Her Mother’s Hope

Hildemara couldn’t hold the tears back. “Mama cut it.”

“For mercy’s sake, Marta, why?”

Mama’s face reddened. “It’s not that short.”

Clotilde giggled again. “She looks like the little boy on the paint cans.”

Mama served Hildemara after Papa. “It’ll grow out in no time.”

Hildemara knew it was as close to an apology as she would ever get from her mother. Not that it helped. Her hair wouldn’t grow out in time for school tomorrow.

Just as she feared, the students laughed when they saw her. Tony Reboli asked if she had put her head in a lawn mower. Bernie punched him. Tony swung and missed. They started shoving each other around the playground. Miss Hinkle came outside and told them to stop at once. “What started it?”

Tony pointed. “Little Sis’s hair!” He laughed. So did others.

Miss Hinkle turned to Hildie. She looked shocked for a second and then smiled. “I think it’s very becoming, Hildemara.” She leaned down and whispered, “My mother used to cut my hair short, too.”

Hildemara took last place in the line of girls. Elizabeth stepped out of line and waited for her. “I like it, Hildie. I like it very much.” Hildemara felt a wave of relief. Anything Elizabeth said she liked, everyone else liked, too.

When break came, Clotilde went off to play on the bars with her friends. Hildemara sat on the bench and watched Elizabeth playing hopscotch with several other girls. Gathering her courage, Hildie walked across the playground. Heart thumping, she clasped her hands behind her back. “May I play, too?”

Elizabeth smiled broadly. “You can be on my team.”

That night, Hildemara lay awake, feeling euphoric. Mama sat at the kitchen table, the kerosene lamp burning, the stack of books on American history that she’d borrowed from the library sitting in front of her while she wrote a letter. Papa had gone to bed an hour ago. Bernie snored softly. Clotilde lay curled on her side, facing away from the lamp. Mama looked sad as she wrote.

Hildemara got up and tiptoed to the edge of light. Mama raised her head. “How was school today? You didn’t say much at dinner.”

Bernie and Clotilde usually dominated the table conversation. “I made a friend.”

Mama straightened. “Is that so?”

“Elizabeth Kenney is the prettiest and most popular girl in class. You can ask Clotilde.”

“I believe you, Hildemara.” Her eyes shone.

“Elizabeth said she’s always liked me. She wants me to go to church with her sometime. Would that be all right?”

“Depends on the church.”

“I told her we were Lutherans. She didn’t know what that was and I didn’t know how to explain. Her family goes to the Methodist church on Elm Street.”

“They probably think we’re heathens. I think you’d better go.”

“I’ll tell her tomorrow.” Hildemara climbed back onto her cot. Mama took up her fountain pen and began writing again, more quickly this time. “Mama?”

“Hmmmm?”

“Elizabeth said she liked my hair.”

Mama’s eyes glistened moist in the lamplight. “Sometimes all you need is one true friend, Hildemara Rose, just one you can depend upon to love you no matter what. You did well in finding one.”

Hildemara snuggled down under her blankets, feeling for the first time as though she had Mama’s approval.

* * *

Dear Rosie,

After two years of hard work and living in a dusty tent, we finally have a place of our own. Mrs. Miller couldn’t cheat us out of the profits because I was on hand when the crops were sold and collected Niclas’s share before she could find a way to spend it on her worthless daughter.

Our place is two miles outside of Murietta, which is not too far for the children to walk to school. We have twenty acres of almond trees and twenty acres of wine grapes with an irrigation canal running along the back of the property. The house and barn are in need of repairs, but Niclas is already at work on fixing the roof. He fixed the windmill yesterday. I couldn’t watch, worried the whole thing would tumble down, him with it.

Hildemara is very excited about running water inside the house. She won’t have to tote water anymore. She gained some muscle from the work, which is good. She never complains. I push and she always yields, unlike Clotilde, who sticks out her chin and argues over everything. Even Rikka knows how to get her way. I hope for more fight from Hildemara. She must learn to stand up for herself, or everyone will walk all over her. Niclas thinks I am harder on her than the others, but for her sake, I must be. You know what I fear the most…

* * *

Hildemara learned Mama was not one to let any opportunity pass by. After six months at the Herkners’ bakery, Mama knew most of the people in town. But she took time on the long walk into Murietta to get to know people along Hopper Road.

“These people are our neighbors, Hildemara. And it pays to be neighborly. You listen, too, Clotilde. Always keep your eyes and ears open to learn whatever you can. If they need help, we’ll extend a helping hand. It’ll come back someday if we ever get into trouble.”

Clotilde stopped kicking up the dust. “What kind of trouble, Mama?”

“You never know. And never visit empty-handed. Remember that most of all.” One day she would drop off a loaf of bread to Widow Cullen, the next a bag of rolls to the Aussie bachelor Abrecan Macy, or a jar of strawberry preserves to the Johnsons.

“You need to get to know people, Hildemara. You can’t be hanging on to my skirts forever. You, too, Clotilde. Let the neighbors get to know you.”

“They know Bernie!” Clotilde grinned.

“Well, you and your sisters aren’t going to be athletes. Rikka, stay with us.” Rikka was hunkered down, studying a flower. She picked it and carried it along after them. “Everyone has something to teach you.”

Mama tried to make friends with everyone, especially the immigrants. Greeks, Swedes, Portuguese, and Danes, even the scowling old Abrecan took time to talk with Mama when she came by. After the first few meetings, she bartered and bargained with every one of them. She traded chickens for cheese with the Danes and Greeks. She traded shelled almonds and raisins for lamb from the Aussie. When the milk cow dried up, Mama traded vegetables for milk from the small Portuguese dairy just down the road and traded the cow to the butcher as credit for meat.

Mama liked the Johnsons best of all. Swedes from Dalarna, they had hospitable ways, always offering a cup of coffee and a sweet while passing time. Mama liked their cozy red house with white trim. Clotilde and Rikka liked the profusion of blues, reds, yellows, and pinks surrounding it. Hildemara just liked to sit by Mama and listen to the conversation between the two women. Carl Johnson and his two sons, Daniel and Edwin, tended the orchard of peach trees. Mama traded quince jelly for preserved peaches. One jar of Mama’s quince jelly yielded four mason jars of Anna Johnson’s peaches.

Hildemara always slowed when walking by the Johnsons’ place, drinking in the rose scent. Mrs. Johnson was as fussy about deadheading her flowers as Papa was about getting rid of every weed on their property.

“Hello, Hildemara.” Mrs. Johnson stood from where she had been thinning marigolds and brushed off her skirt. “Your mama already came by this morning. I was just putting on the coffee when she went by.”

“Yes, ma’am. She goes in early Tuesdays and Thursdays to make the beignets and Torten.”

“They’ll all be gone by noon. She brought me cardamom bread last week. Your mama is a good baker. Is she teaching you?”