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It was ironic.
I lay in my jail cell on a squeaky iron bunk, gazing at the stained
mattress above me, and I remembered the day I first understood
the meaning of the word ironic. I couldn’t help smiling at . . . well,
at the irony of it. The meaning had become clear to me ten years
ago on the day my grandmother, Beatrice Monroe Garner, was
arrested.
That day had also been a Saturday—just like today. Mother had
been distressed because Grandma Bebe, as we called her, would
miss church services tomorrow if Father didn’t go down to the
jailhouse and bail her out.
“She can’t spend the Sabbath in prison!” Mother had wailed.
“Please, John. We have to get her out of there!”
I was going to miss church services tomorrow, too, come to
think of it. Who would teach my Sunday school class of ten-year-old
girls? As my father undoubtedly would have pointed out: “Perhaps
you should have considered their welfare before getting yourself
arrested in the first place, Harriet.”
took his cup to the kitchen to refill it, then sat down and waited
for act two of this drama.
“Please, John. I’m begging you, ” Mother said. “Please get her
out of that terrible place.”
“And that’s another thing,” Father said. “What kind of an
example is she setting for our daughters?” He poured cream into
the coffee I’d brought him and slowly stirred it as if not expecting
a reply.
Aside from begging and weeping, my mother could do noth-
ing to help Grandma Bebe—which was ironic, since Grandma
was working hard to give women more power in this world. And
Grandma Bebe despised tears. “Women should never use them as weap-
ons,” she always insisted, “especially to prevail upon a man to change his
mind.” Yet, ironically, my mother had resorted to tears in order to
persuade my father. Grandma Bebe would not have approved.
But Grandma was in jail.
And tears were ultimately what convinced Father to go down-
town and bail her out. Alice had joined the deluge of weeping, and
Father wasn’t strong enough to stop the flood or stand firm against
it. No man was. My sister’s heart was as soft and gooey as oatmeal.
She could turn her tears on and off like a modern-day plumbing
faucet and was capable of unleashing buckets of them.
Alice was sixteen and so beautiful that brilliant men became
stupid whenever they were around her. The moment her wide,
blue eyes welled up, every man in sight would pull out a white
handkerchief and offer it to her as if waving in surrender. Grandma
Bebe had no patience with her.
“Your sister could do a great deal of good for the cause,” she
once told me. “Alice is the kind of woman who men go to war
over—like Helen of Troy. But she’ll squander it all, I’m sorry to
say. She’ll surrender to the first humbug who dishes her a little
sweet-talk. Women like her always do. It’s too bad,” Grandma said
with a sigh. “Your sister believes the lie that women are the weaker
sex. Her prodigious use of tears perpetuates that myth. . . . But
there’s hope for you, Harriet,” Grandma Bebe added. Whenever
the subject of Alice’s amazing beauty arose, Grandma would pat my
unruly brown hair and say, “Thank goodness you’re such a plain
child. You’ll have to rely on your wits.”
The fact that Alice came to Grandma’s rescue with tears is
ironic, isn’t it? I didn’t join the torrent of weeping that morning.
I didn’t want to let Grandma down.
I loved my grandmother, and I greatly admired her ferocity
and passion. Mind you, these weren’t qualities that polite society
admired in women, but they fascinated me. Even so, I didn’t want
to be like my fiery grandmother and end up in jail, any more than
I wanted to be a dutiful wife like Mother or a virtuous siren like
Alice. But how was I supposed to live as a modern woman, born
just before the dawn of the twentieth century? What other choices
did I have? That’s the question I was endeavoring to answer when
I ended up in jail.
But I was only ten that fateful day when Grandma got arrested
and still young enough to be ignored most of the time unless Father
needed more coffee. I was a keen observer, however, absorbing
everything that went on around me as I began drawing a map for
my life. Grandma Bebe told me that everyone’s life led somewhere,
and so I needed to have a plan.
“Grip the rudder and steer, Harriet. Don’t just drift gently down the
stream. If you don’t have a map, you might run aground somewhere or end
up crushed against the rocks. Always know where you’re headed.”
She had given up on coaching Mother and Alice—her current
saviors, ironically—and had begun putting all of her effort into
shaping me. She made that decision after she saw me kick Tommy
O’Reilly in the shin one day when he tried to bully me into giving
him my candy. Tommy was the constable’s son, and he bullied all
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the kids in town. But that day I took a step toward him as if about
to give him a cinnamon stick and kicked his bony shin, instead.
“You, my dear, have potential!” Grandma said as Tommy
hopped around on one leg, howling. “You’ll never float down-
stream, Harriet. You know how to paddle!”
My map was still just a pencil sketch, to be sure. In later years
I would embellish it as each new experience added details to the
picture. In time, I would carefully identify all of the dangers to
avoid, all of the pitfalls to be wary of. I was trying to heed Grandma’s
advice, you see, but had she heeded her own? Had she deliberately
steered her way into the town jail, or had she let go of the rudder?
Or misplaced her map? If she ever got out of jail again, I intended
to ask her.
“Please, Father, please!” Alice begged, kneeling at his feet
like someone out of the Bible. “Please don’t leave Grandma there
forever!” Alice had worked herself into such a frenzy that she was
about to faint. She was a champion at swooning—another womanly
trait Grandma loathed. All Alice had to do was lift her dainty hand
to her brow and flutter her eyelashes, and every man in sight would
race to catch her before she fell.
Father set down his coffee cup and turned to me. “Get the
smelling salts, Harriet. That’s a good girl.”
Alice was still kneeling, so at least she didn’t have too far to fall
this time. As I sprinted upstairs to retrieve the vial of ammonia salts,
I heard Father say, “Oh, very well. You can stop all the caterwaul-
ing. I’ll go down and bail Beatrice out of jail.”
I didn’t blame Father for wanting to flee from the rising flood
waters. I raced back to the kitchen and pulled the cork on the
smelling salts, then shoved them under Alice’s dainty nose. When
order was restored, I followed my father out to the front hallway.
“May I go with you to rescue Grandma?”
“Certainly not! Jail is no place for a delicate young lady.”
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Back then I didn’t believe him, but the truth of his statement
was now quite clear to me as I lay in my own jail cell.
Father plucked his duster and driving gloves from the hallstand
and stuffed his hat on his balding head, muttering darkly about
Grandma Bebe as he headed out the door. I skipped along beside
him, nodding in support. Together we started up the Model-T
Ford, and I jumped into the passenger seat. The car rattled and
coughed all the way to the end of the block before he realized I
was still there.
“Wait! Harriet . . . what . . . you can’t come along!”
I didn’t argue or weep. I simply looked up at him, eye to eye,
jutting out my chin a little. That’s how I faced Tommy O’Reilly
whenever he tried to bully me at school—I would stare silently
back at him, arms crossed, my foot aimed at his shin. The stare I
gave Father wasn’t quite as defiant as the one I used on Tommy,
but it had the same effect.
“Oh, bother it all, Harriet! I suppose you’re already here . . .”
Father turned his attention back to the car as it sputtered and
nearly died.
“It needs more throttle,” I said, pulling out the lever. “Advance
the spark a little.”
“But you aren’t coming inside, Harriet. I mean it. Jail isn’t the
sort of place . . . and your grandmother has no business . . .”
I nodded dutifully—and followed him inside the police station
just the same. Father went straight in to see the constable, Thomas
O’Reilly, Sr. He told us that Grandma Bebe had been arrested
after trying to close down a saloon last night. Most of the other
members of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union had gone
home peacefully once the police arrived to break up the protest,
but not Grandma. She had refused to give up the fight against the
evils of Demon Rum.
“And I’m afraid we had to confiscate her axe,” he finished.
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pantry to forage for their own food. They were even less capable
of reheating any of it on the stove.
Once Henry’s belly was filled, his attitude toward his new
daughter did seem to soften, slightly. “I suppose we can learn to
make the best of it,” he grumbled as he removed his boots at the
end of the day and climbed into bed beside his wife. “There’s
always next time.”
Hannah swallowed a rash reply at the mention of “next time,”
the memory of her harrowing breech labor still fresh in her mind.
She whispered a swift, silent prayer to the Almighty, instead. Then
she rested her hand on her husband’s arm and said, “She’s a beauti-
ful, healthy baby—thanks be to God. I would like to christen her
Beatrice, if it’s all the same to you. Beatrice Aurelia Monroe.”
Henry didn’t reply to Hannah’s request until after she’d fin-
ished cooking his breakfast the next morning and had set it on
the table in front of him. He crunched into a piece of bacon and
said, “That name would be acceptable, I suppose.”
Hannah had learned patience during her ten years of mar-
riage. She hadn’t expected a reply any sooner than noon. Henry
required a sufficient amount of time to pray about such matters
and didn’t like to be rushed. Three-year-old Franklin, who couldn’t
pronounce “Beatrice,” shortened the baby’s name to Bebe. The
name stuck, and my sister and I still call her Grandma Bebe seventy-
two years later.
The first few years of Grandma’s life passed uneventfully, by her
account. She grew to be a quiet, nervous child, which was under-
standable since everyone else on the farm was bigger and louder
and stronger than she was. With four older brothers to dodge—
along with a team of horses, a pair of oxen, and a herd of milk
cows—at times it felt as though there were a conspiracy to trample
poor Bebe underfoot. The first useful phrase she comprehended
as a toddler was, “Get out of the way, Bebe!”
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One day when it was hot enough to roast the chickens right
on their roosts, William decided to sail out over the river on the
swing and let go of the rope, splashing into the water some twelve
feet below, oblivious to the unforgiving rocks. Rain had fallen for
weeks that spring and the rushing river looked eager for a victim
to drown. But when William bobbed safely to the surface, Bebe’s
other brothers followed his example, leaping into the water as if
eager to meet Jesus. Bebe watched from the side of the path, wary
of the snakes that lived in the tall grass near the river. James and
Joseph had once caught a thick, glossy black snake three feet long
and had scared Bebe half to death with it as they whooped into the
barnyard, dangling their prize from the tines of a pitchfork.
After the first five years of Grandma Bebe’s jittery life had
passed, a momentous change occurred. Harriet Beecher Stowe
had published her book Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or Life Among the Lowly
in 1852, and when it made it’s way to New Canaan, the ladies from
church passed around a well-worn copy of it. Hannah read it by
lamplight in the farmhouse parlor and wept. Bebe had never seen
her sturdy, devout mother cry before, and she quickly hurried over
to comfort her.
“What’s wrong, Mama?”
“It’s this book I’m reading, Beatrice dear. It describes the daily
lives of slaves in our country, and it’s simply horrifying. Imagine
being owned by someone! Just think how horrible it would be to be
considered someone’s property and thought of as inferior. Imagine
having no life of your own, forced to do someone’s bidding day
and night, body and soul, with no power and no voice.”
Hannah talked about the plight of the slaves continually for
the next few months as she and Bebe kneaded bread and plucked
chickens and scrubbed laundry. She spoke as they weeded the
garden and peeled potatoes and mopped the floors and sewed
new clothes for the family.
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smell of wet wool. Stripped of his bulky overcoat, Mr. Smith turned
out to be a slightly built man, dressed in a city suit and fine leather
shoes. He dropped onto a kitchen chair, looking as limp and pale
as a plucked pullet. Bebe watched the color slowly return to his
pallid skin as he gulped his coffee and ate a bowl of leftover soup.
His yellow hair curled into delicate ringlets as it dried.
“What can you tell us about this package?” Hannah asked.
“When might it arrive?”
“Well, first I should explain that we don’t usually send pack-
ages to stations where young children live.” He glanced at Bebe.
“Ever since the Fugitive Slave Law went into effect, this business
has become much too dangerous to risk innocent young lives. If
a package is discovered in your possession—”
“The Good Lord can protect my children and me,” Hannah
interrupted. “We must obey God, not an unjust law. The Bible
says we are to feed the hungry and clothe the naked and rescue
the perishing.”
The stranger smiled slightly. “I’m glad you feel that way, Mrs.
Monroe.” He wrapped his fingers around his coffee cup to warm
them.
“What brings you out our way, Mr. Smith?” she asked. “I didn’t
think the Underground Railroad passed through New Canaan.”
“It doesn’t, but we’re in a difficult situation. Bounty hunters
have discovered our usual rail lines, and our safe houses simply
aren’t safe anymore. We’ve been forced to expand the railroad
into new territory, and we recalled what a faithful chapter your
local society has been in the past. I spoke with your pastor, and he
felt that our package would be safer out here on your farm than
in town, where the wrong person might accidentally see it. It’s so
hard to know whom to trust, you see.”
“You may trust us completely,” Hannah said. “How can we
help?”
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“People have made the Negro race into slaves, Beatrice, just
because their skin is a different color than ours,” she had explained.
“But the Bible says that God is no respecter of persons. Man looks
at the outward things, but God looks at our hearts.”
“Is the man’s heart as black as his skin?”
“No, his heart isn’t black at all because he knows Jesus. Our
sins are what turn our hearts black, but Jesus can wash each heart
as white as snow.” The conversation left Bebe confused. She won-
dered why Jesus didn’t wash the slave’s skin white along with his
heart, so he wouldn’t have to be a slave anymore. She had never
forgotten the beautiful color of that man’s skin—and now a slave
just like him was coming to her farm.
The next morning when Bebe peeked into her brothers’ room
to see if Mr. Smith was still asleep, all of the beds were empty. He
wasn’t downstairs in the kitchen, either. “Did Mr. Smith go—?”
Hannah shushed her. Her father and brothers were tramping
indoors after their morning chores, bringing mud, fresh milk, and
the scent of cows with them. “We’ll talk later,” Hannah said. “Sit
down and eat your biscuits.”
The boys ate breakfast, too, then left for school. While Bebe
helped her mother wash and dry the dishes, Hannah explained
that Mr. Smith had left at dawn.
“Did Papa decide about the package?”
Hannah nodded. “It will arrive in a few days.”
The news astounded Bebe. She had never known her father to
make up his mind so quickly. He always emphasized the need to
“wait on the Lord” for any answers to prayer, and waiting usually
took a very long time. The Lord must have let Henry go straight
to the front of the line for an answer this time.
“But listen to me, Beatrice. This is very important.” Hannah
crouched down so she could look right into Bebe’s eyes as she
gripped her thin shoulders. “Your papa and I have decided not
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to tell your brothers about Mr. Smith or the package. The more
people who know about it, the more dangerous it will be for that
poor soul who is trying to escape. If one of your brothers should
happen to have a slip of the tongue and accidentally tell someone
at school, we could all be in danger. Do you understand?”
Bebe nodded soberly.
“Promise you won’t say a word? To anyone?”
“I promise.” No one had ever entrusted her with such an impor-
tant secret before—and the fact that her brothers didn’t know
about it made her smile on the inside.
“You aren’t frightened, are you, Beatrice?”
“No.”
Bebe was terrified.
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