You Can't Un-Ring the Bell (eBook)

Poplin, of the “Turnip Green Patch Story”

When Poplin discovered that the man whom she thought she was marrying had suddenly and without warning married another woman, she was shocked. To make matters worse, she was dressed in her wedding gown waiting for him to pick her up so they could elope when she was told of this devastating news. He had eloped, but not with her. She realized that her hopes and dreams of a happy marriage with the man who had so freely professed love for her, was hopeless, as he now belonged to someone else.

The news of her “condition” spread like wildfire. An illegitimate child on the way. Such a disgrace. Consequently, she was kept cloistered in her home, where her mother frequently reminded her of the shame she had brought on her family’s name. No one seemed to put the blame on her lover, but assumed she had seduced him.

“You might as well wear a scarlet ‘A’ on your forehead, like that adulteress did, in that book that Pastor Hamlin preached against Sunday morning; that sinful book, that he forbade anyone to read. He was looking straight at you!” Poplin could only bow her head in shame, as her mother continued her tirade. “I think you’ll stay away from church from now on, Poplin Smith. And when the peddling wagon comes, you stay in the house out of sight; I’ll do the trading. In fact, since you’re already beginning to show, you can just stay in the house, altogether.”

Poplin had gone to Miss Sadie, the local midwife, early on, and had been given an approximate date for her confinement. The midwife had been kindly, and in a reassuring tone of voice said, “Honey, you’re not the first, and no doubt you’ll not be the last,” as she gave her a gentle pat on the back.

Her mother had bought a length of flannel material from the peddler and had made two little gowns for the expected baby, as well as cut narrows strips of cloth to serve as a belly band. “You’ll need to put this band on around the belly to hold its navel in, so it won’t stick out and look ugly, and maybe even cause a hernia.” She had also made a couple of diapers and secured two safety pins in readiness for the baby.

After Poplin went to bed that night, she laid her hand gently on her abdomen, and whispered loving words to her baby. “I’ll always take care of you, sweet Carrie,” because she believed—and wished—with all her heart that her baby would be a girl. This became a nightly ritual, and was always her last thoughts as she lulled herself to a peaceful sleep.

After a while her mother began to reconcile herself to the inevitable, and had calmed down, somewhat. Some afternoons she and Poplin would take glasses of lemonade and sit on the front porch. They were acutely aware that neighbors, formerly friendly, ignored them as they walked by. The mothers in the group would caution their daughters to look the other way. It was as if viewing an unwed pregnant woman might be contagious. They certainly did not want to wave at her, or heaven forbid, speak to her, as this might be construed as approving of, or at least accepting, the illegitimate pregnancy.

A couple of weeks prior to her due date she began to experience an uncomfortable cramping sensation, but she tried to ignore it, as she tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position in bed. “Not time yet,” she thought, attempting to disregard her discomfort. But the pains continued, so she got up and rekindled the fire in the fireplace, and started the early morning chores. But the tightening of her womb intensified and the contractions were coming at more frequent intervals and were accompanied with excruciating pain. She finally called out to her mother. They determined it was probably her time, though a little earlier than the midwife had said. “Maybe you’re farther along than you thought,” suggested her mother. “You’ve always been bigger than the dates would seem.” But Poplin was sure of the conception date, but said nothing to refer to that time.

And so it was that on this very cold February morning, her mother hitched up her horse to the buggy, and went to get the midwife. When she arrived, she hurried down from the buggy and knocked on the door. Despite her anger at Poplin she was feeling anxious about leaving her alone. She knocked again, and a little boy in a flannel nightshirt and tousled blonde curls opened the door. But he opened it only slightly, not wanting to add the cold outside air to the cold room inside.

“Mama’s not here,” he volunteered, not waiting for a question. “She’s gone to deliver a baby. Don’t know where. Been gone all night. Said not to worry, because where ever she is when she gets through, she might just lay down there and sleep awhile. Guess you’ll need to go get the doctor.” And he shut the door.

On her way back home, as the first few snowflakes were falling, Mrs. Smith stopped at the first farmhouse she came to. She wasn’t sure who lived there. When the lady came to the door, Mrs. Smith told her of her predicament.

“I came to get the midwife, but she’s away on another case. My daughter is at home in labor and is alone. I need to get back home to see after her.” The woman was looking at her, stone faced. “Can I ask if the man of the house would please ride over to Dr. Barkley’s and fetch him for the delivery?”

“Aren’t you that woman whose daughter is having a baby out of wedlock?” Not waiting for an answer, she continued to express her opinion. “Don’t know if the doctor will come out for a case like that. Wait here. I’ll go ask my husband if he will go.” With much indignant grumbling for being called upon to participate in such a shameful activity, he finally agreed to go.

Mrs. Smith hurried home to find Poplin writhing in pain. She began to wring her hands with concern, and frequently looked out the window for the appearance of the doctor.

When Dr. Barkley arrived in his own buggy, enshrouded in multiple layers of lamb’s wool blankets, he was in a foul mood.

“I don’t appreciate being called out in such bad weather,” he said as he went to warm himself at the blazing fireplace. “It would be bad enough to come out for somebody who is somebody, but to come out to deliver a bastard that’ll never amount to anything is against my principles!”

He sat his black medical bag on a near-by chair. “Get me a pan of warm water Mrs. Smith,” he ordered, and she emptied the tea kettle into the wash basin and brought it to him. Then turning to Poplin, he pulled the bed covers back and started to examine her.

“Oh, please wait till this pain is over,” she begged.

“Then there’ll just be another. Besides I can tell more about what’s happening during a pain.”

“Please. Please don’t be so rough. You’re hurting me.” Then, turning her head to the wall, she added, to no one in particular, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” Her pleas were ignored as the doctor carried out the examination.

“I got here just in time. She’s ready to start pushing,” he said. And then turning to Mrs. Smith asked, “Do you have a step stool anywhere?” She brought the step stool from a nearby closet. “Put it there by the kitchen table.” He brought his black bag and placed it in a nearby chair. He laid out some ominous-looking instruments.

To Poplin he said, “Now get up and step on that stool and climb up on the kitchen table and lay down. I need you on a flat surface, not buried up in that feather bed, and I’m sure not going to break my back bending over this low bed.

“Hold her legs apart, Mrs. Smith”

“I can’t do this,” screamed Poplin “I’ve got to get out of here. Just let me run away,” and she struggled to get up.

Dr. Barkley grabbed her hair and jerked her back in a supine position, and not missing an opportunity to reprimand her said, “You should have thought of this when you were out having fun.”

Finally, a little baby, all red and squalling, was delivered. “Is my baby alright?” asked Poplin? “I want to see her. Let me see my sweet Carrie. Mama, let me hold her”

“It’s a boy,” her mother responded. “He looks like he’s okay; just small.”

The cord was tied and cut. He was quickly wrapped in a quilt and taken to the hearth by the fire. He continued to cry at the top of his lungs. Dr. Barkley delivered the afterbirth, which was added to the logs in the fireplace. The odor of burning flesh permeated the room. Mrs. Smith rolled up some cotton and wrapped it with a clean rag, making a pad, and placed it on Poplin to absorb the bleeding.

“You can get up off the table now and get back in your bed.” Then addressing Mrs. Smith, he said, “Having a baby this easy may make her more likely to repeat such a thing again. Don’t call me if she gets in trouble again, for I won’t be coming a second time.”

As he went out the door he said, “Not only did I have to get up out of my good warm bed, but I haven’t even had my breakfast yet. I’ll be expecting you to come by and pay my bill in a day or two. If you need anything else, go get the midwife.”

Poplin gratefully crawled back into her bed. “But Mama, I still hurt,” she cried.

“That’s just after-pains. That’s normal. Hush up, while I tend to the young ‘un. What kind of name are you going to give him? Make sure it’s not a family name, or the same as anyone...