What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

William Davies

In all our productivity, and amidst all our cares, may we make sure to carve out a bit of time to stand and stare.  

"Mothers should cultivate their souls so that in turn they may cultivate the souls of their children."  

Karen Andreola penned those words long ago and later picked up the the term Mother Culture from a Parents' Review magazine.  For years she has promoted Charlotte Mason's insistence that,

"A mother reaps advantages by applying Miss Mason’s education-through-the-humanities. These cultural things aren’t frivolity but a person’s very bread of life."

I found myself malnourished in the humanities after several month's of the news monopolizing every screen I accessed. I know what to do when this happens. It is time for fresh air, for working with our hands, and for study – meaty, challenging study. I dimmed the screens and dove into books. 

It was a day of celebration when our little local library branch opened for in person browsing.  Ordering books online was a lifesaver throughout the springtime quarantine, but you can't know what you're missing without walking the aisles.  When I was able to do that I found Harriet Jacobs' Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl in the new books section.  I almost passed it up, thinking it was a new release fiction novel. That would not have been a non-starter mind you, but I was thrilled to discover it was a primary source memoir from 1862.  Over the next few days I read through the entire thing and was launched on a rabbit trail of research. 

“It has been painful to me, in many ways, to recall the dreary years I passed in bondage. I would gladly forget them if I could. Yet the retrospection is not altogether without solace; for with these gloomy recollections come tender memories of my good old grandmother, like light fleecy clouds floating over a dark and troubled sea.”

Harriet was born to a skilled carpenter who had been able to keep house with his wife and children. Hence for the first six years of her life she was unaware of her position as property of another. "Though we were all slaves, I was so fondly shielded that I never dreamed I was a piece of merchandise, trusted to them (her parents)for safe keeping…” When she was orphaned at six years of age she and her brother were moved to her mother's owner, Margaret Horniblow, where she was embraced and raised as a member of the family for another six years.  She was uncharacteristically taught to read and write during these years. 

“When I was nearly twelve years old, my kind mistress sickened and died," writes Jacobs. "She had promised my dying mother that her children should never suffer for anything; and when I remembered that, and recalled her many proofs of attachment to me, I could not help having some hopes that she had left me free. My friends were almost certain it would be so. They thought she would be sure to do it, on account of my mother’s love and faithful service."  This was not to be however, as was usually the case with benevolent owners' wishes. Her heirs considered such affection to be absurd, indulgent, and financially impractical.  Harriet was moved to the home of a lecherous doctor and his family, where she – like innumerable young black women in her situation – endured all manner of abuse.  This is where the heart of the memoir begins.  It is an honest and unusually frank retelling and, though it has been established as accurate and factual, it apparently was too raw for 19th century sensibilities.  It did not go into a second printing and was only resurrected during the Civil Rights movement of the next century. 

Harriet had an indomitable spirit and a clever mind. She foiled the doctor's attempt to break her and was driven to ensure the freedom of her children, conceived through a clandestine affair with a local landowner. Her free grandmother and uncle eventually conspired to hide her in a crawl space attic 9×7 feet and only 3-4 feet high for what ended up being seven years in nearly complete darkness save for a tiny hole she carved out to watch her children or catch the sound of their voices below.  Seven years. Body and spirit were nearly broken by the time she escaped.  Thanks to the Fugitive Slave Act, many more years of eluding the doctor would follow. He was close on her heels as she attempted to support herself and regain physical custody of her children.  (Louisa below)

Summaries of her story can be found here  

and here

Harriet eventually found refuge in the home of abolitionist Nathaniel Parker Willis and his wife Cornelia Grinnell Willis.  Willis has been referred to as the Dickens of the West. The New York Times remembered Willis "as a poet, as [being as] popular with the mass of American readers as Byron was in England; his verses were the first found and the most read on the centre tables of polite society, and his prose sketches were deemed models of perfection" (New York Times, Jan. 22, 1867, 4)  After the doctor's death Cornelia Willis finally succeeded in purchasing Harriet's freedom.  Though grateful to have the long years of running behind her, Harriet expresses the outrage that such a thing was needed in a "free" nation,

“'The bill of sale!' Those words struck me like a blow. So I was sold at last! A human being sold in the free city of New York! The bill of sale is on record, and future generations will learn from it that women were articles of traffic in New York, late in the nineteenth century of the Christian religion. It may hereafter prove a useful document to antiquaries, who are seeking to measure the progress of civilization in the United States."

May we do just that – learn from it. 

Harriet worked tirelessly for the remainder of her life as an abolitionist and teacher of newly freed children and adults.  She and her brother ran a reading room for a time and she opened a school with her daughter. I will tell you what she knew and what I know to the true – reading is the great equalizer of persons. Education is a gift.  Never take it for granted and do not stop learning during the busy years, dear mothers.  There are stories you need to hear to make sense of your world. This is one of them.  

A related title here

Upcoming reading on similar themes:

Running a Thousand Miles to Freedom by William and Ellen Craft

Viktor Frankel Man's Search for Meaning

Walter Cizek's He Leadeth Me

"We should speak only when circumstances or the glory of God or love for our neighbor requires it.  Apart from these cases it is better to be silent. In silence we find the spirit of recollection and the grace of God which is its source. We learn that to be recollected and interior people we must speak but little, and then say what the Spirit tells us in our heart we ought to say.

Readiness to speak too much is the sign of a distracted heart and mind, and such distraction is already a great evil. 

Sentiments of piety easily vanish in the course of conversation; silence on the contrary preserves and strengthens them. 

You will find few people who repent of having kept silence, but many who regret having said too much.

The wise man speaks only when the right moment comes (Sirach 20:6), that is, when silence would be wrong or unfitting. 

Whenever many words are spoken, sin is not lacking. (Proverbs 10:19) The man who speaks less is always more prudent. 

Constant experience tells us that where there is greater silence, there is greater innocence. Remember the principle that it is always better to remain silent when there is no need to speak.  It is a great art to be able deliberately to speak or remain silent, and men can be quite expert in everything else but ignorant here. Grace gives us better instruction than all the teachings of men. 

The less you speak to creatures, the more God will speak to your heart."

The Imitation of the Blessed Virgin

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal,

that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights,

that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."

I have observed this holiday in many places over the years.  As a child we lived across the street from the state fairgrounds for some years and watched fireworks in the sticky summer heat from our porch or on the back of a car.  Later, we all walked down to the park near the high school in the small town where I met my husband.  I missed one 4th entirely since I was an exchange student in the Netherlands that summer.  Then there was the summer when we stood by a grandstand at a military base in Germany with a band belting out the national anthem on an electric guitar.  I would go into labor with our first child soon after.  

We watched one of Selena's last concerts in Texas one hot Independence Day with three little boys and me pregnant with our first daughter.  There was a joint celebration in England one year where we all got bottlenecked on a farm field until 2am. 

There have been celebrations overseas that were boycotted by host nation folks for political reasons.  This year there are boycotts inside our borders.  It's not a perfect Union by any means but I like to think we continue to work towards that in our imperfect, messy manner.  There is still no other place I would rather be. 

It is stormy here at home this year.  The kids are scattered to various parties or work. I will be watching Rowan Atkinson's new series with Colin and eating the ribs slowly cooking on the grill. 

Moira sent pics of the babies in their star spangled best. 

The little girl cousins are five months old this weekend.  

I was thinking about some of the poems we have studied over the years and these two seemed timely this year.  The first we memorized years ago for school.  The second, an insightful, raw, yet hopeful look at America in the thirties by Langston Hughes.   May we continue to build one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.