CAST IRON “GRAVE KIVER” (GRAVE COVER) DESCRIBED BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER IN “LADDIE: A TRUE BLUE STORY. I TOOK THIS PHOTO ALONG WITH THE OTHERS IN THE HOPEWELL CEMETERY, LAGRO, IN, THE BIRTH PLACE OF GSP. MLJ
“I almost hated Sunday, because of what had to be done to my hair on Saturday, to get ready for it. All week it hung in two long braids that were brushed and arranged each morning. But on Saturday it had to be combed with a fine comb, oiled and rolled around strips of tin until Sunday morning. Mother did everything thoroughly. She raked that fine comb over our scalps until she almost raised the blood. She hadn’t time to fool with tangles, and we had so much hair she didn’t know what to do with all of it, anyway. When she was busy talking she reached around too far and combed across our foreheads or raked the tip of an ear. But on Sunday morning we forgot all that, when we walked down the aisle with shining curls hanging below our waists. Mother was using the fine comb, when she looked up, and there stood Mrs. Freshett. We could see at a glance that she was out of breath. “Have I beat them?” she cried. “Whom are you trying to beat?” asked mother as she toldMay to set a chair for Mrs. Freshett and bring her a drink. “The grave-kiver men,” she said. “Iwanted to get to you first.” “Well, you have,” said mother. “Rest a while and then tell me.” But Mrs. Freshett was so excited she couldn’t rest. “I thought they were coming straight on down,” she said, “but they must have turned off at the cross roads. I want to do what’s right by my children here or there,” panted Mrs. Freshett, “and these men seemed to think the contrivance they was sellin’ perfectly grand, an’ like to be an aid to the soul’s salvation. Nice as it seemed, an’ convincin’ as they talked, I couldn’t get the consent of my mind to order, until I knowed if you was goin’ to kiver your deadwith the contraption. None of the rest of the neighbours seem over friendly to me, an’ I’ve told Josiah many’s the time, that I didn’t care a rap if they wa’n’t, so long as I had you. Says I, ‘Josiah, to my way of thinkin’, she is top crust in this neighbourhood, and I’m on the safe side apin’ her ways clost as possible.'” “I’ll gladly help you all I can,” said my mother. “Thanky!” said Mrs. Freshett. “I knowed you would. Josiah he says to me, ‘Don’t you be apin’ nobody.’ ‘Josiah,’ says I, ‘it takes a pretty smart woman in this world to realize what she doesn’t know. Now I know what I know, well enough, but all I know is like to keep me an’ my children in a log cabin an’ on log cabin ways to the end of our time. You ain’t even got the remains of the cabin you started in for a cow shed.’ Says I, ‘Josiah, Miss Stanton knows how to get out of a cabin an’ into a grand big palace, fit fur a queen woman. She’s a ridin’ in a shinin’ kerridge, ‘stid of a spring wagon. She goes abroad dressed so’s you men all stand starin’ like cabbage heads. All hern go to church, an’ Sunday-school, an’ college, an’ come out on the top of the heap. She does jest what I’d like to if I knowed how. An’ she ain’t come-uppety one morsel.’ If I was to strike acrost fields to them stuck- up Pryors, I’d get the door slammed in my face if ’twas the missus, a sneer if ’twas the man, an’ at best a nod cold as an iceberg if ’twas the girl. Them as want to call her kind ‘Princess,’ and encourage her in being more stuck up ‘an she was born to be, can, but to my mind a Princess is a person who thinks of some one besides herself once in a while.” “I don’t find the Pryors easy to become acquainted with,” said mother. “I have never met the woman; I know the man very slightly; he has been here on business once or twice, but the girl seems as if she would be nice, if one knew her.” “Well, I wouldn’t have s’posed she was your kind,” said Mrs. Freshett. “If she is, I won’t open my head against her any more. Anyway, it was the grave-kivers I come about.” “Just what is it, Mrs. Freshett?” asked mother. “It’s two men sellin’ a patent iron kiver for to protect the graves of your dead from the sun an’ the rain.” “Who wants the graves of their dead protected from the sun and the rain?” demanded my mother sharply. “I said to Josiah, ‘I don’t know how she’ll feel about it, but I can’t do more than ask.'” “Do they carry a sample? What is it like?” “Jest the len’th an’ width of a grave. They got from baby to six-footer sizes. They are cast iron like the bottom of a cook stove on the under side, but atop they are polished so they shine somethin’ beautiful. You can get them in a solid piece, or with a hole in the centre about the size of a milk crock to set flowers through. They come ten to the grave, an’ they are mighty stylish lookin’ things. I have been savin’ all I could skimp from butter, an’ eggs, to get Samantha a organ; but says I to her: ‘You are gettin’ all I can do for you every day; there lays your poor brother ‘at ain’t had a finger lifted for him since he was took so sudden he was gone before I knowed he was goin’.’ I never can get over Henry bein’ took the way he was, so I says: ‘If this would be a nice thing to have for Henry’s grave, and the neighbours are goin’ to have them for theirn, looks to me like some of the organ money will have to go, an’ we’ll make it up later.’ I don’t ‘low for Henry to be slighted bekase he rid himself to death trying to make a president out of his pa’s gin’ral.” “You never told me how you lost your son,” said mother, feeling so badly she wiped one of my eyes full of oil. “Law now, didn’t I?” inquired Mrs. Freshett. “Well stretch. He’d git one place an’ hear of a rally on ten miles or so furder, an’ blest if he didn’t ride plum acrost the state ‘fore he got through with one trip. He set out in July, and he rid right straight through to November, nigh onto every day of his life. He got white, an’ thin, an’ narvous, from loss of sleep an’ lack of food, an’ his pa got restless, said Henry was takin’ the ‘lection more serious ‘an he ever took the war. Last few days before votin’ was cold an’ raw an’ Henry rid constant. ‘Lection day he couldn’t vote, for he lacked a year of bein’ o’ age, an’ he rid in with a hard chill, an’ white as a ghost, an’ he says: ‘Ma,’ says he, ‘I’ve ‘lected Grant, but I’m all tuckered out. Put me to bed an’ kiver me warm.'” I forgot the sting in my eyes watching Mrs. Freshett. She was the largest woman I knew, and strong as most men. Her hair was black and glisteny, her eyes black, her cheeks red, her skin a clear, even dark tint. She was handsome, she was honest, and she was in earnest over everything. There was something about her, or her family, that had to be told in whispers, and some of the neighbours would have nothing to do with her. But mother said Mrs. Freshett was doing the very best she knew, and for the sake of that, and of her children, anyone who wouldn’t help her was not a Christian, and not to be a Christian was the very worst thing that could happen to you. I stared at her steadily. She talked straight along, so rapidly you scarcely could keep up with the words; you couldn’t if you wanted to think about them any between. There was not a quiver in her voice, but from her eyes there rolled, steadily, the biggest, roundest tears I ever saw. They ran down her cheeks, formed a stream in the first groove of her double chin, overflowed it, and dripped drop, drop, a drop at a time, on the breast of her stiffly starched calico dress, and from there shot to her knees. “‘Twa’n’t no time at all ’til he was chokin’ an’ burnin’ red with fever, an’ his pa and me, stout as we be, couldn’t hold him down nor keep him kivered. He was speechifyin’ to beat anythin’ you ever heard. His pa said he was repeatin’ what he’d heard said by every big stump speaker from Greeley to Logan. When he got so hoarse we couldn’t tell what he said any more, he jest mouthed it, an’ at last he dropped back and laid like he was pinned to the sheets, an’ I thought he was restin’, but ‘twa’n’t an hour ’til he was gone.” Suddenly Mrs. Freshett lifted her apron, covered her face and sobbed until her broad shoulders shook. “Oh you poor soul!” said my mother. “I’m so sorry for you!” “I never knowed he was a-goin’ until he was gone,” she said. “He was the only one of mine I ever lost, an’ I thought it would jest lay me out. I couldn’t ‘a’ stood it at all if I hadn’t ‘a’ knowed he was saved. I well know my Henry went straight to Heaven. Why Miss Stanton, he riz right up in bed at the last, and clear and strong he jest yelled it: ‘Hurrah fur Grant!'” My mother’s fingers tightened in my hair until I thought she would pull out a lot, and I could feel her knees stiffen. Leon just whooped. Mother sprang up and ran to the door. “Leon!” she cried. Then there was a slam. “What in the world is the matter?” she asked. “Stepped out of the tub right on the soap, and it threw me down,” explained Leon. “For mercy sake, be careful!” said my mother, and shut the door. It wasn’t a minute before the knob turned and it opened again a little. I never saw mother’s face look so queer, but at last she said softly: “You were thinking of the grave cover for him?” “Yes, but I wanted to ask you before I bound myself. I heard you lost two when the scarlet fever was ragin’ an’ I’m goin’ to do jest what you do. If you have kivers, I will. If you don’t like them when you see how bright and shiny they are, I won’t get any either.” “I can tell you without seeing them, Mrs. Freshett,” said my mother, wrapping a strand of hair around the tin so tight I slipped up my fingers to feel whether my neck wasn’t like a buck-eye hull looks, and it was. “I don’t want any cover for the graves of my dead but grass and flowers, and sky and clouds. I like the rain to fall on them, and the sun to shine, so that the grass and flowers will grow. If you are satisfied that the soul of Henry is safe in Heaven, that is all that is necessary. Laying a slab of iron on top of earth six feet above his body will make no difference to him. If he is singing with the angels, by all means save your money for the organ.” “I don’t know about the singin’, but I’d stake my last red cent he’s still hollerin’ fur Grant. I was kind o’ took with the idea; the things was so shiny and scilloped at the edges, peered like it was payin’ considerable respect to the dead to kiver them that-a-way.” “What good would it do?” asked mother. “The sun shining on the iron would make it so hot it would burn any flower you tried to plant in the opening; the water couldn’t reach the roots, and all that fell on the slab would run off and make it that much wetter at the edges. The iron would soon rust and grow dreadfully ugly lying under winter snow. There is nothing at all in it, save a method to work on the feelings of the living, and get them to pay their money for something that wouldn’t affect their dead a particle.””‘Twould be a poor idea for me,” said Mrs. Freshett. “I said to the men that I wanted to honour Henry all I could, but with my bulk, I’d hev all I could do, come Jedgment Day, to bust my box, an’ heave up the clods, without havin’ to hist up a piece of iron an’ klim from under it.” “‘Twould be a poor idea for me,” said Mrs. Freshett. “I said to the men that I wanted to honour Henry all I could, but with my bulk, I’d hev all I could do, come Jedgment Day, to bust my box, an’ heave up the clods, without havin’ to hist up a piece of iron an’ klim from under it.” –From “Laddie—A True Blue Story by Gene Stratton Porter
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