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BOLTON
HOLLOWAY
THE WOMAN, THE SUN, THE
FLOWERS
AND THE COURAGE
HALBERT HAROLD HOLLOWAY
rena-Alice rose and sat on the edge of
her bed. With deft, practiced
thoughtless movements, she swept her long brown hair into a
thick,
round sphere on the back of her head. It was another day. There
were
cows to milk at dawn, and at dark. There was food to cook and
there
were vegetables to irrigate. There were fields to be plowed and
hogs to
be fed. A fence needed mending, and some chickens had to be
butchered
before Wirt came home. When Wirt came back from Cuyama, they
would
have a big dinner. She missed her husband. She missed his
gaiety, his
never-ending dreams, his strength, his ability to laugh, and his
ability to weep. Weaver and Ben would milk the cows. Weaf, her
oldest
son, would soon be leaving, and her small, quiet, sensitive son
Ben
would take his place. Ben would take Weaf's place before his
bones were
grown and before his mind wanted to think mature thoughts, man's
thoughts. Yes, Weaver and Ben would milk the cows. And Mabel
would
water the vegetables, and she would coerce Luella into feeding
the
hogs. Beautiful, red-haired Mabel who threw her body forward
with will
as she walked; with head high, and her glance a bit hard. Mabel
was
hard with everyone, even with herself. Beautiful, brass-like
Mabel had
to be hard. And quiet little Luella with her long blond bangs
that
constantly fell into her eyes, and her beautiful strong mouth
and white
teeth, Luella, who was always laughing or crying, always giving,
who
would lug the waste out to the hog pen, and perhaps Mabel would
help
her.
Martha was the most
beautiful.
There was a soft, tender loveliness to
her that exaggerated Mabel's striking beauty when they were
together.
Martha so lovely, yet who talked an incongruent, humorous baby
talk
because she was deaf, and because her throat had been cut by
glass.
Everyone watched after Martha. Ben watched after her. He was the
tender
one. Like his father, he could stand in a moment of beautiful
thought.
Ben and Alice "Aleece" because that was the British
pronunciation, and
Irena-Alice was British. She and Aleece would water the flowers
at
sundown. They would work in the house together and read poetry
together
from the shabby little book that contained such beauty.
They would go out at
sundown
and water the flower garden. Irena-Alice
and Aleece would walk along a little path, winding through the
sage
brush and the alkali splotches until they came to a sheltered
place,
and they would water the flowers. In the Spring, the flowers
would
bloom and be beautiful and gentle - appearing in the desert
plain.
There would be a little spot of beauty in the desert plain.
Irena-Alice
had to eke out beauty from the California farm life, beauty from
her
husband's simple stubborn, enduring sincere love, from her
children,
from Aleece and Ben, from Mabel's hair, and Lou's unselfishness,
and
the tender pathos of Martha's enthusiasm expressed in little,
hard-earned spurts of her words. Her husband's love was like
flowers in
the desert. Her children were her flowers in the desert.
She rose from the bed and
walked across the room. She threw her right
side as she walked. A buckboard had pressed into her side, and
the pain
seemed kiling, and the doctor said that she would never walk,
but she
did walk, and she bore more children, and again there was pain.
But her
husband was there at the births,
bringing
into
the
world the creation
of their love, bringing it from the warmth of her into the
world. And
then he would gently arrange her hair around her head and wash
her face
and tell her that he needed her presence, her voice, her laught,
her
mind, her love so much.
Why was she remembering
so
much? Why was her mind going back and
forward all around in her soul? She went into the kitchen,
Breakfast
must be made for Weaver and Ben, and soon Aleece would make her
sisters
rise from the bed. Mabel would scold Aleece. Luella would slowly
put on
her shows, and Martha would wash her and go look at the baby.
Irena-Alice put more water on the oatmeal porridge that had been
cooked
the night before and she made a fire. She went over to the
window to
get salt and sugar. The sun was coming up in the East, but it
was not
beautiful. It was rising up above the valley, and it would burn
down
onto the sage brush and the land and the buildings. It must have
been
the same color as Milton's burning plains of hell that she had
read
about when she was in school in England. The day would be long,
and the
heat would sap the strength out of the bodies of the family. But
the
necessary work would be done. She hoped that the burning sun
would not
kill her beautiful flowers in the desert.
Then evening would come.
It
would be twilight until nine o'clock, and
the sky would be blue, pale blue, and it would change to dark,
dark
blue, and it would seem that the stars were trying to reach down
to
touch the earth. Her family would stay out of doors, and there
would be
games and laughter, and her husband would be the leader in the
games -
stocky, strong, bearded, courageous in this dry land, teaching
his
children to laugh and to sin and to have a soul like his soul.
And he
would smile a beautiful smile that could be seen through the
thick
black beard, and his eyes would twinkle. And Weaver and Ben,
especially
Ben, would smile the same smile. The evening time was the best
time,
the happy time, after she and Aleece had gone to water the
flowers, and
after the family had eaten the products of their soul. Wirt must
be
back tonight, she thought. If not, there would be laughter, but
the
most important, the most warm laugh would be missing.
She worked in her hot
kitchen
thinking that. And she and Aleece would
find time to read poetry today.
She saw Weaver. tall,
big, and
strong, walking up from the barn. He was
carrying Ben in his arms, and Ben didn't have his hat on, and
his white
blond hair fell down. She moved as fast as she could to the
door, and
opened it for her sons. Ben fainted, Weaver said, and he carried
the
little boy into the bedroom. She followed him, and felt the
forehead of
her son, and it was hot, hotter than the sun would make it, or
than the
work would make it. She took his clothes off and covered him up
and
told Weaver to waken his sisters. Aleece and little Luella were
the
first in the room of the sick boy. And then Martha. Mabel came
in after
her. Aleece said that she would help her mother that day and
went over
and touched her brother's head. Mabel told the other girls to do
their
usual jobs, and that she would finish milking the cows while
Weaf was
gone. Mabel took the most difficult thing to do, for it was the
easiest
for her. It was proud, gentle Aleece who would be by Ben's bed.
Irena-Alice saw her large
son
go out to saddle the horse, and she saw
him turn its head toward Bakersfield for the doctor. He would be
back
by dark. Mabel ran out through the hot morning sunlight and
grasped the
rein of the horse and spoke animatedly to Weaver. The mother
didn't
hear what she said, but she knew that it was about Ben.
Aleece tried to make Ben
comfortable. The little boy was so still, so
quiet. Irena-Alice told her that there was little to do, little
to do
except wait, - wait and watch and feel helpless, feel futile,
and pray.
Irena-Alice looked out
over
the little farm from the clapboard house
that her husband had built. It was fertile land, it was good
land; it
was a land for building and dreaming and making beauty. But it
was a
ruthless, hot land of work and illness and death. She had lost a
son in
the past. Before, when he was very young, Weaver drove his older
brother to the town to the doctor, and the older brother lived.
And he
painted. He painted Milton's sun-up and made it beautiful. He
painted
the sage brush and made it beautiful. He painted little flowers
by the
sage brush and made them beautiful. His hands were large and
strong
like her husband's, but they were also gentle in their gentle
work of
art. He grew tall and strong and worked on the ranch and
painted. He
earned a scholarship, and he was going to San Francisco to learn
about
painting. It was a new land growing and new ways, a hard land to
travel
in and her son who could make beauty was killed.
And now there was this
son,
and his life, and his beautiful smile, and
his hopes. She must help her son. She must make him live, and
see
beauty, and be happy and create in this new land, and have
children.
For her husband and for herself and for the child, she must help
this
child live.
The day passed, and she
was
tired, and her daughters were tired. Martha
made her some tea and took it to her, and Martha was quiet. The
little
boy lay still on the bed, still and quiet and white and hot and
covered, and Aleece held his hand, and Mabel stared at him and
left the
room to do something, and Luella fell asleep. And they all hoped
that
his eyes would open. Irena-Alice waited and looked out of the
window
for Weaver and the Doctor.
The sun was going down in
the
west, slowly, stubbornly, giving up its
rieign of heat of the San Joaquin. Mabel came into the room.
Thank God,
she said, Weaf was coming up the road with the doctor. It was
the old
doctor who had lived in Bakersfield ever since the railroad had
come to
town.
The doctor came in and
examined Ben and drank some tea, remarked on the
book of poetry on the table, and chatted for a minute. Then he
told
Irena-Alice that it was necessary to slit her son's wrist to
ease the
fever, the fever in this hot, hot land.
Irena-Alice was
frightened.
She had never felt fear like this before.
She was frightened once when she spilled a hot vat of pig grease
on her
front and scalded the life out of the new life forming in her
womb. And
she was frightened during the first birth, more than during the
other
births. But her husband was there and he was the father and the
doctor
and held her head and she wasn't so frightened. But this was the
fear
of decision. She didn't wanter her little boy to die. And she
didn't
want her decision to be the cause of his death. She wished that
her
husband were there to take her hand and tell her that it must be
done.
But he wasn't there. She looked at Aleece who so resembled her,
and
Aleece said nothing. She looked for Mabel, and she was in the
kitchen
getting something for the doctor. Mabel was beautiful, active
and
sensual. Mabel would only act. Irena-Alice looked to Weaver, and
he
said nothing. But his eyes were like her husband's eyes, and she
knew
that he wanted her to say yes.
Yes, take the knife, the
sharp, keen blade and press it across the
thin, white wrist, and let the pale red of life flow out. She
shook her
head a little yes and walked in a stubborn body-throwing manner
to the
window, and touched her thick hair, and shut her eyes.
She knew that Weaver had
helped the doctor, that her quiet intelligent
son held the basin in his large hands, and the pale red flowed
into it,
and that he handed the doctor the dressings, and heard the
doctor say
that was difficult to do, and that he would spend the night
there. And
it was Weaver who took a new clean sheet and tore it into long,
straight bandages so that more blood would not come out. And
Mabel
helped him to do that, and Martha fixed dinner, and Aleece
bathed Ben's
face, the face of the little boy who was so white, and so quiet,
and
whose eyes had been closed for so very very long.
Her children were strong
as
their father and as strong as she had
become. It was the terrible valley that made them strong, that
was part
of them, as the heat was part of them and as the little flowers
in the
sheltered places were part of them.
She wanted her little boy
to
live. There would be more children, but
wanted this child to live. He was working in the fields one day,
and he
picked a bouquet of little valley flowers, pale, blue little
flowers,
so small that it was difficult to hold them, and he took them to
her
and he smiled. And he was beautiful like the flowers, for he saw
and
felt beauty in his child's life on this hard little farm. He
could
dream: like his father, he could look at the stars and dream,
and he
was gentle. Yet he was hard. Such a little boy, she thought, yet
he was
hard, he didn't cry anymore, he didn't complain. Like her, he
hated
pain, he hated ugliness; he hated unkindness, but he would not
complain. He would just remain quiet and kind and trustworthy,
and now
and then, he would go down to the flower garden in the sheltered
spot,
and in a sheltered spot in his soul he nurtured beauty, greater
beauty
than his brother had painted. It was a beauty expressed in
living, in
being, in doing, in hoping, and in dreaming. She wanted her
little boy
to live.
The deep blue left, and
iron
gray came and hung over the valley.
Irena-Alice sat in her chair and stared out. Aleece was
there
with her, and the little boy was still, so still. The iron-gray
was
changing to yellow. The little boy opened his eyes and raised
his hand
and asked for a drink of water. Aleece ran fast, hard,
into the
kitchen, and Irena-Alice heard the pump handle go up and down so
hard,
and her daughter came back and handed the water to her, and
Aleece
started crying and laughing and feeling physicially all of the
emotions
that were welling up in her. Irena-Alice felt them too, but she
nursed
her son, and tears came. Aleece ran into the other rooms and
awakened
her brother, and her sisters, and they all crowded into the
boy's
room, and the boy smiled at them, and they laughed a little,
were
silent a little, and prayed, and Irena-Alice prayed and smiled
and
cried. And later, the buckboard was put into the barn, and the
stocky,
strong, dark-bearded man came into the room and stood by his
wife and
his sons and his daughters and looked at his wife, and she knew
that he
knew that which was in her soul.
The sun had come up high.
It
was not Milton's sun, but an orange,
beautiful, life-giving sun - that sun that gave life to the
little
flowers in the sheltered spot.
Found in an old box in Uncle Dutch's shack at his goldmine,
Hawthorne, Nevada. Dutch, with his aged parents, Irena Alice and
Wirt Holloway, Bakersfield, California.
_____
In fact, Irena-Alice
Culbert
Holloway was Canadian, rather than
'British', and had
studied at the Nova Scotia Academy, where she learned to
embroider wild
flowers in tapestries and to read Milton. She was sent out to
California for her health, meeting Wirt at a dance in San Jose.
He had
gone from Kentucky, after they sold their slaves, to Texas,
where they
herded cattle, finally to California. Later the children in the
family
of twelve included Bertha Gertrude, called
by her father the name of his favorite slave in Kentucky, Chloe
Mae,
and Halbert Harold Holloway. Ben would call his child by his
second
wife that same name, Halbert Harold Holloway II, because this
was the
one brother who attended university at Berkeley (the two sisters
Aleece
and Mabel already had studied at San Jose State Normal School),
becoming a World War I Ace but who never married. Hal wrote his
doctoral dissertation on his uncle of his same name. Indeed, of
the
twelve
children born to Wirt and Irena-Alice, only Ben had children who
survived him, Hal and Luella, survived in turn by Marcie
Munding, David
and Ronald Seidel, Richard and Colin Holloway, and their
children
Akita, Jasmine, Caroline, Robin, Rowan, Aurora, Asha, and
Rubinia. We
often visited Aunt Leece in her apartment in San Francisco
filled with
oriental carpets, Carrara marble fireplaces, Mission silver,
Della
Robbia pottery, and European water-colors, for she married
George
Fernald, President of the Fernald Steel Company, and made the
Grand
Tour. She gave me Irena-Alice's embroidery of wild flowers which
I then
gave to my granddaughter Caroline to treasure as a keepsake,
along with
jewelry from my family, the amber beads from the Russian Baltic
my
great grandfather James
Roberts gave to his
daughters, coral beads from the Mediterranean.
The family of twelve
are buried with
their parents in the Holloway plot in Bakersfield. I published
Hal's
story in Reed,
the creative
writing magazine at San Jose State College, May 1956, having
read it
when I was
seventeen and he
was twenty-five, marrying him
when I was twenty and he twenty-eight. Always I yearned for a
daughter
to be called Irena Alice, but instead I
bore him three fine sons, for which he could not forgive me.
See
also
Family
and School
Albums:
Mosaic;
Gandhi; BBC http://catskill.gcal.ac.uk/repository/repos-fs/gcu/a0/a1/gcu-a0a1k7-b.mov
recording of many voices 'Talking of Gandhiji', my father's
voice being
one of these; Death
Valley
Incident; Family
Album; Halbert
Harold Holloway, The
Woman, the Sun, the
Flowers and the Courage; Sir
James
Roberts; My England (in
progress); Morris Dances of England;
Nigel Foxell, Amberley Village; The Joy of the
Bicycle; Richard Ben Holloway, Together Let Us Sweetly Live;
Jonathan Luke
Holloway, Home Birth Can Be An Option;
Holmhurst St Mary; Mother
Agnes
Mason,
C.H.F.; Rose Lloyds, Rose's Story;
Deaf/Death; David
and
Solomon; How to
Make Cradles and Libraries; Hazel Oddy, Martha's
Supplication; Tangled Tale; Oliveleaf
Chronicle; Vita
UMILTA
WEBSITE || OLIVELEAF WEBSITE
|| JULIAN
OF NORWICH, TEXT AND CONTEXTS, WEBSITE || BIRGITTA
OF
SWEDEN,
REVELATIONES, WEBSITE || CATALOGUE
AND PORTFOLIO (HANDCRAFTS, BOOKS ) ||
BOOK REVIEWS
|| BIBLIOGRAPHY || FLORIN
WEBSITE ©1997-2010 JULIA
BOLTON
HOLLOWAY
