Jessica Brockmole: Letters from Skye

There! Now you have it! You hold my social future in the palms of your hands.

I think I can hear the laughter all the way from Scotland….

Must go—the tree wars are beginning!

Isle of Skye

10 October 1912

Davey,

Marvellous! This world needs more male ballet dancers, just as it needs more female geologists.

And what, pray tell, is a tree war? Is Urbana, Illinois, so arboreally poor that its citizens must go to war? Trees are scarce on Skye, to be sure, but we don’t actually have to do battle. If the situation is that dire, please let me know. I will post a sapling or two.

The seas here are said to be inhabited by the each uisge , a water horse who pulls his victims beneath the sea and tears them apart with his fangs until only the liver is left, floating up ominously to the surface. Raised on stories like this, what could entice me to step foot in the water?

Really, though, I do have my reasons. The sea can be terrifying. My da is a fisherman. My brother Alasdair was too but one day never came home. His boat did, scattered on the shingle in bits and pieces. So, yes, I do understand the dangers of the sea.

If there was a bridge connecting Skye to the mainland, perhaps I might have left. But, until that day comes, as long as I have the ferry to contend with, I fear I shall always be a prisoner on my island.

P.S. As strange as it may sound, my friends call me “Elspeth.” But you, not knowing me well enough yet to be a friend, may call me whatever you like.

Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.

November 3, 1912

Whatever I like? Then Sue it is!

Tree wars? They’re silly pranks. Every class plants a tree on the campus and then the other classes try to destroy it. My class has already lost one. We’ve planted anew and have high hopes for the newest member of the ’13s. We’re guarding it in shifts, armed with eggs and paper sacks filled with water. Danny Norton has been feeding the tree a formula he swears by, but I think it’s mostly beer with a bit of bay rum oil to mask the scent. It must be working, as the tree hasn’t kicked it yet. The other night we yanked up the ’14s’ sapling, roots and all!

Despite the tree wars, things aren’t all fun and games around here. This term is already turning out to be pretty difficult. My friends think the senior year is the easiest of all, but I have such a heavy load of courses. I’m at the library so often, I’m considering moving my pillow and toothbrush over. What’s easy about it? I’m dreading exam time.

You know, it’s times like this that I doubt the future. I kept hoping that at some point the right professor or course would inflame me and I’d feel the passion others seem to feel. That I’d know, without question, what I wanted to spend the rest of my life doing. But here I am, my final year of college, and I still really have no idea.

I always assumed I’d follow my father into medicine. Well, I suppose he’s always assumed that and I’ve just followed suit, having no plan of my own. I’ve come to realize, though, that I’m not eager for it. As much as I hate school, I almost wish I could just stay. Then I wouldn’t have to go out into the “big, wide world.”

Well, there, you’ve heard my worries and my doubts. Perhaps they’re born of frustration as I move closer to end-of-term exams. I’m sorry to burden you with such glum ponderings. I’ll have to send this letter quickly before I change my mind.

Isle of Skye

23 November 1912

Davey,

Don’t go jumping off your library tower, please!

We’re not always made for doing the same as the others. My brother Finlay, he could carve the Mona Lisa on an acorn if he wanted to. I’d just end up with a splinter. I could never be a Nijinsky, no matter how hard I was to try. Those classmates with passion and aptitude for their field of study, it’s what they were made to do. Davey, you can’t force yourself to be the same. You’re made for something on this earth, but maybe it’s not what your father thinks. Does he know how unhappy you are?

In my book, your aptitude lies in keeping a Scottish recluse from going mad during an island winter. The sheep aren’t nearly as fascinating.

Really, though, Davey, you have passion. There’s something out there for you. Hold fast to that hope. You’ll find it.

Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.

December 11, 1912

Sue,

Your letter offered me a much-welcome break from studying. It even helped to soothe my throbbing head. I was in the hospital recently and still am not quite up to snuff.

I’m not sure if my parents know how I feel about school. When I was starting college and mentioned I’d fancy studying American literature, my father actually laughed. Didn’t even look up from his newspaper. Just laughed and said, “Ridiculous.” He has a big walrus mustache, and when he laughs, he doesn’t make a sound. You only know because the tips of his mustache twitch. There he sat, sniffing, mustache twitching, saying things like “Ridiculous” and “No career in that.” “But I enjoy literature,” I protested. “Medicine. That’s what you need to study. You’ll thank me for it later. Nothing more rewarding.”

I really did try to tell him then, Sue, honest I did. But it only bloomed into an argument, with my mother wringing her hands and imploring me to just “give it a try.” My father finally thumped his newspaper down and declared that he wasn’t paying for that nonsense and that, if I wanted to study something frivolous like literature, it wouldn’t be on his dime.

So you see why I can’t talk to my parents. I need to just carry on. Finish college, finish medical school. Once I get a job, I can make my own decisions. Maybe.

I should get back to my studying. I’m looking forward to the holidays as a time to rest up and recuperate before the term starts up again.

Isle of Skye

5 January 1913

Dear David,

Happy New Year! It has been so cold, I can barely tear myself from my spot in front of the fire. When I finally did bundle myself and trudge to the post office, I found a letter from you waiting, and so it was well worth the trip.

How was your holiday? We try to make it merry around here. I made my famous Christmas pudding and had the bonniest wee Christmas tree, strung with ropes of dried flowers. Boughs of evergreen lay across the mantelpiece and swung above the doorways. I was given a pair of mittens, a new kettle, and one of Robert W. Service’s books. Have you read his poetry? Simply marvellous stuff. If you enjoy reading my little verses, you should dip into his.

What are some of your favourite books? Like any whose blood runs tartan, I adore W. S. Indeed, I don’t know that I could call myself an islander if I hadn’t read The Lord of the Isles . I think his novels are sometimes a bit too Gothic for my tastes, but his poetry really does a fine job of capturing Scotland in all of her changeable moods. I have a cheerful fondness for my battered copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland , the first book I ever owned. My brothers and I would run Caucus-races down on the shingle while shouting the driest things we knew into the wind. And I’m almost embarrassed to admit that I’ve just read and quite enjoyed Three Weeks . You probably wouldn’t have guessed me for an Elinor Glyn sort of girl.

P.S. I’m so sorry to hear that you’ve been in hospital. I hope it’s nothing serious. You seem to do this with alarming frequency.

Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.

February 1, 1913

Dear Sue,

My holidays were splendid! I was in Chicago with my parents. My sister, Evie, and her husband came up from Terre Haute and I met my new little niece, Florence, for the first time. She’s almost a year old now. Full of smiles and the most infectious giggles as she yanked on my suspenders. I bought her a doll in a silk dress, which she was obviously too young for, as all she did was chew on the doll’s hand and laugh at me. I’ll probably still be buying her dolls in silk dresses when she’s far too old for them, and she’ll likely still be laughing at me.