Chapter 12
The past six weeks had felt ritualistic, almost religious in nature for Rose, laying the groundwork for a magnificent event. Twelve young women—all college students from state universities—were to arrive the last weekend in May to serve their first stint in the Women’s Land Army.
They would stay through the late-summer harvest, working at nearby farms doing a multitude of jobs: plowing fields, tending crops, milking cows, collecting eggs, picking fruit, raising chickens, detasseling corn, shocking wheat, topping onions, driving tractors, and baling hay.
These “farmerettes” needed a comfortable bed, nutritious meals, and somewhere to call home, a place to restore their bodies and minds before heading out each morning for the rigors of farm work.
Rose knew it was her job to create and maintain this home.
Over the past month and a half, Rose had begun waking before the sun and hopping out of bed as soon as her eyes opened, surprised that she needed less coffee and less food than usual to commence her growing list of daily chores.
Her energy felt boundless, and she found herself humming a rhythmic, upbeat melody through her work.
She worried less about her sons and spent more time visiting with neighbors—enjoying a cup of tea and a midday chat with Carol on the front porch or a meatloaf dinner at the Jensens’.
At night, after a long day of work, she would read and knit and prepare for the next day, falling asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, without the hours of rumination that often filled the bedroom’s darkness.
She sometimes tried to put a word to how she was feeling, this constant sense of power and possibility; it seemed foreign and familiar at the same time.
Alive. That was the only word that seemed suitable.
And then the young women finally arrived early on a Saturday afternoon.
Rose’s heart swelled when she saw all twelve piled into the bed of Joe Jensen’s Ford farm truck, the vehicle they would use that summer to drive to their local jobs.
It felt like a homecoming to Rose, though she’d never met them before.
She noticed each girl had one suitcase, which she’d tucked behind her legs to save space in the truck bed.
Once they parked, Rose watched two of the girls hop off the truck and assist the other women to the ground.
They were not in work clothes—they wore lightweight cotton frocks in stripes, polka dots, and floral prints and open-toed shoes, impractical for farm work.
They’ll need waterproof boots. She hoped the government would soon issue appropriate uniforms and footwear.
They were worthy of them, soldiers of their own kind.
Rose approached the young women, who were lined up beside each other holding their boxy leather suitcases in front of them, as if intuitively coming into formation.
She smiled. “Good afternoon,” she said. To her surprise, her voice wavered.
“Good afternoon,” they replied, a melodic, collective sound that reminded Rose of wind chimes.
Rose studied each of the girls’ faces and noted both thrill and the fear of the unknown in their toothy grins and narrowed brows.
A few self-consciously tugged at the hems of their frocks.
She saw in them past versions of herself—the Rose she used to be.
Rose before marriage, Rose before motherhood.
Rose before loss, before heartache.
She cleared her throat to keep her voice steady.
“We’ll have a formal meeting later to review the house rules and daily schedules and responsibilities.
But for now, I’ll read your name and supply your room assignments.
You’ll have a few minutes to set your belongings. Then it will be time for dinner.”
Rose watched the girls’ eyes, and noted how the mention of dinner, a full afternoon meal, seemed to unfurrow their brows.
They’re hungry. They’d likely exhausted calories in the adrenaline of embarking on their new adventure that morning.
Perhaps a few had woken with nervous, unsettled stomachs and had skipped breakfast altogether.
She felt purposeful having prepared a balanced and easy-to-serve midday meal for these young women—egg-salad sandwiches, asparagus soup, and a spring green salad.
Rose thought the girls looked quite similar to each other, perhaps connected by nothing other than the thread of youth.
They looked about nineteen or twenty years old, and she noted that they all had long hair, rolled and pinned up in some fashion.
Most of the girls also wore red lipstick, a contrast to their porcelain, unwrinkled skin.
She noted some girls were quite slim, while others were rounder or muscular.
Rose could already differentiate who would be inclined to particular kinds of farm work based on their builds.
But despite the overall essence of their youth, Rose soon learned that each girl possessed a unique spirit.
There was Peggy Kelley, one of the two women who helped the others off the back of the truck.
Peggy seemed a natural leader, like the girl Rose always wanted to be in school but never quite was, and certainly a girl she would have chosen to befriend.
Rose admired how Peggy commanded attention.
It was more than her shiny auburn hair and alluring green eyes.
Peggy looked Rose directly in the eye, stood up straight, and accepted her room assignment with a boisterous “Thank you!”
Then there was Esther Monroe, a round-faced, stockier girl who stared at her shoes when Rose read her room assignment.
Esther’s frizzy blond curls and soft blue eyes conveyed a timidity that her body language supported; her shoulders caved as if attempting to fold her body, to become small enough to stow inside her suitcase.
Rose asked Esther to stay behind while the last of the other girls climbed the steps of the farmhouse porch.
“Esther, after you settle into your room, I could use some help in the kitchen,” Rose said, hoping the girl would welcome the request. “We’ll need to set the table and heat the asparagus soup.”
A smile crossed the young woman’s lips. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m certain you’ve helped your mother in the kitchen over the years?” Rose added, trying to make conversation, trying to connect with the girl. Because Rose felt more comfortable in the background too, she had more in common with a girl like Esther than a girl like Peggy.
Esther shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. She died when I was very young.”
Rose’s heart opened even more for Esther. She placed a hand on her shoulder. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. I’m sure you miss her every day.”
“I do.” Esther laid her hand on her chest. “But I keep her here, in my heart.”
Rose smiled, and thought of her late husband, and her children, so far from home. “There is no better place to keep the people we love,” she said.
As Rose watched the young woman head up the porch steps, she wondered how timid Esther, and all the other girls, would grow over the course of the summer.
Maybe I’ll change too.