The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [128]
“ ‘Nothing strengthens the judgment and quickens the conscience like individual responsibility,’ ” I quoted.
“That’s good,” he said. “Very good.”
“A suffragette said it years ago.” He might as well know that I could be outspoken.
“Are you one of that ilk?” he asked.
I had not yet registered to vote. “I believe individuals ought to have the right to pursue their dreams and live with the consequences of their decisions, whether men or women.” I sound like my mother. “If that makes me of that ilk, then I guess I am.”
He grinned. “My wife says the same thing.” He wagged his finger at me. “She’ll be pleased to know I’ll be kept in line during the day.”
And so our lives went forward one step after the other.
Louise became neither better nor any worse but continued her daily devotional ritual, finding new insights every day. The three of us shared the household tasks, took occasional weekend camping trips to Coeur d’Alene Lake, and sometimes rode the train back to Coulee City to visit the town and tell our old friends hello. We attended the big rodeo in the fall, sang Christmas carols in December, and watched with interest the smaller fur auction in January just to see how things had changed.
Steady work gave me confidence, and I found I liked the duties, keeping track of numbers and accounts, taking dictation, and having my suggested wording be well-received by my employer. I looked forward to the evenings, reading and listening to the new radio Olea had purchased. I thought about contacting my other family. I really did. But I couldn’t find the steps to take me to their door.
America entered the war then, in the summer of 1917, and we each involved ourselves in the women’s clubs raising money for refugees in Europe. Olea attended suffrage ratification meetings and told me that four women were arrested in front of the White House for picketing in support of the suffrage vote—Washington women had the vote, but only fourteen other states had adopted it. The three of us went to see The Butcher Boy with Buster Keaton. In all the shopping, traipsing around Spokane, and riding the streetcar, I never once caught a glimpse of my mother or sisters or brothers.
“I wish there was a way to get a little more money so we could purchase a rental,” I told Olea. I put my colored stamps into the book, having solicited neighbors and office mates to share their canceled stamps with me.
“What would you do with it? We’re comfortable,” Olea said.
“Enough is as good as a feast,” I said.
“Well, yes it is,” Olea agreed.
“I wish we could own this house we live in so no one could evict us. I wish we could buy a few other properties where rent would make the payments. We could keep the rents low, for young couples with families, but those would be good investments. You have to keep making money grow,” I said.
“You never rest, Clara,” Olea said, but she smiled.
“I’m still young,” I told her. “I’d like to travel. We never did get the trip all of us hoped to make.”
“No, we didn’t.”
“Even Louise last week told me that the scriptural phrase ‘commit thy works unto the LORD’ is yet another command that turns out to be a promise as well, that one day we’ll all commit.”
“The rest of that Proverb is ‘and thy thoughts shall be established.’ ”
“I guess if we’re to take another trip one day or have funds to help out others, we’ll have to commit,” I said. I put the stamp folder into my packet with the articles and the sketch of the Dale Creek trestle I’d made those years before. I looked over the signatures again. “It really is amazing that we got these signatures,” I said. “The Governor of Idaho. President-elect McKinley. Mama got Mr. Depew to sign it too. He said he’d buy the first book, which, of course, we never wrote.” I proclaimed, as Mr. Depew had: “ ‘The first step toward getting anywhere is to decide you’re not going to stay where you are.’ He told us that when my mother and I sat in his office looking at his glass