin of a bootlegging operation, another man, Alphonse “Scarface” Capone, was also made kingpin. One man in Iowa, and the other in Illinois. One German; the other, Italian. Both were from modest backgrounds. Both would make a pile of money.
Skeet, like his counterpart, was not generally a man who liked to have another man’s thumb on top of him. His adult life had been his own: he decided when he worked, for how long, and what tasks he accomplished. However, two events had shaken him enough to consider a new life view: the death of Jack Weber and the arrest of John Krupp. These were serious happenings with serious consequences. The federal law was now training its eye on Carroll County and was determined to bring it down. A raid only a few months past had convinced Skeet that business as usual was no longer effective. Each man making his product and minding his own business left them all vulnerable.
The raid had happened in the dead of night, the clouds covering the moon. Regulators converged on a farm with headlights from their many cars shining in different locations. Men poured from vehicles, rifles and pistols pointed in the air. The leader pounded on the farmer’s door, dragging him and his family from their beds. The small household could only watch as they tore apart the outbuildings, pulling boards from walls, digging trenches in the floors of the barn and hog shed. Even though the farmer insisted he was not distilling, the Feds continued to rip through his property with little care for the destruction they caused. When they found no trace of illegal activities, they left without so much as a simple “sorry,” the wreckage left behind for the farmer to repair.
The farm they should have raided was only a mile away, owned by the Schmidt family. Both husband and wife distilled and sold their product one jar at a time, bringing in only enough money to make their farm payments. The near-hit of the Feds frightened them so much they dug a large hole and buried their still behind their barn, closing shop for good.
Skeet believed distillers banding together would be safer for everyone. As the boss, he would buy and deliver the supplies for all the cookers, thereby eliminating multiple men going into businesses and buying whiskey materials. If the Feds were watching, instead of gathering multiple names, they would have only one. The farmers who were only providing the cook sites would be partnered with the setters; they would not start up their own stills (they often had no idea what they were doing), putting themselves in a dangerous position. Giving all men involved in the business a lawyer in the event they were caught ensured they had the best representation. Skeet could see no drawback in his new boss’s plan.
His first task involved finding setters and locations. Skeet knew everyone in the business. He spent a few weeks traveling throughout the county, selling the benefits of joining the organization. Some of the farmers who were distilling for themselves joined the business, but many of them wanted to remain independent and felt confident because of past successes. Men who didn’t have a farm and were cooking in their own homes or out in the woods wanted a more secure location and joined immediately.
Wayward Son
Chapter 1
Elsa lost track of time and didn’t realize how late it had become. At precisely 6:00 each evening, Floyd walked through their front door, finished with his day at the bank. Elsa looked at the clock on the mantle; it read 6:20. “Where on earth could he be?” she asked herself. If he were going to be late, which used to be rare occasion but now happened more frequently, he always called. Had she missed his phone call? Their daughter Maria, now four, always took a bath before her father came home from work. While she was bathing her daughter, perhaps she had missed his call?
Perhaps she had forgotten a meeting with the Elks? He often spent time at the lodge, but he was always sure to tell her. And, it wasn’t a lodge night.
Elsa allowed their child to play in the parlor while she made supper. Elsa was a horrible cook, but she did her best. Tonight, she had put a roast in the oven and was attempting to make gravy with its drippings. It was lumpy and flavorless, but she tried.
After she finished her kitchen duties, she dashed up to their shared bedroom and slipped on a clean dress. She brushed her long, blond hair and plaited it down her back. Elsa peered into the glass, her blue eyes looking back at her. She pinched her cheeks to bring about some color. It was almost as if she were preparing for her beau to pick her up for a dance.
However, she and Floyd were no longer dating. They had been married since 1923.
She and Floyd’s marriage had not started well. Neither one of them was ready for marriage at age sixteen, but the unexpected pregnancy had moved their courting to the wedding altar. Elsa did not know how to clean or cook when she and Floyd settled in together. Her parents had spoiled her and assumed they would match her with the wealthy Swedish dairy farmer from Sac City. Instead, she married a boy without means. The couple had fought often before they moved from Soldier to Denison. He expected her to cook, clean, and have his meal on the table when he walked in the house. He assumed she would help his mother in the garden and learn how to grow their own food. Instead, she had preferred to nap and read a book.
Once the baby arrived, things changed drastically. Her mother had come from Kiron to stay with them for several weeks, but even she thought Elsa needed to grow up and become a good mother and wife. The only way to make that happen was to leave her on her own, forcing the young woman to survive.
Floyd worked on his brother’s farm for the first year of their marriage. He hated farm work—the grime and stink and early hours—and she could tell he blamed her for his circumstances. He had never planned to settle down; he preferred adventure and fun. However, blaming her wasn’t fair. It wasn’t all her fault she got pregnant in the backseat of his automobile.
Floyd became much happier once they had moved to Denison. They rented the top floor of a house on Second Avenue North, and his brother Alex had helped Floyd get a job as a bank teller. He enjoyed meeting new people and working indoors. The bank customers seemed to like him a great deal and told his manager their feelings. After a year, Floyd had been promoted to a junior accountant. His ability to work with numbers had impressed the bank president.
The couple settled into this new life, and within two years of moving to Denison, Elsa found herself pregnant once again. She was joyous over the news, but when she told Floyd of the impending birth, she could tell he was unhappy. She assumed it was because of the added cost. They were just getting on their feet after getting their own house. This new child would make the tight budget tighter.
Elsa had miscarried the child. She wept for days, but Floyd seemed relieved. After that, their intimate relations all but dried up. She knew Floyd wanted to avoid getting in any deeper with his responsibilities. She, however, wanted more than one child. Their split on this topic had brought about fierce and frequent arguments.
In the interim, Elsa enjoyed mothering Maria. She played with her daughter when she was supposed to be cooking or cleaning or washing their weekly laundry. Their house was often untidy, but Elsa didn’t mind. Once, instead of baking the week’s supply of bread, Elsa had chosen to make cookies to please Maria. When Floyd ran out of sandwich bread in the middle of the week, he raged at Elsa for being such an irresponsible wife. After that, she tried to be as good a partner as she was a mother. She wanted to please her husband, and when she didn’t, he let her know about it. She discovered that thinking of him first was the best way to get along.
After Maria was born, Floyd seemed terrified of her. When his child was put in his arms for the first time, he held her away from his body like she was some foreign thing. After that, he refused to pick her up, instead preferring just to look at her in her basinet. He wouldn’t change a clout or feed her.
A year after Maria’s birth, Floyd became a decent father. He paid the requisite amount of attention to his child when he came home from work. While Elsa was finishing their dinner, Floyd entertained her by playing simple games with Maria. When their daughter became older, he taught her how to build a fort from their blankets.
Each evening, after the meal preparation was complete, Maria was promptly put to bed, so they could enjoy their food in peace. In the morning, while she was eating her breakfast, Floyd always planted a quick kiss on the top of her head before he walked out the door. Other than those activities, Floyd was not interested in the day-to-day progression of her growth. He did not care how many new words she spoke or how many steps she took. He did not care to discuss his child with his wife when they were in bed together. He did not dream about his daughter’s future.
Land of Heart's Desire
Chapter 1
Tom Hennigan writhed in his bed, his bowels twisted with illness. He had expelled most of his bodily fluids, which had turned to a watery oatmeal-like substance, and now there was nothing. Yet his innards continued to convulse. Muscle cramps from dehydration assaulted his calves and feet, the lower half of his body an aching mess. Even his eyes throbbed, the lack of fluids affecting every organ. Tom’s mouth felt grainy, with not even a drop of moisture to wet his tongue, turning it into a slab of swollen meat.
From his corner of the room, Tom could hear the sleep sounds of his two children. His son, Thomas C., whom they called Tommy, kicked at the blanket, his young mind dreaming of play. Tom’s daughter Jane, less than a year old, lay on her back, her arms slung above her head in surrender to exhaustion. Their tiny bodies were trundled together in a bed made from planks and covered with straw. Their innocence squeezed Tom’s heart, their angelic faces bringing his only relief. He prayed they would not catch his contagion.
Mary, his wife, sitting beside him on their shared bed, removed the hot cloth from Tom’s forehead, dipped it into a water bowl, wrung it out, and replaced it. She encouraged him to drink from a cup she placed to his lips. “Mary, the weans[1]?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“Shh, mo cuishle[2]. They’re grand. Rest your eyes. Codladh[3],” she assured him and returned to sit beside her children.
Tom closed his eyes and silently directed an Our Father to Saint Brigid, patron of healing, imploring her to help his wife and children if he himself could not be saved. Doubling his intercessions, his ten fingers replacing a decade of rosary beads, Tom petitioned the Virgin for their lives.
Opening his fever-ridden eyes again, Tom looked at his family, searing their images into his memory in the event he should lose one of them. His eyes drunk in the visage of his wife, who tended their tiny cottage as carefully as she tended her own children—a lively fire burning constantly, a kettle of stew bubbling in the pot, the mud-covered walls decorated with hand-woven rag rugs to keep the wind from stealing through, kitchen supplies lined neatly on shelves, and a clothes line strung across the domicile, trousers, children’s smocks, and petticoats drying in the cozy interior. St. Brigid’s Cross, made by his Mary, was hung over the door.
Tom had a good woman and two healthy weans with a future for many more. His wife, Mary Margaret Dougherty, had been matched with him when she was a cailín[4], a young woman of nineteen with fair skin and red hair. As the oldest, she felt the responsibility of marrying first so that her sisters could be matched when their time came. Her father had proudly handed over the dowry to Tom’s father, also named Tom. Tom had taken a portion of her dowry to rent the land and house they now occupied.
A year after marriage, their first child had died in the womb; the second, a few days after his birth. Tom and Mary prayed and gave offerings to the Virgin to send them a healthy baby. At twenty-four, Mary conceived again for the third time, and their prayers were answered when she delivered a lusty boy, whom they named after his father, Thomas Connor. Mary had no sooner stopped suckling Tommy when she conceived again and delivered a beautiful lass, whom they named Jane. The curse was broken, and they gratefully planned for many more children.
Tom tenant-farmed five acres. Wooly, white Galway sheep grazed on four of them, and root vegetables—potatoes, carrots, parsnips—alongside cabbage and onions grew on the remaining land, providing the family’s the family’s sustenance to complement the mutton. The wool from his animals paid the rent and gave them what they needed. Theirs was a life of faith and simplicity.
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