Chapter 9 #4
Her mother looked genuinely surprised. "Didn't you?" She smiled apologetically. "I suppose I never thought to mention it. It was in the past by the time you came along."
The medical practice and what it meant to Hawthorn had always been Grandfather Springer's story in Mercy's mind. She'd never stopped to wonder who had quietly helped him care for so many families.
"What was it like?" The question slipped out before she gave it any thought. "Did you enjoy helping him?"
Mama's expression softened with the memory. "Very much." She looked down at her folded hands. "When I was a little girl, I was quite certain I meant to become a doctor just like my father." A quiet laugh escaped her. "It took me a few years to realize the world had other ideas."
Wilson glanced up from his notebook. "Did that disappoint you?"
"For a while." Mama's smile held only warmth now.
"But Father used to remind me there was more than one way to care for people.
He said a physician's work didn't begin and end with treating an illness.
Sometimes folks needed someone to sit with them while they waited, or to reassure a frightened child, or simply to listen.
" She looked at Mercy. "I eventually realized I could do those things just in other ways. "
Mercy felt something shift inside her. She'd always known Mama had a gift for making people feel heard. Until this moment, she'd never wondered where she'd learned it.
Almost without thinking, she reached for her notebook and scribbled a quick reminder in the margin.
Clinic keepsake?
As she leaned back, she happened to glance up. Wilson was watching her, one corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.
Heat crept into her cheeks. She had the distinct impression he'd noticed exactly what she'd just done.
Wilson looked down at the page of abbreviated notes, studying it for a moment before lifting his gaze again.
"What do you like best about Hawthorn?"
Mama smiled, though she took her time answering.
"The people." She looked toward the front window where the afternoon sunlight spilled across the yard. "Not because they're perfect. Goodness knows they aren't." A hint of amusement touched her voice. "But when hardship comes, folks here don't wait to be asked. They simply show up."
Her gaze drifted to the family photograph resting on the table.
"When Josiah passed, neighbors filled this house with more food than Mercy and I could possibly eat.
Others tended the garden until we found our footing again.
Still others quietly saw to repairs that needed doing before I even knew they were being done.
" She smiled softly. "No one expected thanks. That's simply who they are."
Mercy had been so wrapped in her own grief during those weeks that many of those kindnesses had blurred together. Hearing Mama speak of them now, she realized how many acts of quiet generosity she'd forgotten.
Wilson made another quick notation.
"So, it's the people that make Hawthorn home."
"I believe it is." Mama nodded. "You can find beautiful places almost anywhere. But it's the people who turn a place into home."
Wilson rested his pencil against the notebook. "Have you always felt that way?"
Mama laughed quietly.
"Oh, no." Her eyes twinkled. "When I was a little girl, I had fanciful notions of traveling to faraway places and seeing palaces perched on hilltops. Every storybook seemed to contain some marvelous place I'd never seen."
She shook her head with an affectionate smile.
"But as I grew older, I realized I wasn't longing to leave Hawthorn anymore.
My family was here. My friends were here.
Before long, so was Josiah." Her smile deepened.
"Somewhere along the way I discovered there wasn't another place I'd rather build my life. "
She looked toward Mercy. "Though I do recall someone else having much grander travel plans."
Mercy closed her eyes briefly. "Mama..."
"You couldn't have been more than eight or nine." Mama laughed softly. "You'd been studying one of your geography books all afternoon. At supper you announced that one day you intended to visit every state and territory in the country."
Wilson looked across the table at Mercy with open curiosity.
Mercy fought the urge to hide her face in her hands. "I'd forgotten all about that."
"I hadn't." Mama's smile widened. "When I asked how you intended to manage such an ambitious undertaking, you informed me you'd become a teacher so you'd have your summers free to travel."
Wilson's smile reached his eyes.
"And when I asked what you'd do after you'd seen them all, you thought for the longest time before saying, 'Come home, of course. Nobody makes biscuits like yours.'"
Mercy laughed despite herself. "That certainly sounds like something I'd have said. But I can't believe you remembered all of that."
Mama reached over and gave her hand an affectionate pat. "Of course I remembered."
Wilson's smile lingered. "So, is that really why you became a teacher?"
Mercy smiled and shook her head. "That may have been what planted the idea in my head, but it's not the reason I followed through."
She searched for the right words. "I suppose part of the reason is that I've always loved books.
Even as a little girl I was forever asking questions about the people and places I read about.
But I think the real turning point came when I was old enough to help some of the younger children in school.
" She smiled at the memory. "I discovered I enjoyed watching something difficult suddenly make sense to someone else. "
Mama's eyes twinkled. "You did enjoy teaching, even as a child. You never could simply play a game. Before long you'd be explaining the rules to whichever child was youngest or helping someone who'd fallen behind."
Mercy grinned. "In other words, I acted as if I thought I knew everything."
Her mother waved a hand dismissively. "You were just being helpful." She squeezed Mercy's hand. "One of the reasons you learned so much is because you were forever asking questions."
She glanced at Wilson. "You've probably noticed this already, but Mercy always wants to know how and why. Why Mrs. Abernathy treasured a cracked china cup. Why the Millers kept an old horseshoe hanging over their barn door. How the sundial in Mr. Jordan's front yard worked."
Mercy laughed. "Poor Mama. I must have asked a thousand questions."
"More than that." Mama smiled fondly.
Wilson made another brief notation. "So that's how you found your way to history."
Mercy considered that. "Perhaps." She rubbed a finger across her chin. "Although I don't think I was ever as interested in historic events as I was in the people living them."
"And what about that dream of traveling?"
She hadn't thought much about traveling in quite a while, not since Papa died.
"I'd still like to see more of the country someday.
To stand where some of the great moments in our nation's history took place.
To walk along streets I've only read about.
" She smiled. "But only to visit. Hawthorn is my home. "
Mama shook her head. "If you ever did take such a trip, you'd likely come home with a notebook or two full of stories."
"I certainly hope so," she responded cheerfully.
Mama settled back in her chair. "Did you know there originally weren't any plans for an archive exhibit as part of the Centennial Celebration until Mercy convinced the committee it belonged right alongside the parade and speeches?"
Mercy rolled her eyes. "Oh, Mama..."
"Well, it's true." She turned to Wilson. "Most everyone was thinking about celebrating that one day. Mercy was thinking about leaving something permanent behind."
Warmth crept into Mercy's cheeks. "I only thought it would be a shame if all these stories disappeared again once the celebration was over."
Wilson nodded slowly. "What do you hope becomes of it after the celebration?"
Mercy studied the items she'd spread across the table.
"I hope families keep bringing in their stories and keepsakes long after the centennial is over.
I hope fifty years from now they've had to expand that room because there's no longer space for everything.
" She smiled. "More than anything, I hope someone can walk through those displays and come away knowing the people who built this town—not just their names, but the lives they lived. "
Wilson's eyes followed hers to the assortment of objects awaiting their place in the display.
"Speaking of displays..." He gestured toward the table. "How'd you decide these were the things to tell your family's story?"
Mercy's expression brightened at once.
"I've changed my mind half a dozen times." She picked up her grandfather's worn medical ledger. "This belonged to Grandfather Springer. It seemed the best way to remember the years he spent caring for Hawthorn's families."
She laid the ledger down again and reached for another item. "And these are Papa's stitching irons." She smiled as she ran a fingertip lightly over the polished wooden handles. "I considered including only one, but Mama reminded me they were among the tools he reached for every day."
Mama nodded. "I expect I saw those in his hands more often than a knife and fork."
Wilson leaned forward slightly. "Did he make his own tools?"
"Not all of them," Mercy answered. "Some he purchased. Others he altered to suit the way he liked to work. Papa was forever improving one thing or another."
Wilson nodded.
Next, she picked up a small brass maker's stamp. "I almost didn't include this one." She turned it over in her hand before passing it to Wilson. The letters J. OWENS were still plainly visible. "But I decided it belonged because every saddle that left his shop carried this mark."
Wilson studied it a moment before handing it back.