The Collected Short Stories of Harriette Simpson Arnow

Marigolds and Mules

Marigolds and Mules In 1918, when Harriette Arnow was a fifth grader, her father, Elias Simpson, worked in the oil fields in Lee County and Wolfe County, Kentucky, where his family lived with him and learned about some of the inherent dangers that oil workers faced. "Marigolds and Mules" was her first published story, appearing in the third volume of a now defunct little literary magazine, Kosmos: Dynamic Stories ofToday (Feb! March 1935): 3-6. She said she was paid in "free copies" and "the glory" of seeing her name in print. The editor unfortunately misspelled her first name: at the end of her story, her name appears as Harriet L. Simpson. l topped at Mrs. Joe Madigan's. 1 liked talking to her. She was young. Not so old as my mother. She was cooking black bean soup with cheese and onion. She gave me a taste. 1 remember wishing it were a bowlful. "I made it special forJoe," she said. "Will he be home for supper?" 1 said. "Sure," she said. "Don't you get worried?" 1 said. "No," she said. 'Joe knows how to handle the stuff. He hauled it in Texas before he came here." . 33 . OHIO & KENTUCKY: THE 1930S We talked about the weather then. October in Wolf County, Kentucky, is a pretty month. There are poplars there. They make the ridge sides yellow , but the maples are red like blood. I liked the poplars best. It had rained a lot the day before. In spite of the oil and salt water and gas the world, if you didn't look at it too close, looked clean. Mrs. Madigan came with me into the yard. We looked at the marigolds. She gave me a handful. "Joe planted them," she said. "I'll pick a bunch for him. He likes the smell of them after the oil. He doesn't like the oil. But a man must live." "Is he afraid?" I said. "No," she said. "He is never afraid. Sometimes when the mud is deep in the valleys he doesn't eat so well." "The mud is deep by Big Sinking," I said. "Yes, it is deep," she said. "But tonight he will eat. He likes my bean soup." I went home. I put the marigolds in my father's empty supper pail. My mother found them there. My father was a driller. He worked from twelve to twelve. Every night I took his supper. "Who sent the marigolds?" my mother said. "NitroJoe's wife. She picked a bouquet for him," I said. My mother looked at them. She touched one with her little finger. She shook her head. "Fool," she said. "Joe likes flowers," I said. "There is no place for flowers. Not here," she said. I didn't say anything. She didn't either. It was still there in the kitchen. We could hear the squeak of the pumping rods by the window. We'd been in that shack three years. Those rods had never stopped. Not once.l They were like my father's boiler fires. It took six weeks to drill a well. The fires were never out. We had no Sundays. Every day he worked from twelve to twelve. I hated those rods. They were like long black snakes. Moving, eternally moving in long black lines. They never stopped. One night I dreamed they'd stopped. I dreamed the snakes had died. My mother listened to the rods. I know she hated them. They brought oil and gas. The smell of it choked you on a day with no wind. The oil was always in my father's clothes and hair and eyebrows. The oil was green scum on the creeks. In the valleys the wild pansies died from it. There was . 34 . MARIGOLDS AND MULES no grass in our yard. Nothing will grow where salt water has run. The water we drank tasted ofoil. We knew there was oil in it. Sometimes when it stood in the bucket for a time lights would shine on top. That is oil. "It will frost tonight," my mother said. The black snakes by the window went with a long hiss and a rasping growl. "We'll have a fire," she said. "Mother," I said, "doesJoe bring his load by Big Sinking?" "Yes," she said. " He has sixty quarts. One horse was lamed. He had to borrow mules. Pete Crowder told...