The Carriage Maker's Daughter
"Is this carriage really for President Roosevelt?" I ask Henry, the blacksmith.
"Sure is Emily."
Henry's hammer hits a piece of hot, red iron from the fire - ping, pa-ping. Its music fits snugly against my heart, like a wool sweater. A blacksmith is a magician. To bend iron like clay, and make it hard again is my favorite trick.
I watch out for Papa, who would send me home. "The barn is no place for a young lady," he would say. I slide across the sawdust covered floor past Sam, the sawyer. His saw hums like a busy beehive, slicing planks of wood. I toss handfuls of the slivers that stick to my dress like snowflakes. Mama would frown at my soot and sawdust gown. I duck behind a post, breathing in wood, iron and varnish smells. They satisfy my nose better than spicy apple pie.
"Emily, this barn is no place for a young lady." Papa rushes past, a walking scaffold of wood planks balanced on one shoulder, paint cans hung elbow to wrist, like ornaments on a Christmas tree.
Papa doesn't boast or brag. I know he's the best carriage maker in Washington, DC. Besides the president, Papa made carriages for John Philip Sousa, the man who writes those peppy marching tunes you hear on Independence Day.
Night after night, for many weeks, Mama kept his supper warm so he could finish the carriage for the president.
I skip after him. "Will Mr. Roosevelt pick up the carriage? Can I sit in the carriage? Will you meet Mr. Roosevelt?"
"Too many questions," Papa says.
"But, Papa" He stares at me over the top of his glasses. His serious look.
"It wouldn't do to have you mess up the carriage of the president," he says.
"Papa, I would never!" I flick sawdust off my dress and stand taller.
Papa's mouth twitches in an almost smile. "You want to ride in this carriage?"
He hears my heart's biggest wish. "Yes!"
"Then help your mama take care of your baby brother."
I leave, but hide where he can't see me. I hear Papa talk to Henry, in his crinkled brow voice.
"Only one more to build, Henry. After that, I'm not sure what we'll do. Been making carriages all my life"
What does Papa mean?
"Cars," mumbles Henry. "They'll be the ruin of us, sooner or later."
Do cars put the crinkles on Papa's face? Do they mean the end of this wonderful place? Surely folks still need carriages. Wait until Mr. Roosevelt sees his carriage. If he likes it, others will too.
When carriage day comes, I'm like a balloon, one puff away from bursting.
I wear my Sunday dress. Is satin and lace special enough for something so beautiful? The glossy blue black finish glistens like the feathers of grackles. My finger skates along the blue striping that took weeks to dry.
Papa spreads a blanket over my legs and feet. The same blue wool as the carriage seat. He climbs onto the carriage, looking at me through the front window. "Ready?"
"Giddy-up!" I shout through the talking tube. It's for the President to speak to his driver. Papa taps our Belgian horse Colonel, and off we go to the White House stables.
No clickety clack on the cobblestones streets. Rubber tires and strong springs make this carriage glide like a sleigh on ice. I am a princess in a chariot driven by a knight. I close my eyes and pretend Mr. Roosevelt is riding with me. I ask how he likes the carriage. He says it's fit for a king. Too soon Papa pulls up to the stables.
Two men wait. They don't look like the picture of Mr. Roosevelt I saw in the newspaper. Where is the President?
The men greet us. Papa winks and says, "This is Emily, my official carriage tester."
The man with a mustache says, "What's the word on this carriage, Emily?"
"It's fit for a king," I say. It's hard to stand still, I'm that excited. "That's what I'm telling Mr. Roosevelt."
Mr. Mustache says, "The President is too busy for carriage business."
"But, this is Papa's best carriage." How could the President not be here to inspect it and meet Papa?
"Emily, mind your manners." Papa scolds me with his eyes.
Too busy? Papa wasn't too busy to bring the carriage himself. He could have sent Sam or Henry. If I have to mind my manners, what about Mr. Roosevelt? Shouldn't he say thank you for Papa's hard work?
While the men talk, I slip inside the stables. Maybe Mr. Roosevelt is busy with his horses. Taking care of horses is hard work.
A horse whinny whispers. Tails swish hello. Sweet hay and horse smells welcome me. Beautiful horses, with names above their stalls. "Renown", "Georgia", "Grey Dawn", and a pony named "Algonquin".
I hold my breath. Algonquin winks at me. I reach out to stroke his muzzle. He kicks the stall. I scream, stumble, and fall.
Papa rushes in, the men close behind.
"Trouble?" Mr. Mustache says.
"The pony kicked and I am more shamed by the look on Papa's face than from my fall.
"Why are you here?" Papa asks.
"I wanted to tell Mr. Roosevelt..."
Papa takes my hand and pulls me up.
"I'm sorry, Papa."
"I'm disappointed, Emily."
"I wanted Mr. Roosevelt to meet you and see how hard you worked on the carriage."
Papa shakes his head. "No one has to tell me I've done a good job. The work is my reward."
"Is the President's job more important than yours, Papa?"
"What do you think Emily? He looks after the whole country. I do my best to look after you, your brother, and Mama."
I know what I think, but there's no more discussion. Papa lifts me onto Colonel, climbs on behind me. Papa is so quiet, it hurts my ears. The trip home seems much longer than the one in the carriage.
Today, I'm going to the White House. My teacher says ordinary folks can meet the President by showing up at the North door. That's what I'm going to do.
I cross First Street, following the route Papa took across Pennsylvania Avenue. Too many