October 2023
This month, we asked our writers to stretch their minds and do a little creative writing based upon events from 100 years ago this month
The anthem of unity
Gracie Smith
MSMU Class of 2027
I never understood why people enjoy music over the satisfaction of a good book. The very thought of being surrounded by the haunting sounds of old metal being banged against rusty pans made my spine shiver. My eldest sister, Miss Marie Senseney, was responsible for my agony one particular evening.
I struggled to focus on my novel as people were chanting and cheering all around me. I felt my palms begin to perspire in correlation with my rapid heart rate. My eyes struggled to focus on the words in front of me. The people began to shout the lyrics to My Old Kentucky Home, "Weep no more, my lady, oh! Weep no more today! We will sing one song!"
Before I could react, I felt the cool sensation of whiskey brush upon my bare. The gentlemen to my left had had far too many drinks to begin with; I was not surprised that this was the result.
I reached for the nearest cloth, careful to protect my novel, when I felt a soft hand land overtop mine. "Why aren’t you dancing? Don’t you like it?" A woman, young and energetic, stood before me. Her smile seemed to radiate enough enthusiasm for the two of us combined. Her blonde braids loosely draped down her back and her blue eyes beamed with excitement saying, "More. More. More."
"I’m Margaret, Margaret Sneijder," she greeted as I snatched the cloth out of her grasp and dried the whiskey off me, purposefully avoiding eye contact—her emotions not impaired by my actions. Her name sounded familiar. I glazed around the room for any hints, and sure enough, it came to me—the coordinator of the event. Marie had mentioned a thing or two about her eagerness for our cooperation with the parent-teacher association here in Emmitsburg.
Parents in the area grew a peculiar interest in their children’s education and decided to start an association for the ultimate benefit of the children. Naturally, Marie couldn’t refuse.
To my relief, the band ended their song and stepped off the makeshift stage for a quick intermission. I couldn’t help but sigh when I saw Marie dart toward me. I tried to sneak away but my attempts were unsuccessful.
"Miss Sneijder, how good to see you," Marie smiled tiredly as she locked arms with me, "I do hope our playing is what you had hoped for?"
"Hoped for? It’s sensational! It’s hardly half past 8 o’clock and we've already raised almost thirty whole dollars!" Margaret could hardly contain her excitement between her breaths.
"I see you’ve become acquainted with my younger sister, Claire." Marie nudged at my side softly. I stood up quickly in response hoping my earlier actions would keep from being the next conversation starter.
Margaret beamed, "This is your sister? I would have never guessed!"
"Yes, Claire was the one who helped recruit some of my bandmates. She isn’t too bad herself when it comes to singing," Marie nudged me a bit harder, this time with a grin.
My stomach dropped, "I much prefer to watch" I said with a soft, bashful smile when I really wanted to scream at my sister for such a comment.
"I completely agree," Margaret added, "I was speaking with some members of the organization, and we were hoping to make this an annual event here in Emmitsburg,"
My eyes locked on Marie who responded, "I think that would be a wonderful idea! Anything to raise a few extra dollars for the children."
"I do have a couple of people asking for certain songs, do you think you and the others are able?" Margaret asked with a sort of hopefulness in her eyes.
"Of course, what songs?" Marie and Margaret had exchanged a few songs I wasn’t familiar with. I took the opportunity to sneak my way out.
I wandered around the small house for what felt like ages and took in the audience; Men and women reunited after the war, children running around with rag dolls, friends catching up on old times. The energy in the room seemed to radiate a theme of unity, togetherness, and family.
I couldn’t help but envy them. Their family came back from the war, but mine didn’t. Mine got blown up as a human sacrifice that only ended in a battle lost. I watched husbands lock hands with their wives, and children cling to their fathers. My jealousy only fueled my hatred for this evening.
I found a stool in the corner of the room and claimed it quickly. Marie had finally ended her conversation with Margaret and hurried back to the makeshift stage in front of the brick fireplace.
Watching her every move, I prepared for the impact of another song. Instead, her eyes locked with mine and she waved me up on the platform. The color drained from my already pale face. Before I could stop myself, I began to walk towards her.
"Sing with us," Marie said with a small smile.
The words couldn’t come to me, I simply shook my head no. I felt my eyes begin to swell.
No, not here.
Marie took my hand and gave me a wooden rolling pin—I mean—microphone. I grasped it so hard I could feel the wood molding to fit my hand.
Knowing I didn’t have a choice, I turned to face the audience; the same husbands and wives as before, the same children running around, the same friends telling old tales… and a widow… dressed in all black standing by the open window. Her face matched mine: empty, lonely, desperate. Suddenly all over I could see people without their loved ones: a lonely mother holding her baby in the corner of the room; a husband without his wife standing by the door.
I have been such a fool. For the first time since the war ended, I could see that I was not alone. Everyone had suffered loss, and everyone experienced grief—it insisted on being felt.
The journey of the Shenandoah
Devin Owen
MSMU Class of 2026
As the wind blows the recently changing leaves through the cool autumn air, the giant dirigibles of the American navy—known as ‘The Shenandoah’—glides through the air with ease, towering over Frederick County; the sun shining brightly causing the white hulk to glisten for all to see from below. In a small town near the western edge of this county, called Emmitsburg, residents gathered on the streets, their faces upturned to the sky. Children pointed excitedly, and adults shared stories of the last time they had seen such a marvel. The Shenandoah sailed majestically over the town, casting a shadow that rippled across the town like a gentle breeze. It was a sight that would be etched into the memories of those fortunate enough to witness it for years to come. Among those gathered to see the airship, a young girl aged only fourteen, pushed her way to the front of the crowd with her older sister trailing behind in attempts to catch the teenager
before she gets lost. As Raelynn pushed her way through the crowd, she finally made it to the front, getting a good look at the airship soaring through the air. At last, her sister Nikki made her way to the front of the crowd too, finally able to see what the fuss was about.
The girls had been sent out by their mother to gather supplies for their road trip that they were taking that afternoon; their destination being lovely Richmond, Virginia. Their mother, still (somewhat) patiently waiting in the car for her daughters to return, checked her watch for a third time. Once she finally notices the large crowd forming, the girls’ mother decided to push her way through to find her kids and usher them back to the car. After pulling, ushering, and finally begging for her girls to return to the vehicle, they were able to continue their journey forward to their destinations. Snacks and beverages in hand—and laps, mostly—their drive continued.
Raelynn sat in the backseat staring in wonder out the window, following the dirigible as much as she possibly could; allowing herself to be overtaken with uncomfort and stiffness in her neck as she decided to lay her head on the window and fall into a slumber, leaving her mother and sister to watch the dirigible through the windows. The dirigible continued its journey, following a precise route that took it over Thurmont, where, as pointed out by Nikki, the townsfolk had assembled with binoculars and cameras in hand, snapping pictures to keep for the years to come. Families picnicked in the nearby parks; their eyes glued to the sky as the Shenandoah passed overhead. The quiet hum of its engines filled the air, creating an almost surreal sense of serenity as it sailed, although that hum couldn’t be heard by anyone on land. Woodsboro, too though, was graced by the Shenandoah's presence. The townspeople here as well, watched in wonder as the
massive airship carried through the air above them.
Eventually, the Shenandoah approached Libertytown, where the anticipation was at its peak. News of the ‘blimp’ had been shared from one family to the next, with phones ringing from relatives calls of "Have you seen it?!" or "Look up! It’s the Shenandoah in the sky! Look! Look! Look!" At this point, the airship made a graceful turn to the west, heading towards the Shenandoah Valley and its final destination, Richmond, Virginia. The small family of three was following the same path as the blimp, the girls unaware of the plans their mother held for their arrival in Richmond.
The car ride continued, with the excitement and anticipation enveloping the atmosphere of the vehicle. The daughters were waiting to hear what the point of this long trip was—why would anyone want to be stuck in the car for so long at a time? Their mother, bubbling with joy, was so beyond ready to surprise her daughters with the gift of a lifetime. They made their way towards a private airport, getting oddly closer to the final destination of the dirigible, leading the girls to realize that they are going to get their own personal close up of the airship as it lands. As it landed on the tarmac, a grand welcome awaited the airship. A crowd had gathered at the airship terminal, and a brass band played lively tunes to mark the occasion. The Shenandoah descended gracefully, its massive bulk settling gently on the landing platform. Sailors in crisp uniforms and officers in their finest attire disembarked, greeted by cheers from the crowd. The
captain of the Shenandoah, Captain Foraker, stepped off the airship and was met by the mayor of Richmond. They shook hands, and the mayor declared, "Captain Foraker, you and your crew have made history today. The Shenandoah's flight over our great nation is a testament to American ingenuity and progress."
Captain Foraker smiled and replied, "Thank you, Mr. Mayor. It's an honor to have been a part of this journey. The Shenandoah and her crew are proud to serve our country." A particular officer though, was patiently waiting to surprise two out of three loves of his life.
Officer Tracy, after waiting an excruciating 19 months, finally gets view of his wife and daughters walking up through the crowd of people. Pure joy and love flowed through the cheers of excitement called out by both Nikki and Raelynn, while their mother followed behind with a smile from ear to ear and tears threatening to leak from her eyes. As they reached their father, the girls leaped into his arms, hugging him as tightly as they could, as if they would never get to hug him again. As the festivities of reunion continued into the night, Officer Tracy looked up at the starry sky, thinking about this incredible journey. The Shenandoah had brought joy and wonder to the people of Frederick County and beyond, and it had shown them that the sky was no longer the limit; but the real joy for this officer was his return to home, a return to his heart.
Read other articles by Devin Owen
The best time of the year
Dolores Hans
MSMU class of 2025
I woke up this morning to a cool breeze coming through the crack in my window and the smell of my neighbor baking spice cake. That’s when I knew it was the best time of year! Autumn! Summer was over, and the leaves were changing colors. The faint sound of Mama’s humming put a big smile on my face. She always hums in the morning. I raced out of my room knowing Mama was probably reading the newspaper. I wrapped her in a big, warm hug when I saw her. She kissed me on the forehead and started calling me all the nicknames she could think of that had to do with autumn: pumpkin, cutie pie, sweetheart, boo, honey, buddy bear and sugar. I laughed and blissfully walked to the other side of the room to look out the window.
Mama got up and began getting my things ready for school. I waved and made silly faces through the window at Mr. Frank. He was our neighbor. He always came over to rake our leaves during this time of year. I love autumn because not only did I get to help him rake the leaves, but Mrs. Frank, his wife, always brought us some delicious spice cake. I watched her walk up the sidewalk slowly because she was old. She knocked on our door, and as I ran over to open it and let her in, I could hear the conversation she was having with Mr. Frank. Mr. Frank said he worries about Mama this time of year, and she responded smiling, saying that's why she always brings over something sweet. She entered our house and always pointed out how big I was getting. She calls me "Mama’s little man." Mama comes to meet her from the kitchen. As Mrs. Frank hands her the cake, she tells Mama that the cake is left over and she doesn’t want it to go to waste, that's why
she gives it to us. But I know that she bakes it early in the morning and brings it right over, and only keeps a few slices for herself. She must forget because she is old.
When it’s time for me to go to school, Mama goes to work. School is good sometimes, and Mama’s work is hard sometimes. She says we all have our responsibilities, but I would rather go to work than school. Although, Mama works in the school, so I guess either way I am stuck here. Mama teaches the little kids art. I think having her as a mom is really cool because she taught me all kinds of things about seeing the beautiful things in the world, even the things that don’t seem beautiful at first.
In school, our teacher wanted us to write about the things we love. I started to think about my morning with Mama. I knew immediately what to write about. I loved autumn. I loved it because I liked to spend time outside playing in the leaves. The best part was when Mama lets me wear my jacket with all the patches, that way I never have to choose just one color to wear. It got so many patches over the years that the jacket is like five jackets in one. Also, it’s like camouflage when I hide in the leaf piles because the patches of the jacket match the different colors of the leaves. My teachers told me I needed a new jacket, but Mama knows how much I love it, so she never tries to buy a replacement. Nothing can replace my patchy jacket. Mama knows me so well.
I also love autumn because I get to have "Auntie days" twice a week! If you don’t know, Auntie days are when my auntie picks me up at school and she brings me out to dinner. I even get to sleep at her house while my mom goes to her other job. Auntie brings me to school the next morning. When mom sees me at school the day after one of my Auntie days, she always says she is sorry she couldn’t be there to have fun with me. I say she is silly since Auntie days are the best because we get to eat out, which Mama and I don’t do very often.
Mama and I go out for walks all the time. Usually when she is the busiest, she stops and wraps me in a hug, and then asks if I want to get my jacket and go for a walk. She knows I love the leaves, so she asks me, but sometimes I think she also asks because she needs a break. Mama grabs her little art kit and her journal while I get my patchy jacket and shoes. She buttons my jacket, and we head out on our usual path. Mama starts asking me if I am excited for the holidays coming up.
Thanksgiving is the best because Mr. and Mrs. Frank come over for breakfast before they go to their family’s house, and Auntie comes over with my baby cousin and Uncle John for dinner. Mama lets me help make the potatoes, and Auntie brings the turkey and stuffing. We usually get one of Mrs. Frank’s pies when she comes by in the morning.
For Christmas, Mama and I do a gift exchange. We always spend time making a present for each other. I already know what I’m going to do this year. Mama used to tell Auntie about how she craved "James’ risotto". I don’t know who James is, but apparently, he used to cook whatever risotto is for mama all the time. Auntie says that before I came along, the best part of her night was dancing in the kitchen and eating James’ risotto. Now the best part of her night is singing me to sleep. Anyway, I am going to ask Mrs. Frank to give me cooking lessons so that I can make risotto for mama this Christmas. She always makes my days happy; I think I can try to make hers happy too. This really is the best time of the year, all because of my Mama.
My obituary writing career
Claire Doll
MSMU
Class of 2024
Writing obituaries is a fascinating career. Of course, when I signed up to be a writer, I didn’t think that I’d be writing about dead people. I went to college to investigate news stories, to actively interview people and see my articles on the front page. A big headline, bolded and black, followed by my name, in print.
But the thing about being a writer these days in the twenties is that you cannot choose where or what the jobs are. While I wanted to do the top headlines of the week, I was given the task of writing obituaries.
What kind of news is that?
I’ve found that, time after time, I actually like writing these articles. You know for a fact they are being read, and you also feel like you’re making some type of contribution. They’re informative but emotional—personal, yet fact-based. Plus, it’s good money. A cent a word for some of my articles, but obituaries are more. By just a bit, but still.
But my first obituary—that was something.
Her name was Margaret Mehring.
She died in October 1923, just when the leaves were turning. I remember because I had just graduated college, and I had landed this job in the Emmitsburg Paper. My editor told me that I’d begin with an obituary of Margaret Mehring, who had died peacefully in her sleep at age 70. "She’s lived here her entire life," my editor said, "Go to town." With a pat on the back, I was left to my own little desk in the corner of the office. I overlooked the mountains, and October was slowly painting its way through the mountains. Autumn-touched leaves and chilled air. Tonight, the sun would set earlier than it has been.
70. That was old. My editor’s words floated around me: She’s lived here her entire life. In Bruceville, Maryland of all places. It was an ordinary town, a creek driven through the soil, and the stone-arch bridge over the creek. Woods painted with autumn and road signs and such. It was normal. How could Ms. Margaret Mehring have lived in Bruceville her entire life? I was only 22, a young journalist fresh out of college. I dreamed of travel and writing from all types of countries and cities. I couldn’t fathom staying in Maryland forever.
70 was also beyond the life expectancy these days. It was normally in the fifties or sixties, if you were lucky.
Ms. Margaret Mehring was born in 1853. She lived through the Civil War, through the first world war. With just a little research, however, I learned that the last name "Mehring" had a fine reputation in this small town.
Margaret’s father, George Mehring, bought a house, stone grist, and sawmill in Bruceville just on the banks of the Big Pipe Creek. The house was called Myrtle Hill; it was big and beautiful and white, with a wraparound porch and swaying trees all around. Mehring was a rich man as well. He wanted the best for his children Frederick, Johanna, and Margaret (called Maggie, back then), but he also built houses for his workers and located his house near the store, school, and blacksmith shop. Right in the center of the village. However, he died in 1860, when his youngest daughter was just seven years old.
Margaret ‘Maggie’ Mehring. Already so young and without a father. Her mother wasn’t in the picture, at least from my research. Maggie is remembered best for her diary, one she kept during the Civil War while she was at boarding school. Come to find out, the Union troops marched through her town towards Gettysburg in June of 1863. She wrote of her cousin Annie and the movements in her town and how it was a beautiful sight, with the moonlight and the horseman and the flashing clattering of the swords.
An excellent writer and also, later, a teacher. With her sister she taught in the one-room stone school and joined the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. She was a "fine lady," and that is all that is remembered of her. A fine lady.
As an obituary writer, I am required to only write facts. I’m also supposed to be as generic as possible. But with an entire life lying before me, especially all confined within one town, I am inclined to know more. She kept the last name Mehring—was there ever a man she loved? Did she write love letters? What about Myrtle Hill? Research and files show that Maggie died there, in the same house her father raised her in. Frederick died nine months before her, and Maggie was keeping the house for him. Did Maggie even like living there? Did she dream about travelling like I do now, or even about a career? Did she have friends?
But I also know that she was a noble woman, both sincere and accomplished. She was cheerful and had great energy. At least, these are things I’m supposed to write about. The words that, here in the obituary business, we call filler words, because you can put them anywhere in an obituary and someone will relate to them. "Ah, yes, Maggie Mehring was sincere." "Oh, how cheerful she was." "Yes, so accomplished, too."
And suddenly I realized how far away from the truth I was. How far away all obituaries are from the truth. All facts and generalizations and filler words, with no emotion or meaning. I didn’t even know Maggie Mehring, so how was I supposed to write a summary of her life? A notice of her death?
It was money, though, my editor reminded me. These days both jobs and money were hard to come by, if you weren’t the wealthy. I wrote the obituary, and it was perfectly emotional for those who could relate, but also entirely generic for anyone to glance at and say, "Oh, what a shame." I wrote it and got a couple of dollars. But for Margaret Mehring—Maggie—I still always think about her. Every obituary I write. I wonder how she is doing. If she finally left Myrtle Hill.
Read other articles by Claire Doll
Read Past Editions of Four Years at the Mount
