Saturday, July 4, 2015

THE LION AND THE EAGLE: Growing up with Oliver and Emily.

THE LION AND THE EAGLE.
1768-1770. Growing Pains
Books! Books! Books! At first they baffle Abbey. Emily seems to carry one with her whenever she comes to visit.
“My father insists,” she tells the aunt. “He does not want my mind to grow lazy.”
They become used to the sight, viewing it as an appendage to her hand and not a symbol, as her father probably intended, of the superiority of her cultured background.
“She seems to like books,” Oliver says.
A book is certainly of great value, Abbey chuckles to herself, but can’t she, for once, leave the thing at home? There she is, climbing the big weeping willow with Oliver and Luke. And next thing you know, she’s down on her knees, digging for worms. And slopping the hogs. And rowing the galley with all that river flotsam and fish smell. And always racing through the meadow and around the house, muddying those lovely velvet dresses despite the pinafores protecting them.
“It must drive her mother and father—to say nothing of the washerwoman—absolutely batty,” Abbey sighs aloud.
The boys chuckle.
“When does she ever have time for those prissy authors?” she adds. “Marlowe and Pope? Jonson and Swift? Hogwash! Here’s your morning dose of book reading as taught by yours truly, Abigail Thorndike:”
King George he was a glutton,
A glutton bold was he.
He ate Vermont for breakfast
Had New York with tea.
But Pennsylvania made him gag,
Upchucking in pure ag-on-y!
Oliver and Luke double over laughing.
“And putting up with all the roughhousing,” she continues. “Going home with blackened eyes, puffed lips, bleeding shins. Thank goodness she is able to dish it out just as soundly to you boys.”
The boys smile. Aunt Abbey seems to know everything.
She acknowledges the rebellious streak in the young girl and, to the credit of both, does not mistake it for political rebellion. It is childish rebellion, pure and simple, against the straitjacket of an aristocratic world. A world of powdered wigs, bowing, and curtsying. A world of private libraries filled with globes that spin in walnut cradles and books that smell of leather and are filled with old ideas.
But Abbey does not know everything, for she was not present when Sarah died. She was not aware of what a frightened Emily saw as she placed the locket in the hand of the young boy, his head pressed tight against the breast of his lifeless mother. It was the look of determination in Oliver’s eyes. Without even knowing it, her life became entwined with that of Oliver Morrison.
One day while the two are sailing, the boom swings out and knocks her book overboard. Oliver laughs hysterically as Emily reaches down and pulls the soggy pages of Romeo and Juliet from the water.
“I don’t know what it is, Oliver Morrison,” she says, “but something keeps making me come back to you. It’s absolutely frightening.”
+ + +
Oliver teaches Emily how to row a boat, change a sail, fillet a fish, milk a cow, gather eggs—and hundreds of other actions taken for granted in the lives of the non-privileged working class. She continues bringing books with her, but she seldom has time to open them. He introduces her to an entirely new world—the mirror opposite of her dainty and dutiful world of French lessons and harpsichord lessons and the constant lecturing from her mother on how to be a proper lady. When she has to go home, it saddens both of the boys.
“Why do you always have to go just when we’re having fun?” Oliver asks her one day.
“My parents make me take lessons,” she replies.
“Why do they make you?”
“Because they know what’s best.”
“We don’t have to take lessons,” Luke says.
“You’re not girls. You’re boys.”
“Even if we were girls,” Luke says, “we wouldn’t sit still for those stupid lessons.”
“Maybe some people think they are better than other people,” Oliver says, glancing at Emily.
Emily starts down the hill, stops, and wheels around. While she is used to their boyish sarcasm and occasional taunts, she is not afraid to fight back.
“The Bible says ‘Honor thy father and thy mother.’ ”
Oliver and Luke stare at each other.
“It doesn’t say ‘honor thy Aunt Abbey and Thy Uncle Nathan,’ ” Oliver replies. “But we honor them anyway since our real mother is dead and our father is sick with the palsy.”
“They are like a mother and father,” Luke adds. “And they don’t make us take silly lessons.”
“You always gang up on me,” she shouts, ending the discussion. “I’m going home and I’m not coming back.”
She runs off, but she always returns.

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