When game began to get scarce in the woods of Pennsylvania, Worth Luckett and his family started walking west. Because hunting was what Worth did for a living. He fed the meat to his family, and he sold the skins for Indian meal and whatever else they needed to buy. Being a woodsy was the only life he knew, and the only life he could imagine living. Worth loved hunting so much that he could hardy stop shooting animals long enough to build a house for his family. They lived in a lean-to, open to the weather, and were all in danger of freezing to death when the snow started. Worth only finished the cabin because his wife Jary put her foot down.
Worth’s love of the woodsy life reminded me of Little House in the Big Woods, where Laura said that when Pa could hear the sound of another man’s ax ringing in the woods, he knew it was time to move on. A lot of things in The Trees reminded me of Little House in the Big Woods: the telling of stories, the making bullets, the children going out to round up the cows and bring them home, the fear of bears and panthers in the night, Pa setting off on foot when he went to town to trade. The Trees is like Little House in the Big Woods for grownups. It’s darker. (Of course now we know that Laura Ingalls Wilder’s real life was darker than the depiction of it in her books. There was hunger and struggle for her, as well.)
Worth Luckett walked into the Northwest Territory, into what would become Ohio, with small children, and a wife who was terminally ill. They walked because they had no horse or wagon, and anyway, there were no roads. The oldest of the children was Sayward, a girl of fifteen. She would become the main character in the future books. Life in the woods was rich with life. It was also terrifying. It was constantly dark, as the canopy blocked out the sun. It was possible, even easy, to get lost, and wander forever. The trees, unimaginably huge (“the big butts”), were a looming, brooding presence that could literally drive a person mad.
And there were Indians. Worth got along with them woodsman to woodsman. His wife Jary feared them as “savages” who took scalps, and resented them for coming in her house and eating the food she was saving for her children. What she has to say would probably not have been put in a book today (The Trees was published in 1940) but I’m sure it represents what many people thought at the time.
The Trees is fascinating for describing a way of life (and an environment, the old growth forest) that is vanished, and very different from ours. It is also fascinating in recording a language that is no longer spoken, a dialect of English with its own vocabulary and pronunciation and syntax. You can understand it, but nobody talks like that anymore. Author Conrad Richter thoroughly researched the language he put into the book, as I believe he thoroughly researched everything.
The Awakening Land is a trilogy of three books: The Trees, The Fields, and The Town. In The Fields, Sayward, married now, to lawyer Portius Wheeler, begins clearing the trees in order to plant crops. Those trees, as I said, unimaginably huge, were felled by chopping at them with hand axes, and then burned, as they were “useless.” The physical labor required was unending. A settlement begins to form among the stumps: first a store, then a church, then a school.
In The Town, business begins to spring up along the river, with a mill, and a boatyard, and streets with brick houses. Ohio becomes a state. Portius goes to the capital to plead successfully for their own county, and county seat. Then their settlement of Moonshine Church gets incorporated with the fancy new name Americus. (At times this description of the “taming” of the wilderness reminded me of Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth series, where a hamlet in the woods also turned into a thriving metropolis, with a ferry, then a market, then a bridge, although that was set on another continent and in other centuries.)
The Awakening Land is about history, but it has survived, when many other books of its era have been forgotten, because of the human stories it tells. It is about physical survival, but also about love, and death, and betrayal, and hopes, and shame. It’s about snakebite, and wolf bite, and missing children. And the character of Sayward Luckett Wheeler is one of the strongest female leads in all of literature. She is afraid of nothing. She is a fierce mother bear when it comes to her children, and sometimes very strict toward her children. Her son Chancey talks about seeing the hard set of her mouth when she had her mind made up and would not be moved.
The marriage of Sayward and Portius was an interesting one, with her being barefoot and illiterate (although hardly stupid), and him a Bay State lawyer who could quote poetry, and read Latin and Greek, although when she married him he was living as an unkempt, solitary hermit in the woods. Their marriage seemed to come out of nowhere. There was no courtship, just Sayward saying she would have him, if the men would fetch him to her house. They had hardly spoken, except that Sayward had seen in a dream that she would marry him. They must have seen something they liked in each other, but it’s hard to say what, since they didn’t talk about their feelings, and if the word “love” was ever used between them, I missed it. And yet they understood each other. There was that time when Sayward said that eight babies was enough for her, and she would no longer share Portius’s bed. That didn’t work out well, but they overcame it.
I wondered at times if this unlikely marriage was a convenient piece of symbolism, a way of personifying two ways of life: the “woodsy” and the “civilized.” In The Trees, Sayward seems the stronger character. Portius, out of his element, follows Sayward’s lead. She decided to clear the trees. He joins her in the field. In The Fields, their give and take is more balanced. She continues planting, harvesting, milking, sheep-shearing, spinning, and weaving, as well as cooking, and soap-making, and birthing of babies. Portius begins to return to lawyering, and politics, and schoolteaching. They are both exercising their various gifts, and they attach a second room to the cabin: one that stayed the same as in the old times, one that contained Portius’s law office and bedroom. In The Town, Portius blossoms and thrives, and it’s Sayward, the one-time firebrand, who becomes the follower. He basically tricks her into moving into town. He is once again among fine furniture and fine clothes, giving speeches, and being a pillar of the community. Sawyard seems to shrink, investing her energy in the lives of the children and grandchildren, remarking that maybe the old ways were better, but hey, life goes on, and you can’t stop the tide of change.
There are many side stories as well, and much of The Town becomes Chancey’s story. Chancey is Sayward and Portius’s youngest child. He was born sickly, and was coddled as a boy, as Sayward didn’t believe he would survive. He was a strange child, with strange notions, who lived in a daydream world. As he grew he would develop a special relationship with Rosa Tench, who, unbeknownst to both of them, was his half sister.
Sometimes historical fiction reads like people of today were transplanted back into the past, seeing things through modern sensibilities. This does not. This feels like the people of the past are telling us their own stories in their own way. It feels real. And I’m not the only one who felt that there was something gripping in these stories, for The Town (although probably not the best of the trilogy) won the Pulitzer Prize, and the series was made into a miniseries.
My last comment is to say that the character of Sayward reminded me of “Lucinda Matlock” from Spoon River Anthology. Since my review is already far too long, I might as well include the poem in full:
I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
And played snap-out at Winchester.
One time we changed partners,
Driving home in the moonlight of middle June,
And then I found Davis.
We were married and lived together for seventy years,
Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,
Eight of whom we lost
Ere I had reached the age of sixty.
I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,
I made the garden, and for holiday
Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
And many a flower and medicinal weed—
Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,
And passed to a sweet repose.
What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,
Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
Degenerate sons and daughters,
Life is too strong for you—
It takes life to love Life.