THE PAST
The winter of 1854-1855 was completely lost to me. Oh, I knew where I was at all times, but only after I got there. I had no plan. I just wandered south - sometimes by stagecoach, sometimes hitching rides with friendly travelers, and sometimes just walking. I didn't see anyone I knew; in fact, avoided the areas where I might have run into a friend or acquaintance. I would have to talk about jenny, and I couldn't.
As I traveled, I didn't do anything in particular, just passed on to the next place. I'm sure I went through some interesting country as I crossed over the Siskiyou Mountains into California, then followed the path of the Sacramento River south through California's great Central Valley. If you asked me to describe even one mile of the trip, I don't think I could.
Sacramento had been a busy town in 1849. It still was, but in a more sedate way, as more and more of the population were settlers, and fewer were miners. There, I booked passage on a steamer headed down through the Delta to San Francisco Bay. Like Sacramento, San Francisco had a glossier facade than in Gold Rush days, but it still seemed to be a rough, outlaw town not far below the surface. I spent as little time there as possible, waiting only until I could get a berth on a ship headed for Panama.
I don't recall much about the time on the ship. I suppose everything went smoothly. Winter had been approaching when I left California. When I disembarked on the beach at Panama, the temperature was near 90 degrees. It would stay that way all the time I was there, mostly in the high 80s in the day, and never falling out of the 70s at night. There was very little rain, but the skies were often cloudy, and humidity was usually pretty high. Odd weather for Christmas time, but maybe just right for me.
I lived on the beach for almost two months - a modern-day Robinson Crusoe, although the only thing marooning me was my own mind. What did I do during that time? I don't know. I didn't have any books to read. I seldom went off the beach into the jungle because I was afraid of the mosquitoes, and the possibility of getting malaria, again. I think I must have just sat quietly for hours, watching the ocean.
I had found a spot away from the main ship landing area, where I could be alone, and wouldn't have to meet passengers coming or going. I knew from my previous time in Panama, that robbers (both Panamanians and fellow Americans) were often about, preying on the travelers passing through. A lone man on the beach would have been an easy target, but I never worried, and never had any trouble. I enlisted a group of local children to bring me fresh fruit from the jungle each day. I think most of them were afraid of the strange gringo who lived by the ocean, but they weren't afraid of the pennies that I gave them for the food they brought to me.
Perhaps strangely, my body remained quite healthy, although my mind was another matter. Considering how little I remember of my long stay, I think I may have been quite close to losing myself, altogether. Why I didn't, I don't know, but finally a time came when my thoughts were clear enough to urge me to continue on in my travels.
The first time I crossed the Isthmus, it had been a rigorous, several day journey, half with pack mules and half in canoes. In January, while I was living on the beach, they began operating a train across Panama. It was proudly announced as the first transcontinental railroad in North America. It was, but "the continent" at that point was only 50 miles wide, and one could cross "North America" in about five hours. If the name was somewhat misleading, the trip itself, made in relative comfort despite numerous stops and starts, was a very pleasant and welcome change from the old way.
I'm not sure how often the train ran. The day I boarded it, a ship had recently arrived from California, and there were enough passengers to fill the available space. I found myself talking to other people for the first time in several months, an experience I seemed to have almost forgotten. It took a while for me to get used to hearing other voices.
At the eastern terminus of the railroad, the new town of Aspinwall was thriving, packed with travelers arriving from the east, and those - like me - waiting to catch the next ship for New Orleans. There weren't enough accommodations yet for everyone, but I was lucky enough to be able to treat myself to a room with a real bed, and a restaurant with rather good food. After my extended fruit-only diet, I was a little cautious of what I ate at first, but did not suffer any consequences.
I had to wait a week for a ship to take me across the Gulf, but I had plenty of money for bed and board, and didn't mind the waiting time. I was feeling quite well physically, and "better" mentally than I had felt since leaving Oregon. I couldn't keep my thoughts from wandering to Jenny - that wasn't a bad thing - I wanted to think of Jenny! - but I was still fighting between the sadness and the happy memories. "Happy" was winning more often each day, but it was still a struggle.
My eventual passage across the Gulf of Mexico was uneventful. Both the water and the air were about the same temperature - and the same consistency! - of a Saturday night bath. I didn't spend any more time in New Orleans than was necessary to book passage up the Mississippi. It was still winter as we traveled north, but there was no ice on the Mississippi, or on the Ohio when we reached there at Cairo, Illinois. It was late February when Pittsburgh came in sight, only a few days different than when I arrived in 1848 (after the Mexican War), and again in 1850 (returning from the California gold fields).
***
It was late enough in the day when I arrived at Pittsburgh that I got a room for the night. However, I was eager to see my sister Mary, and after an early breakfast, made my way to the convent. She, of course, did not expect me, but it was a happy "homecoming" for both of us.
"Have you become a real nun yet, little sister?" I asked her, after we had hugged a few minutes, then found a quiet place to talk.
"No, Johnny, I'm still just a visitor, but nobody has suggested that I leave. They all seem to like me, and they know that I am committed to them, even if I am not fully committed to their religion. I don't mind the prayers and rituals , but mostly I thrive on the companionship, and the working together on so many projects. I suspect this will be my home, forever."
She looked healthy, and very happy, so I had no reason to question her decision. As surprising as it still was to me, I thought then (and think, now) that it was the right choice for her.
She hadn't heard from me for five years, so was eager to know what I had been doing. I told her the whole story, but mostly in terms of my time with Jenny. Although Mary was younger than me, and had only experienced one short period of love, I was sure it was the kind of love that I had with Jenny. I was sure Mary was the only one who could really understand the overwhelming happiness of finding one another, followed by the horrible loneliness of loss. Something similar was what had led her to the convent, originally. When she suggested that the beach at Panama had been my "nunnery," it was clear that she knew it all.
Mary got a good laugh over Jenny teasing me about talking too much. She thought reading books to one another, as we traveled along, was an excellent idea, although she expressed doubt that "The Scarlet Letter" was appropriate reading for a 15-year old girl. She loved our kissing "practice," as we denied that it had anything to do with the two of us. She was amazed that we didn't talk about romance on the wagon seat, and that we actually waited until Jenny's 18th birthday to marry. "Lee and I would never have made it. Well, to tell the whole truth, we didn't make it!"
I wasn't shocked. She had said enough the last time we talked for me to have the idea that some of their "courtship" may have been of the married type. I was glad for her that she had that much to remember.
My story telling eventually reached an end, and she asked the obvious question. "So, what are you going to do next, Johnny?"
"I don't know," was my very honest answer. "I couldn't stay in Oregon. Jenny and Oregon will always be the same for me, and I couldn't be there without her. All my friends from Iowa are now in Oregon or California. I'm only here because - even though it isn't really "home," anymore - it is the only other place I know. I needed to see you, and I will go to Saltsburg to see our family, but after that, I have no plans.
"In fact, I'm a little worried about going to Saltsburg. They'll want to know what I've been doing, which has to involve talking about Jenny. But they didn't know her, at all, and they really don't know that version of me, either. What do I say?"
She took my question seriously, and didn't answer for a moment. "They'll want to know what you've been doing for five years, which of course includes Jenny. But you're right; they don't really know either of you, so they will be sorry for Jenny's death, but only in the sense of any other relative or friend dying, Probably just say that you met a girl on your way to Oregon, married her three years later, but she died before you could have a family. That's really about all they'll understand."
After visiting for a couple of hours, I took my leave, with no promises of ever seeing one another, again. I was very glad I came. It was too late in the day to get a boat up the canal, so I stayed in Pittsburgh another night, and arrived at Saltsburg the next day. As I left the boat, I remembered that my brother Andrew lived (or had lived) at the carriage shop, so I stopped there, first. He was working, but stopped to give me a good brotherly hand shake. We were close enough in age that we had grown up together, so knew each other well. Still, we had been out of each other's lives for a long time, and there wasn't much to talk about. I took the time to see his wife and their three (!) children, but then continued my walk through town. Not much seemed to have changed since I left; Saltsburg was just Saltsburg.
Mother was alone when I reached the house, except for a passel of little kids who I assumed were all my brothers and sisters. I knew a couple of the older ones, of course. I was very pleased to see that Mother was not carrying any baby inside or out, and the youngest I saw seemed to be about three years old. I hoped that part of her life was now over, and that she was content with the new one.
She was, of course, surprised and excited and pleased to see her long-lost, first-born child. We shared a long hug, and a bit of a cry. I was glad that we had a little time to ourselves before the other adults arrived. While we were alone, I told her about my visit with Mary. I didn't really have much to add to what little she already knew, but she was glad to have a recent report. She wanted to know everything that had happened with me in the past five years, but I suggested we wait until the others were home, and I would only need to tell the tale once. Instead, I asked her to introduce me to my brothers and sisters. Two were old enough to remember me as their brother, a couple of the others were pretty sure they remembered my last visit (but not that we were related), and of course the youngest three had no idea who I was.
When Pa came up from the locks, his strong hand shake and brief hug were cordial and welcoming, but I think we were both a little uncertain about how our relationship had changed. Rachel, my gossip-mongering sister, was next to appear. She was very pretty, and certainly old enough to have attracted suitors, but apparently remained unclaimed. Perhaps those who might have asked her couldn't get a word in edgewise! Anyway, I loved her, and she gave me a sisterly hug, and immediately wanted all the details of my life and adventures.
Last to appear was Abe - the map maker - now a full-grown man, home briefly from Pittsburgh, where he was studying engineering in college. Ha and Rachel were the only ones there with whom I had shared any real brother-and-sister time, and Abe and I greeted each other warmly. I was glad to be with them.
That evening, I made sure I passed on Mary's greetings to all of them, then we gathered together for me to tell them about my adventures. One would think that I could make five years of experiences last quite a long time, but most of it was about Jenny - getting to know one another on the wagon seat, our extended "courtship," our wedding, our brief but amazingly exciting and fulfilling marriage, Jenny's death... Most of it would not have been of interest to them, and most of it I had no desire to share. Neither did I want to explain my "lost winter" on the Panama beach. There wasn't a lot left to fill five years of absence.
I did tell them about going to Iowa, only to find that most of my friends there were getting ready to move to Oregon or California. I explained hiring on to drive one of the oxen wagons to Oregon, and how the owners of the wagon eventually became my in-laws. My parents and my older siblings still remembered my description of the California trip, so there wasn't much new or exciting to tell about the wagon train trip. (I didn't even have any gold dust to show them!) I did dress up the narrative somewhat for the younger ones, to emphasize our "Indian troubles" in Idaho. They did find that thrilling. I finished off by telling them about the Willamette Valley, and of my time helping to build houses for the new settlers.
As Mary had predicted, they were interested in the fact that I had got married, and "sad" that Jenny had died, but they couldn't feel more than that, and in a way I was glad. That really hadn't been "family business;" that was just Jenny and me.
I stayed in Saltsburg another day, but I felt that the visit was really over, and it was time to "move on." The questions were where was I going, and what was I going to do when I got there? I didn't have any answers. I just knew that Saltsburg was no longer 'home," and I had no real ties to anywhere but Oregon, and I couldn't go back there. I suppose I had already faced the fact that I was just a wanderer, with no base and no destination. That reality became especially clear as I got ready to leave Saltsburg.
While aboard the canal boat, I had heard some men talking about new settlements in Clearfield County, some 75 miles northeast of Saltsburg. I had never been in that direction, and knew nothing about it. My impression was that it wasn't pristine wilderness, but there had been few people there, to date, and settlements were few, and widely scattered. I had no reason to go there - didn't know what I'd do when I got there - but I needed someplace to go, and that sounded interesting. After I had said my goodbyes to the family, I started walking into the hills.
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