Together Apart Read online

  I've told Mama all this and one thing I stopped short of telling Papa. I told her that, one day, you and I plan to meet again, and never to part. Mama cried. Sad tears, at first, then a small smile formed on her face and she said, "I'll be expecting you to bring my grandbabies for regular visits." I blushed.

  And I am not the only Barnett girl blushing these days. Back in September, Rusty Farley asked Papa if he might call on Hester. Papa gave Rusty his blessing, and they do make a handsome couple.

  Now, before I close, I must tell you of my morning. When I awoke, the first snow of the season was falling past my window. Wet, heavy flakes, much like the snow that fell on the morning of the blizzard. I closed my eyes, hoping it was only a dreadful dream, but when I opened them again, the snow was still coming down. I've planned for this day, Isaac, mentally practiced it as if a part in a play. I couldn't be sure if practice alone could turn my fear around. There was but one way to know for sure.

  My footprints mapped a path as I moved away from the shelter of the buildings and into the open space of the lawn. I stopped and looked back. My path had not been erased. I walked on—until I had come to the place where town and prairie meet. I closed my eyes, lifted and turned my face to the north sky and then waited for Wild Wind's rasp and roar. I felt only the brush and heard only the whisper of Fair Wind's breeze. I imagined your hand in mine and together we crossed from lawn to prairie. On we walked, glancing back now and again and stopping only when the house had disappeared to white. You played Hannah music then, and I began to dance, round and round, tracing spirals in the snow. Round and round, until dizzy with the joy of it. We stayed there on the prairie for nearly an hour, and I could have stayed longer, would have, if not for you, Isaac. You whispered that there was a surprise waiting for me back at the house. And what a wonderful surprise your letter has been!

  You need not worry, Isaac. I am still mindful of the dangers and promise to be careful. I know that Wild Wind is out there, somewhere. When she does blow in, I will not cower, nor will I be ladylike. I will dig in my heels, work the saliva around in my mouth—and spit in her face. Once for Jon and once for Jacob. I will turn every one of Eliza's gaslights to full wick and set a lighted candle at every window, then sit before the fire and muster every last ounce of my imagination to grow the light into a powerful beacon, send it shining and sailing out across the prairie. And beyond—send it all the way to New Orleans to light the eyes of the man I love—today, tomorrow, and forever!

  Write often and at length, and I will do the same—until we are together again.

  With all my love,

  Hannah

  THE END

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  Author's Note

  Though Hannah, Isaac, and all the characters in this novel are fictional, the blizzard that so profoundly affected their lives was a real event in history. On January 12, 1888, a fierce winter storm swept out of Canada and engulfed the states of the central plains—from the Rocky Mountains east to the Mississippi River; from the Canadian border south to Texas. Newspaper accounts from that time estimated the loss of life from five hundred to a thousand. Tragically, many of those who perished were school children, prompting some to name the storm "The School Children's Blizzard."

  Today, if we want to know the weather forecast, we simply turn on the radio or television or visit a weather Web site on the Internet. Such was not the case in 1888. The look and color of the sky, the mercury rising or falling from the bulb of a thermometer, a sudden shift in speed or direction of the wind were the only forecasting tools available to individuals living on the plains.

  Snow had fallen during the night of January 11-12, and it continued to fall, heavily at times, throughout the morning. Temperatures were unseasonably warm, ranging from the upper twenties to lower thirties across the region. The wind was southerly and light. With no hint of what was to come, farm children set off for school, some on horseback though most on foot, their lunch pails swinging at their sides. The distance to school varied from a few hundred feet to several miles. The majority of rural schoolhouses were one-room frame structures and were heated by wood- or coal-burning stoves. At best, these stoves provided only modest heat in these often drafty buildings.

  The storm moved from northwest to southeast at a rate of fifty miles per hour. Depending on the geographic location of a particular school, the storm struck at different times of day—morning in the central portions of the Dakotas, Nebraska, and Kansas; afternoon in the eastern sections of these same states.

  Descriptions of the storms arrival, however, were strikingly similar. A wall of heavy black clouds appeared on the northwest horizon. The wind shifted abruptly to the north and slammed into the schoolhouses with near-hurricane force. Walls shook and windows rattled as if struck by the open palm of a giants hand. Many likened the wind's roar to that of a fast-moving freight train. Snow that earlier had lain harmlessly on the ground lifted and filled the air, reducing visibility to little more than an arm's length. Temperatures plummeted by as much as thirty degrees within minutes of the storm's arrival and continued to fall throughout the day and following night, reaching -30 in many regions by the morning of Friday, January 13.

  Those caught out of doors when the blizzard struck later gave chilling descriptions of their ordeal. The wind-driven snow so choked the air that the simple act of breathing was difficult. Eyelids froze shut. The hems of girls' long skirts crusted with snow and tangled about their ankles, pulling them down. Deep drifts created hidden, sinking traps. Feet and hands grew numb from the cold.

  Survival, in large part, depended on the decisions individual teachers made that day. Keeping the children inside the schoolhouse until help arrived was the choice made by many. This was especially true for those schools that had an adequate supply of fuel on hand to keep the stove burning through the night. In many instances, fathers set out to fetch their children home by horse and sleigh. Some fought their way to the school, though others were forced to turn back when their horses refused to face into the ferocious wind or because the fathers themselves became lost.

  There were teachers who, for various reasons, led their students into the storm. Minnie May Freeman, teaching at a school near Ord, Nebraska, was left with no choice when the wind ripped away a portion of the school's roof. Miss Freeman, still in her teens, led her sixteen pupils to a home a half-mile away. Many of the children suffered frostbite, but they were otherwise unharmed. Another story had a very different ending. Lois May Royce was teaching at a school near Plainview, Nebraska. When the storm hit, there were only three children at the school: Peter Poggensee, nine; Otto Rosberg, nine; and Hattie Rosberg, six. Having run out of wood for the stove, Miss Royce decided to lead the children to a farm that was only two hundred yards (two football fields) to the north. Blinded by the swirling snow, they wandered off course and became hopelessly lost, finally sinking into the snow near a haystack. By morning all three children had died. Miss Royce survived, but her feet were so badly frozen they required amputation.

  Some teachers, perhaps not realizing the severity of the storm, promptly dismissed school and sent all the children home. Alone or in small family groups, many found their way by following fence lines or the stubbled rows of harvested corn stalks. Others, lost and weakened from hours of trudging through waist-deep drifts, survived through the night by burrowing into hay or straw stacks. Sadly, still others found no shelter of any kind. The Westphalen sisters, ages thirteen and seven, concerned about their widowed mother, convinced the teacher of their school near Rogers, Nebraska, to allow them to go out into the storm. When their bodies were discovered many days later, the younger girl was found wrapped in the older sister's coat.

  No one living on the plains at that time was spared from the horror of the storm, be they in safe shelter or not. And no one forgot. In 1914, the last words of O. W. Coursey's dying mother were these—"Son, you will never know the burden that was lifted from my heart the next morning after the Big Blizzard, when I looked out and
saw you four older children scampering home over the snowdrifts when I was positively sure you had all perished in the storm."

  On January 12, 1940, fifty-two years after the storm, a group of Nebraskan survivors formed the "January 12, 1888, Nebraska Blizzard Club." Over the next several years, the club gathered personal recollections from hundreds of survivors and compiled their stories into a book titled In All Its Fury: The Great Blizzard of 1888. Their vision for the book was this: "The January 12, 1888, Blizzard Club wishes to preserve the records of the past because they will help us better to understand the present and the future. Yesterday has lessons for all of us, but tomorrow throws not one ray of light upon the problems of today."

  In All Its Fury was reprinted in 1988 by J & L Lee Books, Lincoln, Nebraska. I found it to be an invaluable resource and recommend it to those who wish to learn more about this tragic storm.

  On March 11—14, 1888, another horrific blizzard, the "Great White Hurricane," as it was called, paralyzed the East Coast of the United States, from the Chesapeake Bay to Maine. More than four hundred lives were reported lost.

  As my character Hannah might say, "Wild Wind had a wickedly busy year."

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