Song of the Swallow

At the rear of Jesse Auditorium, Orval Stark peered at his daughter Jennie from afar as she assumed her seat in a wooden chair. She smoothed her graduation robes and touched her cap. 

He felt someone brush his arm. A young man handed him a program, embossed with “University of Missouri, June 1913.” 

Pride. Guilt. Sadness. All three emotions rushed over him. She has accomplished so much. But do I deserve any credit? 

Though some might say his motherless children learned to be proficient in life skills because his own were lacking, he told himself he raised them to be independent. Of that, he was most successful. 

The hall remained almost empty, so from where she was, Jennie vaguely made out her brothers seated in the balcony. Her vision was not the best for such a distance, so she removed her glasses and attempted to clean them with her robe. 

But, wait… My goodness! I simply cannot, cannot believe it! 

The young woman’s mouth hung open. Off came her spectacles for the second time in as many minutes. Putting her glasses partway into her mouth, she blew steam on them, wiped them again, and replaced them on her nose. 

Grandfather Stark is here! When…? How? 

Jennie again faced forward in her chair, clutching her hands to her chest. She took another glimpse upwards to the left. Yes. He was there, next to Jay and Johnny. But her father was absent. 

She buried her face in her hands, hiding the tears threatening to spill. The following hour passed as though in a dream where all suspends and whirls. Dots formed before Jennie’s eyes, and she could not move when someone called them to the stage. 

A lady to her right grasped her arm, pulling upward. The candidates needed to get to the platform without delay. 

As the students lined up awaiting their turn, Jennie gazed outside a nearby window. The upper six panes tilted, allowing the hot air to escape. Upon a sycamore tree branch, a swallow perched. She knew it by its tail. 

Swallows frequently flew over the campus at dusk, briefly perching in the elms before departing. She did not remember seeing one this close and staying so still. The bird seemed to return her gaze. 

A pudgy administrator called out each successive candidate, first name, then last. Jennie panicked. She had taken great pains to let the registrar’s office know that she had a middle name. And that she spelled it M-A-Y, not M-A-E.

 “Miss. Elizabeth. Spears.” 

Jennie focused on the steps. This was not the occasion to stumble. She drew in her breath, held it, then exhaled. She worked hard for the past four years, no, eight at least. Her brothers could not remember when she became a bookworm, but they suspected it was soon after her mother’s untimely death. 

Jennie no longer remembered the timbre of her mother’s voice, but recalled the gentle touch under her chin. And the words she would never forget. 

Straighten your back. Hold up your chin. Carry yourself with the proper deportment, and no one will question your worth. 

“Miss. Jennie. May. Stark.” 

The student strode onto the stage, received her diploma, and transformed into a college graduate at long last. She glanced up at the gallery but recognized not a soul.

Then came a shout. “That’s my sister! Jennie! You did it!” 

Jennie blinked. Her countenance lifted, her cheeks going pink. That John, never shy about anything.

It was glorious, not mortifying, to hear him yell. She looked upward again and grinned at the blurry masses. She prayed she was searching in the right direction, hoping her family realized she was smiling at them. 

Parchment in her left hand, she placed her right hand over her heart as she paused before descending the steps. Behind thick lenses, her eyes sparkled. 

The ceremonies ended before she knew it. Jennie stayed glued to her seat as she discussed with her brothers earlier. “You remain there,” Jay had instructed her. “We will come find you.” 

It took perhaps ten minutes for her relatives to wade their way through the crowd as Jennie bounced in place. She spotted her brothers, but Pa was not with them. This absence no longer mattered when she gazed upon the beaming Mr. James Knox Stark. He looked much the same as his 50th wedding anniversary photo, dapper, with a merry glint in his eye.

 “Oh, Grandfather!” 

The newly minted graduate buried her head in the hunched, aging man’s chest. He hugged her tightly.

 “Miss Jennie, all of us are so very proud.” 

Grandfather Stark clutched Jennie’s arm so long that John tapped him on the arm. “Grandpa! Let me at this old nagging sister.” Her face twisted in confusion. “I mean, this magnificent, most awe-inspiring girl!” The teenager grasped her by the waist and squeezed. Then the more reserved Jay pecked her on the cheek.

 The group proceeded outside to a large blue and white striped tent on Francis Quadrangle. There, most graduates of the College of Arts and Science met with their professors and administrators, introducing their parents and basking in congratulations. Jennie avoided the tradition.

 Under a tent was a light lunch buffet-style. Johnny secured a large table for the celebratory family. Jennie thought it odd her father was absent. No one mentioned his absence, knowing he came and went without excuse or reason, often avoiding Grandpa. Unless he screwed up the courage to ask for money.

 The graduate settled beside Grandfather Stark. It was from him she sought consolation and advice. Just being near him brought settled contentment.

 “Grandpa! I cannot believe you came!”

 “Yes, well, Miss Jennie, I was torn. I wanted to attend, of course, but your grandmother does not like to travel. Except, perhaps, to the Methodist church.” 

Those overhearing the conversation chuckled and nodded. “Just when did you get here?”

 “I caught the train yesterday. Your brother Jay found a room for me at the Athens Hotel. It is quite near your house, I found. And did you know he rode his horse from Marion to our farm to let us know about it?”

 Jennie pinched her brother and winked. “You sly devil. I was certainly surprised!” As one who rarely opened his mouth unless competing on the Hickman High School’s debating team, Jay simply grinned. 

Miss Jennie May Stark, graduate, looked around her. And felt sublime. There was a certain glow surrounding her, helped in part by removing her robe, revealing underneath it her white lace ensemble. But she did not remove her cap. Doing so risked her hair tumbling down. 

Jennie slipped the diploma out from the exquisitely tied ribbon. 

“Oh!” she sighed in relief. “They correctly spelled my middle name! How could anyone bear not having their complete name recognized? Wonder of wonders, there it is!” 

Jay stood. “Sister, we need to meet the photographer at the columns. Our appointment is at four o’clock sharp, and we must be prompt. Even early.” 

“Oh! The photographs! Well, off we go!” 

From across the quadrangle, Orval observed the group undetected. He figured they did not miss him. And Booche’s Pool Hall, offering beer for a nickel, beckoned. There, no one judged him.

 Drinking by himself, within limits, was an art Orval perfected many years prior. A rule he kept was to never come home drunk. Of course, that sometimes meant he did not come home. For days. Even back when they lived in Chillicothe, teenaged Jennie caring for two younger brothers. 

Their mother passed when his daughter was nearly six. Orval’s three children too often fended for themselves, with help from members of their church. 

He did not comprehend the effect upon his offspring, except to note Jennie was strong-willed, determined to make something of herself. The more he failed, the greater was her desire to reach her goals: college graduation, teacher certification, and gaining the respect of all her knew her.

 Brother and sister approached the end of the stately columns. They once upheld Academic Hall, a spectral reminder of the horrendous fire which destroyed it. They spotted the photographer by the third column from the right.

 Jennie donned her robe again, resigning to a stifling heat a few minutes more. Jay helped her with the hooks in front of the gown and was her mirror, telling her that her hair was still in place.

 From a nearby tree, she heard a swallow’s song. Then she spied it as it soared above her. 

Mother. She would have helped me with all of this, had she lived.

It suited her fancy to believe the bird was a messenger. A swallow used to perch atop her grandfather’s barn, and for a moment, Jennie believed it was the same one. She closed her eyes. 

Mother? 

Jennie paused, listening, expecting an answer. 

Darlin’, so proud of you, came the response in her head. How lovely you look! 

“Miss Stark, I want you to stand just so,” the gentleman commanded as he turned the statuesque young lady’s shoulders at an angle from the stone column. Jennie shook off her reverie. 

Jennie squinted, the bright sun almost directly above, warming her back.

“Now, bring your right arm and place it on the base of the column.” He arranged her right hand, so it dangled with grace. He then instructed her to hold her diploma—rolled and beribboned—in her other hand.

 “I hope this is not poison ivy.” Jennie cocked her head sideways.

 “I assure you, Miss Stark, it is not. It is English ivy. Such as you find on Ivy League buildings. Now, imagine you are graduating from Harvard itself.”

“The University of Missouri is fine enough for me.” 

“And another thing. Please remove your spectacles. Your brother can hold them, no doubt.

“I shall not, sir. I am who I am, glasses included. If glare or reflection off the glass concern you, perhaps find a different angle.” The gentleman remembered the sum Mr. Jay Stark offered him and relented, snapping several photographs. 

Between each click, Jennie tried to convey dignity. Sobriety. Confidence. But she feared her grin might appear in every frame, making her look common. 

I do hope one will turn out satisfactorily. 

“You may call to view the proofs on June twelfth.” 

Underneath an elm rimming the quadrangle, Grandfather Stark sat on a bench, observing his grandchildren from a short distance. He thought of his son—their father. 

Though disappointed in him, he remembered Orval bought the Paquin Street home where his grandchildren resided. Rather, the one in which they once resided, but which burned to the ground. They now lived in the house next door. He was uncertain Orval owned it, too, or if his son spent the insurance proceeds in some other way.

“Whew! I am smothering!” Jennie fished for a handkerchief to mop her forehead as she approached her grandfather. She removed the commencement garment, but not the cap. 

Jennie resumed her spot on the bench next to the patriarch. Her brothers stood in front of the two, grinning. The occasion of the first college graduate among any of their relatives gave them a sense of pride.

“Jennie, who would have thought a motherless country girl could accomplish so much.” Grandfather Stark squeezed her arm. 

John responded, “I never had a doubt!” 

Jay added, “She set her mind as soon as she found she excelled in learning. But, Grandfather, it was also because of the guidance you and Grandmother provided us during the many years we stayed with you on the farm in Laclede.”

 “Before Father moved us to Chillicothe when disappointment motivated her further,” interjected John, “and determined nothing would prevent her from far exceeding anyone’s expectations.” 

Jennie lay her head upon the elderly gentleman’s shoulder. Then she straightened, allowing a faint smile. 

“Was it true?” Jennie faced Jay. “That Shakespearean quotation beneath my photograph in our high school yearbook four years ago?” 

She bit her lip. In a mocking tone, she rendered the phrase for him. “She sat like patience on a monument, smiling at grief.” 

Jay looked at the ground, then gazed at his sister. “I suppose at the time this was a fair characterization. Consider it a compliment to your stoicism.”

 “Well, I shall no longer present a demure smile though inflicted with melancholy, patiently waiting for… what? No, I have too much to accomplish!” 

Jennie bounded up, an arm upraised, finger pointing skyward. Grandfather Stark chuckled to himself, hoping she would not notice. 

Across the way, Orval leaned on a sycamore tree, tears trickling downward. Pride. Guilt. Sadness. Wiping his face on his sleeve, he stood upright and turned toward Booche’s Pool Hall. 

Above him, a lone swallow broke into song. He thought of Hester Ann, gone so long ago. The two of them used to watch the swallows from their farm’s front porch, marveling at their distinct, pointed wings. 

Orval hesitated. Then strode instead toward his children.

######

 On 5 June 1913, ninety members of the College of Arts and Science at the University of Missouri received their diplomas. Jennie May Stark, with most of her studies in mathematics, was among the forty-six females. 

After graduation, Miss Stark completed coursework in graduate school, receiving her certification to teach high school students in math and science. At 26, she met and married the widower Rev. Slaton DuBois in Warsaw, Missouri, and became a stepmother to a little girl, Martha. Not long after, Bill and Hugh were born in succession. 

Life as the wife of a Methodist minister in rural western Missouri was modest, the family moving nearly every year and often paid in eggs, the parsonage only two rooms. After her husband retired, no pension forthcoming,

 Jennie supported the family with her teaching. Her own retirement funds enabled her to assist her children and grandchildren. 

Jennie and Slaton DuBois settled in their final years in Marshall, Missouri, where they lived next door to their son, Hubert on East Rea Street. He shared his home with his wife Eleanor and their three children, Tom, David, and Elizabeth. 

After Slaton’s passing, Elizabeth spent many hours with her grandmother Jennie playing Scrabble, the matron grilling her charge in the proper spelling of four-syllable words. 

The elderly lady, a diabetic, often made bread, butter, and sugar sandwiches for the two of them.

 “Elizabeth,” said she, index finger pressed perpendicular to her lips. “this is our little secret.”

 Between games of dominoes and Scrabble, Jennie more than once told her granddaughter how to remember her middle name and how to spell it. 

“It is the same as the month of May. My teacher used to tease me. When I asked to get a drink, she would say no. ‘Jennie cannot,’ she lectured. Then added, ‘But Jennie M-A-Y.’” 

Though Jennie May Stark DuBois passed from this earth on 7 April 1965, she never seemed far away. Three days after her death, ten-year-old Elizabeth awoke. A comforting warmth enveloped her. 

The day before, someone moved her grandmother’s favorite chair to her bedroom, placing it in the corner. That night, a hazy, yet recognizable Jennie appeared, hands clasped in her lap.

 Everything will be all right. 

Almost seventy years after her grandmother’s graduation, Elizabeth received her own diploma from the College of Arts and Science at The University of Missouri. Throughout the ceremony, she thought of the person she considered as her mentor and guardian angel. 

Afterward, her grandmother’s photo in hand, Elizabeth stood at the massive third stone column on the commons. She donned wire-rimmed glasses just before her father—Jennie’s son—took her picture. She didn’t see it, but she heard a swallow sing. And a phrase came to her.

 So proud of you!