Wednesday, October 16, 2019

Chapter 11: Wheatland





Welcome to Wheatland!




     Eh-ehm coughs Mr. LaFollette from the stone porch to get the attention of everyone gathered in the slanting November sun on the front lawn of the historic family manor in Clarke County, Virginia. "Finally - the south and the north come together in love."

"I have the distinct honor," he continues with a nod to the Hankens as the laughter dies back, "to welcome the son of our beloved orchardist and his ale-making wife into our esteemed family."



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     This rather humble toast from the heir to an antebellum fortune was the result of his recent loss in the New Jersey senate race to Republican Walter Edge, a blow that helped to flip both chambers away from President Woodrow Wilson's policy of world engagement. Meanwhile, back in the old country, the allied October offensive had forced a German retreat culminating in a ceasefire to the bloody conflict and general armistice on November 11. Despite Wilson's pleas to the contrary, the U.S. would fail to sign the subsequent treaty of Versailles or to participate in the newly formed League of Nations, helping to set the stage for a German resurgence and the second world war.
   This return to populism was a reaction in part to a devastating flu epidemic that year. Nearly 700,000 Americans had died from respiratory failure before it was through, including the LaFollette's elderly African American nanny. Molly had barely survived her grippe and her grief on a liquid diet of cider and a daily dose of apple cider vinegar.


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     "I'm not m-much of a t-talker," Henry stutters, reaching down with his left hand to pull Molly up onto a round stone dais, the former auction block for the Preston family business.

"F-first I just want to," he proceeds, pausing while pulling off his herringbone scally, "to remember my f-friend Donato Biondi. Tom set me on this path, and then he died chasing the Krauts out of F-France."

"I want to thank Mr. LaFollette," he forges on, glancing down at Molly and warming up to his spellbound audience, "for the manager job at Calco. We make the best dyes from oil, and our chemists are also brewing fertilizers and medicines."

"Finally," he concludes with a wink toward his willful 17-year-old bride while holding up his left hand with a gold band on the stump of a ring finger, "I'd like to dedicate this new life to Mrs. Mary Preston Kern Thweatt LaFollette Hanken. That's a m-mouthful, she's a handful, and I'm thankful."



Auction block at Wheatland


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