As I moved into my early teenage years, I was to confront what almost all boys of that age must confront. Members of the opposite sex – not as mothers and aunts and sisters and schoolmistresses and annoying and confusing schoolmates – but as objects of romantic affection and (there is no easy way to put it delicately) sexual yearnings, plain old lust. 

Nothing so very earth-shaking about that. However, there was a complicating factor you probably would not anticipate unless you grew up in a war torn region. Hundreds of thousands of young husbands had perished and left hundreds of thousands of young widows to fend for themselves. These women were greatly preoccupied with protecting and feeding their children and finding the enduring means to earn a living. But they were not given the choice to set aside their romantic propensities and sexual yearnings.

To satisfy such needs they could look to older men (bachelors or widowers) who had not participated in the conflict. Frankly, this was not a very pleasant option. First of all, such gentlemen were scarce. And secondly, most of these chaps were not appealing romantic partners. They were set in their ways. They were eccentric. And they looked like they’d been too often rode hard and put away wet.

You’ve likely guessed the alternative facing these women – younger men, which is a euphemism. We may have endured enough hardship through those awful years to be called men. But we were not men. We were boys. And mixing us with those widows, and them with us, made for a volatile concoction – interesting, but volatile.

___

So, where to begin? Let me begin with Mary Kathleen.  She was fourteen at the time, and I was captivated by her. Reddish-blond hair. A shape that was rapidly changing from that of a girl to one of a voluptuous woman. Light blue eyes that, when fixed on the person she was listening to, said, “I am hanging on every word you utter.” And the sweetest, kindest disposition you could imagine.

I had met Mary Kathleen at the schoolhouse in the month of September. She was new to our region, having relocated from burned-out Atlanta with her mother and grandparents. Her father had died of his wounds in a field hospital where, like all such installations, the survival rates were frightfully low and a quick death was a blessing. Her father’s death had not been quick.

She had my rapt attention from the first day she arrived. But October came before I actually spoke to her. And it might have been January had it not been she, not me, who got the talking going.

She had noticed I was adept at writing the essays we had been assigned to write. One day towards Halloween, she approached me after we had been released for the day and said, “Harry, I wonder if I could ask a kind favor of you?”

I certainly wanted to reply like a gentleman experienced in aiding young ladies needing assistance. But all I could manage was a sheepish smile as my eyes found nothing to look at but the toes of my boots.

“I have written something that I would like your thoughts on. I don’t suspect it’s all that good, but I think your opinion on it would be helpful to me.”

The softness of her voice seemed to calm me. I was still nervous, but at least I could now form words. “Of course. I would be more than pleased to take a look,” I said. Handing it to me, she said, “I do thank you so much, Harry. And I shall be in your debt for doing this for me.” However innocently intended, those words did not have a calming effect on me.

As we walked down the road leading away from the schoolhouse, I began reading her essay. She must have sensed I was distracted by her closeness and said, “Please take your time, Harry. I shall stand over here until you feel ready to offer me your thoughts.” It took me but a minute or two to read what she’d written and to form an assessment of it.

“Mary Kathleen, this is not good …” Before I could continue she gasped and put a slender hand to her throat. I couldn’t contain a laugh and quickly followed with, “No, no. You misunderstand me. This is not good. It is superbly good. Far better than anything I have ever written.” Her look of consternation evaporated into a broad smile and a giggle. Then I began giggling. Almost immediately the two of us were laughing uproariously.

After we’d regained some semblance of composure, she reached out and squeezed my hand. “Harry, thank you so much for doing this. I don’t think now is the proper time, but perhaps soon we could discuss in more depth and substance your reactions to what I was trying to express in the essay.”

I said, “I think that would be a good thing to do. And I would very much look forward to it.”

“Then it is settled. I shall see you tomorrow.” After another wonderful smile and a fluttery wave she was off. My feet were not yet solidly affixed to the ground when I heard, “My, my. What have we here, ladies and gentlemen?”

With a mixture of surprise and annoyance I whipped around and said, “Where in the hell d’you come from?”

“Been here all the time, boss,” said Jared. “Well, not right here. That wouldn’t be polite. I was back a respectful distance, but I certainly saw and heard the whole scene.”

“You know what, friend? I ain’t a rabbit or a grouse you’re stalking with a shotgun, and I do not appreciate being sneaked up on.”

“Goodness gracious, boy. I could have been General Lee’s cavalry stampeding by and you wouldn’t have taken the slightest notice.”

I gave him a hard shove and just a hint of a grin. He was right. I wouldn’t have seen or heard a thing.

___

That October afternoon was the beginning of what might be called a courtship between Mary Kathleen and me. Each day after school I would walk with her to a fork in the road where she would go her way and I would go mine. We would not hold hands nor would we do any kissing, but we knew a bond was forming between us. The signs were clear. Warm smiles. Prolonged gazes. Lots of giggling. And a soothing tenderness in our voices.

And something else. Jared, not the most sensitive of chaps, surprised me. Rather than poke fun at about what I was going through, he seemed to take pride and pleasure in it. Almost as if he were saying, “I’ve been there, boss. I know how wonderful those feelings can be. I couldn’t be happier that you getting to have ‘em, too.”

___

Suddenly it was Christmastime and there were a number of festive get-togethers where neighbors would dine, dance, share some gifts, and imbibe spirits. Prior to that particular Yuletide season I had found such affairs something to avoid.

But I could rarely do so. My father was sympathetic to my plight, but none of the womenfolk in my family were, and it was their desires, of course, that held sway.

These things were unpleasant because they required me to dress up (something I have never enjoyed doing) and to be in the company of adults who paid me but scant attention as they talked on and on about matters that interested them but not an adolescent boy. To boot, my two partners in mischief, Jared and Horatio, were never invited to the gatherings.

But this was a new and different year. The reason, of course, was Mary Kathleen. She was invited to all these events. No longer did I try to duck out of going; I awaited each affair with heady anticipation. Now I could hold her closely while dancing. Now I could sneak a bit of wine or whiskey to loosen my inhibitions and talk freely with her on couches and chairs far more comfortable than the dusty road where we’d had all our previous conversations. And then there were comments like, “Harry, you do look so handsome when you get all dressed up.” Those comments made the discomfort of such attire bearable. Well … almost so.

As enjoyable as these festive occasions had become, it was at one that my romantic life took a sharp turn. That turn came in the form of the Widow Jeffries. None of us in the general community would address her that way, but that’s how we all referred to her. Widow Jeffries (I honestly do not know if I ever learned her first name) was about 30 years of age. Like many women of that time, she had lost her young husband in the conflict. But unlike so many of her peers, she had no children. If she had not been childless, I suspect what I shall tell you would not have happened.

She was far from beautiful, but she had a sensuality unmistakable to any young fellow starting to feel his sexual oats. In the company of men, she seemed almost predatory. She was not the least bit reluctant to brush her ample bosom against the arm or elbow of a man as she passed him by. She might offer an “Oh, please excuse me, sir, for my clumsiness,” but I was not fooled. While most of the married ladies found her behavior off-putting, I found it entertaining. Entertaining, that is, until she began to direct that behavior towards me. 

The occasion in question was at our home on what the British, call Boxing Day. The 26th of December, the day immediately following Christmas. It had been a particularly enjoyable evening because I had had the opportunity to welcome Mary Kathleen into the place where I had been born and that I dearly loved. Although my parents had met her, neither Artemis nor Beulah nor Horatio, their son, had had the pleasure. Since all three of them were there preparing and serving food and refreshments, I took the first opportunity to make introductions. To not do that with four people about whom I cared so much was unthinkable. Quite predictably, things went smoothly. Each of the four was extremely warm and gracious and polite. And I was very proud.

As the evening came to a close and most of the guests had departed, the Widow Jeffries appeared closely at my side, took gentle hold of my upper arm and said, “Harry, could I have a word with you before I leave?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said as my stomach tightened and my pulse quickened.

Drawing me into a corner of our dining room, she looked me directly in the eye with a smile quite different from any smile I had ever received from Mary Kathleen.

“I have some chores of a physical nature around my house that I think a strapping young man like yourself could assist me with. And, of course, I would insist on remunerating you for your assistance.” In spite of her warmth, her look and her tone conveyed that what she had asked was more of a directive than a request.

“Would this coming Saturday morning be a possibility? I would like to get started as soon as possible.”

With some constriction in my throat I told the good widow that Saturday next would probably be fine, but I would need to consult my parents to be sure.

“I am certain they shall give their approval. Sadly, they are much aware of how difficult day-to-day existence is for women like me, women who have had their husbands so violently ripped away from them by the war.”

As much as I was wary of her motives, I was moved by her remark and began to choke up. “Yes, ma’am. I know they are.”

“You are a kind and sensitive boy, Harry. Mature beyond your years. I shall see you Saturday morning. Thank you again.”

Something in the next room caught my eye for an instant. When I turned back to reply, she was gone.

___

When I told my parents about Mrs. Jeffries’ asking for my assistance, my father did not respond verbally, but he did smile slyly and shake his head slightly. My mother, a perceptive woman (I can’t remember any of us children putting anything past her), said with a straight face and stern tone, “Pearson, what do you find so amusing?”

“Why, Mother, I don’t believe I’m at all amused by what Harry has told us. I think it is very nice that Widow Jeffries felt comfortable in asking for his help and that he was kind enough to say he would provide that help.”

“Pearson, you might be able to deceive a great number of folks with such blarney, but don’t presume to count me among them. You clearly have concerns and reservations about all this. I believe you owe it to Harry to tell him what they are.”

Now my father’s smile contained no slyness, only resignation. “Very well, Jane. But given the delicate nature of my concerns, perhaps it would be better for me to talk to Harry alone.

After a long pause and a heavy sigh she said, “Very well, I shall leave the two of you to your tête-à-tête.” Mother then walked away as I have seen so many strong women walk away from boys and men whose course had wavered and who needed to be put on the straight and narrow.

Once she had left the room, my father said, “Harry, it is late December but it is a rather mild and sunny day for the season. Why don’t we get outside and take ourselves a stroll.” I nodded and followed him out into the sunshine.

“In fact,” my father said after we’d gotten a short distance from the house, “why don’t we include Augustus in this conversation. He is a wise and experienced steed and may have some useful observations to offer on this matter.” I started to chuckle and pretty soon we were both laughing and hoping, albeit faintly, that Mother would not hear us.

Augustus was nibbling on a few patches of dried up grass out in the middle of a small pasture encircled by an old stone fence he could have easily vaulted had he been so inclined.

When the two of us reached the fence, my father called out, “Augustus, would you be so kind as to spare Harry and me a few moments of your time. We have something we would like to discuss with you.”

When Augustus looked up, I swear the expression on his face was quizzical. He immediately trotted over to where we were standing and stuck his snout into my arm pit for some scratching and rubbing. As I scratched and rubbed, my father withdrew an apple from somewhere and extended it to Augustus with open hand. As was his habit, Augustus made short work of the apple.

“There now, sir, that should put you in a thoughtful frame of mind.” I had no idea how this drama would play out, but the two actors had my attention.

“Augustus, here is the situation Harry is faced with. I believe you are acquainted with the Widow Jeffries?” Stretching my credulity once again, the horse snorted and bucked his massive head.

“I thought you were. Well, Mrs. Jeffries has asked Harry if he could come to her home Saturday morning next to assist her with some chores she feels she has not sufficient strength to perform on her own. Harry has agreed, pending his mother’s and my approval, which we have given him.”

I continued my rubbing and scratching; Augustus’ attention remained firmly fixed on my father. “Since you are experienced in the ways of women – your responsibilities here on the farm, of course, require you to be – I thought you might have some counsel to offer young Harry before he avails himself of your services Saturday morning and rides over there.”

As Augustus continued to stare at him, my father looked thoughtfully back at the beast and solemnly shook his head every fifteen seconds or so. I should think a full two minutes had passed when my father finally spoke. “Augustus, thank you so very much for your time and thoughts. Once again, your wisdom has shone through and I know Mr. Harry will benefit from it. If other thoughts on this matter come to mind before Saturday arrives, please do let us know. We trust you shall enjoy the remainder of this beautiful winter day.” Then my father turned and began to slowly walk back towards the house.

Walking along next to him, I was suffused with a sense of gratitude and the fact that I could never put into words how deeply I loved him. As we walked on, I began to silently weep. My father gently placed an arm around my shoulder and said, “Son, Augustus and I are quite confident you will somehow find your way with the Widow Jeffries, with Mary Kathleen, and all the other feminine creatures who shall enter into your life.” The tears continued to roll down my cheeks as my father tightened his grip around my shoulder.

___

Come Saturday morning I did ride Augustus over to Widow Jeffries’ home. As I’m sure you expected, the good widow did attempt to seduce me. And, yes, she did succeed with her attempt. I am not a prude, but I am not one to go into details when talking about experiences of a sexual nature. I will tell you this, however. On the way back home, I chose to walk for the first mile or so rather than jump aboard Augustus and gallop away. I needed a bit of time to settle myself.

As the two of us ambled along, I suddenly stopped and stood in front of him. “Augustus, that was amazing. Just downright amazing.” Since I did not have my father’s facility with the language of horses, I don’t know how Augustus replied. But over the years I’ve often thought that it must have been something like, “Son, I myself got broke in by an older woman – a beautiful, classy mare named Lucinda. And I do know whereof you speak. It was amazing. Might even go so far as to say ‘earth-shaking.’”

___

I wish that were the end of the story. I wish that I had received my baptism of fire, if you will, and had gotten on with things as they had been before the incident. But that was not to be. For a long string of Saturday mornings (I have lost count of how many), I continued to ride Augustus over to Mrs. Jeffries’ house. I would spend a smidgeon of the time doing actual chores that would have been difficult for her to do on her own. But that is not how I spent the lion’s share of the time.

I knew my father was aware of what was going on, but he and I never spoke of it. Perhaps he was trying to shield my mother from it. (She needed no such shielding.) Buy I rather think he wanted to step aside and allow me to sail my ship through this rough passage without his intervention.

I did share what was going on with Jared and Horatio. Sometimes individually but mostly when all three of us were together somewhere out in the woods. At first they would press me for juicy specifics. But when they realized such querying was futile, they gave up and let me tell them what needed telling when I was ready to tell it.

It must have been early February, because Jared said, “Valentine Day’s coming right up, hoss. What you gonna do about that, now you got two females to worry about, not just one?”

“Frankly, I haven’t given the matter a whole lot of thought.”

“Well, you better start giving it a whole lot of thought, Harry,” said Horatio. “Otherwise there gonna be even more misery raining down on you than you already got your way into.”

“I know it. I know it. Lord knows I wish I’da had the strength to resist the temptations she threw at me. Mary Kathleen finds out about all what I’ve been doing, I’ll probably lose her.”

“Could be,” said Jared. “On the other hand, might be good if we started figuring a way out of this dilemma. We need a plan, not more whining and worrying.”

“All right. What do I do?”

Neither of them said anything for a while. Then Horatio said, “First thing, you gotta stop the bleeding.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Means you gotta stop going over there on Saturday morning,” said Jared.

“She’s not gonna take that well,” I said.

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” said Horatio.

“Well, Harry,” said Jared, “that’s a fury you just gonna have to contend with. ‘Cause I’ll tell you this: That fury is like a gentle rain compared to the all out downpour you gonna get from Mary Kathleen, you don’t cut things off with Mrs. Jeffries.”

I greatly appreciated the efforts of my two friends to help me out with all this. But I knew I was on the horns of a dilemma only I could resolve.

As I said, I never spoke of this to my father, but I did start thinking about what he would do were he in my place. Would he simply try to escape from the problem by sending a message to Mrs. Jeffries that he could no longer assist her with the “chores?” No, he would consider that an act of cowardice. Would he continue with his Saturday morning routine until the widow tired of his attentions and finally dismissed him? Likely not. He would see that as an easy but devious solution inconsistent with his honest and direct nature.

It became clearer and clearer to me what my father would do. He would go over to Mrs. Jeffries’ home one last time to tell her that he could no longer continue their arrangement. And he would look forward to that event with the same sense of trepidation and foreboding as did I when I finally made that choice.

___

The next Saturday morning arrived all too quickly and the ride over to Mrs. Jeffries’ place on Augustus seemed to take far less than the normal amount of time to accomplish. As I tied him to a tree in front of her home, I muttered, “Old friend, I will need all the good fortune you can wish for me.” He gave me a nudge, as if to say, “Get on with what you need to do in there, boy.” I nodded my head, gulped some air, and headed for the door.

Before I’d taken even a few steps, the good widow burst out of the door, wrapped her arms around me and began kissing me most passionately on the mouth. When she finally released me enough so we could enter the house, I managed, “Ma’am, there is something I would like to discuss with you.”

“Of course, Harry. Would you be more comfortable having our conversation in the bedroom?”

“Ah … ma’am, I think it would be better if we talked here in the parlor.”

“Very well,” she said as she drew me by the hand over to a sofa and sat down close to me without letting go of my hand. “Now, what is on your mind, Harry?” As she said that, I labored to look her directly in the eye, but my gaze kept dropping to the floor. She, on the other hand, had no trouble peering straight at me with a look that mixed seductiveness with motherly understanding. I had seen that look from women before and I had always found it both comforting and unnerving.

I sputtered and stammered a few times before she eventually came to my rescue: “Harry, as soon as our ‘arrangement’ began, I knew full well that it would not endure. Not for long. How could it? Reluctant as I am to admit it, I am old enough to be your mother. Although certainly not far from manhood, you are a boy. We are simply not meant to be together.”

I put both arms around her and hugged her as tightly as I could without crushing her. I was sobbing and shaking and unable to speak.

“Harry, you are a very special person and I am not sorry in the least that we have had this experience. It has rekindled feelings in me that I despaired of ever having again since the death of my dear Arnold. And I am not ashamed of what we have done. I hope that you are not either.”

“No, ma’am,” I said with a cracking voice. “I feel honored and privileged to know you, and I shall not forget you as long as I am able to draw breath.”

What happened just after that is a bit of a haze for me. All I really do recall is not wanting to ride Augustus back home. I wanted to walk next to him and have him nuzzle me and snort at me. That is what he did, and I drew great comfort from it.