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In my eighth month, when the baby was seeming to be trying to kick his way out, we
found that if Amy played soft and close to me the baby quieted down. He enjoyed the music too.
The only one who wanted none of it was Punkin Sue Tiger. He'd either go sit by the door and
meow to go out, or go up the stairs, and later I'd find him sleeping in the center of my bed. He
was not a musical cat.

As my time neared I stayed around the house more. My heartburn was miserable and my
stomach muscles started practicing for birth. It alarmed Amy and David more than me, because
I'd seen it happen with Mandy's four births. It did spur me to a flurry of sewing and crocheting.
Punkin Sue Tiger gave me fits with the thread.

David went into town and bought yards and yards of white flannel that Amy and I made
into nightgowns and diapers. I embroidered the nightgowns with blue forget-me-nots and yellow
daisies and we made a small flannel-backed quilt from my scrap bag.

David stopped painting for a while to finish a cradle. The wood was still there from
when Amy was pregnant. He'd put it away when she lost the baby. Now he hummed to himself
as he sanded and polished and carved. I sewed. While we worked Amy put away her sewing to
play her music. It was all more natural than I could have believed.

Preparing for a baby should be the happiest thing humans do, and for us, it was. We
were all excited but they were a little afraid, too. Neither of them had been around at the birth of
a baby. David had been the youngest in his family and Amy's younger brother and sister had
seemed to just be there with no notice.

I was afraid of the pain.

Mandy had carried on so with the births of her four that I determined not to scream if I
could help it. I also knew that Mandy was more dramatic than me, and because she was angry at
her husband for not being there, she made everyone, including herself, suffer. When he came
home, after each birth, she gave him a blow by blow description of her suffering and swore never
to go through it again. She wouldn't stop until he begged her to forgive him, and comforted her,
promising never to be away again. But once she had the new baby in her arms she forgave and
forgot and was happy the next time she was carrying another child.

My last week was the worst. March going out with a roar. The ocean stormed and the
clouds poured the last heavy winter rains on us. On April third, the sea calmed down and the rain
lessened to a drizzle. I felt more energetic than I had in days. I baked enough bread and rolls to
last a week, then mopped the floor. I finally stopped, only because Amy was worried, and once
she got me to stop I wanted to do nothing but rest. I went to bed early because she insisted. I
wasn't physically tired, just wanted to be alone for a while. It was her night with David. I could
hear their voices from downstairs, until her flute lulled me to sleep.

Early in the night I awoke. All was quiet, until I heard that crazy rooster crow. I figured
that was what had wakened me, and tried to get comfortable again to go back to sleep.

A sharp tightening at the bottom of my belly brought me to attention. It felt different
than the other cramps, deeper, more insistent. It passed and I lay waiting in the dark, alert. After
an eternity it grabbed again. I kept quiet, not yet ready to share this with anyone. I was excited
but protective of this miracle that was happening between my baby and me. I thought about the
baby and prayed that all would go well.

The pains got harder, closer together and I didn't want to be alone any longer. I called
out softly, "David." I no sooner said his name that he was in the room.

"Sophie? What's the matter? Is it the baby? Is it time?" His words tumbled in a rush of
excitement and fear. He lit my lamp, took one look at me and shouted, "Amy!"

She must have been waiting for his call, she was there so quick. She took my hand as a
contraction grabbed me, I squashed her hand in mine. She took charge.

"David, start the fire in our bedroom. Put clean sheets on the bed. We'll move her in
there where it's warmer, and we'll need hot water to wash with."

While David hurried around getting everything ready, Amy sat with me, talking softly
and holding my hand. When their room was ready she helped me from the bed. Warm water
suddenly rolled down my legs. My bag of water had broken and I knew the birth was not far
away.

Walking was difficult. It had been hard to get up. Now it was hard to get down into a
bed again. David helped us into their room. Amy sent him downstairs to heat up more water and
to scout out the old flannel sheets she'd put aside for this. She helped me into the bed.

"Well, Amy, this is it." I tried to joke between pains. "I hope you're ready. No more
peace and quiet in this house."

She gave me her hands to pull on as a big wave of pain grabbed me. "I'm ready. We'll
handle whatever comes. You just relax, and push."

Yes, indeed, relax. Easier said than done.

I didn't need any urging to push. My body was fixed on it.

She let go my hands and gave me a towel tied to the head of the bedstead to pull on.
David came into the room.

His lips were tight around his mouth. He hovered over me. "Are you okay? What can I
do to help you? I'll rub your back." My back? He stepped back at my glare. "For God's sake,
Soph, what should I do? Just tell me, I'll do it." He moved from one side of my bed to the
other.

"Stop moving around. Give me your hand." When he did I shoved it away.

"You're hurting, I can tell. I don't know where to touch you."

"Don't touch me," I swept his hand off my forehead. "Lord, David. Can't you do
anything?"

"I'm trying."

I grunted, reached out to him. I wanted his hand. Despite myself I groaned. David
grabbed my hand. I wasn't aware of anything other than trying to push the pain away. I wasn't
thinking of the baby, just doing what my body demanded. When I got my breath I noticed how
hot I was. David had built quite a fire. "David, please, open the window."

"It's cold out there."

"Well, it's hot in here. Please."

He opened the window a crack. That small coolness from the sea relaxed me until the
next pain came. The next few minutes seemed to go on forever, until a final crushing squeeze in
my back, belly and bottom. I felt the baby start to come out. One more push, it was over and the
pain stopped.

David immediately shut the window.

Amy grabbed a flannel. With the stopping of the pain I focused on her. She scooped the
baby up into the cloth as easy as if she'd always done it. His wail filled the room. My baby's face
wasn't the only one wet. Tears streamed down Amy's face, and David's.

"For heavens' sake," I demanded, my own voice none too steady, "Is it a boy, or a
girl?"

"He's a little Sampson," Amy laughed through her tears. "A head full of hair and all."
She handed him to David who put him on my flat belly. He brushed at his face with the back of
his hand, and turned to help Amy. I paid no attention to the delivery of the afterbirth or the
cutting of the cord I combed my baby's wet hair with my fingers. It was a black mass that went
down to his neck.

We named him Jonathan Sampson but always called him Sampson, except when he was
naughty, then he was Jonathan Sampson Smithers.

I had thought I was grown up and understood life, but it took Sampson's birth to show
me the full range of it. As I lay there stroking his so soft, so perfect little body, I realized that he
would die someday. I wanted to protect him from that and had to accept that, as I had not been
able to prevent his birth, I could also not stop his death. But I swore I'd try to make his life
pleasant and worthwhile, that I'd love him forever.

Light came through the window, along with the noise of the morning surf. That crazy
rooster was just below the window and damned if he didn't crow at the dawn. For once he was on
time and had something to crow about. He brought my thoughts back from death to life. We all
grinned like we'd done something special.

The rain stopped and the early sun turned the room a rosy pink. Amy moved around
cleaning up while David put some more wood on the fire. Sampson lay quietly beside me,
looking up at me. His little face was so cute to watch. His forehead wrinkled and his mouth
opened and shut. Such a tiny nose.

"Would you like some toast and egg?" Amy smoothed the blanket at the bottom of the
bed, ready to leave the room. Her eyes glowed with a soft happiness. She was happy for me, and
satisfied at the birth of our baby.

Little Sampson started at her voice, his head moving against my breast to find his
breakfast, too. I loved that movement and never tired of it. "Yes," I said, "me too. This Sampson
baby is gonna eat. We're starved."

She left the room to start the day's work.

David took his Bible from the top of the chest and sat down in the chair beside the bed.
He looked at Sam and me, nodding as he opened the Bible to the front. Below,

Married: Amy Johnston and David Smithers,
July 18, 1907

he wrote,

Born to Sophie Adele Elm and David Andrew Smithers:
Jonathan Sampson
Smithers,
April 4, 1919. May God bless.

Amy made me stay abed for a week. She wanted me to stay down at least two weeks but
I wouldn't hear of it. I was restless to be up and about, sure that she was going to wear herself out
running up and down the stairs, bringing my meals.

David was in the room with every little whimper from Sampson. I had plenty of milk
and David delighted in watching me feed the baby. "Lucky boy, Sampson," he teased as the milk
began to drip from my breasts whenever the baby cried to be fed.

He would lift Samson from his cradle, if he wasn't already holding him. Little
Sampson's mouth would search for the milk, nuzzling into his chest. He'd lay Sampson beside
me and watch with a grin as Sampson clamped greedily on a nipple and begin sucking with a
fierce labor, his body softening as the milk flowed from my body to his.

I enjoyed it as much as they did, because my breasts were swollen with the milk and
only Sampson could relieve it. We would both relax after he ate. David would burp him and put
him back in my arms. Often I would waken, not knowing I had gone to sleep. David would be
gone, and Sampson would be sleeping in his cradle, making his little snorty noises that were so
sweet.

It was all very peaceful and enjoyable to rest and be waited on. After one week I decided
it was enough, time to get back to my own room and into our regular routine. They protested but
I insisted, so we changed beds and bedrooms again. Sampson stayed in their room because it was
warmer--we all said--and bigger. We all said, but we all really knew that as hungry as I was for
this baby, Amy needed him. I wondered, later, of course, if that had been the best for me, but,
that was later.

If Sampson woke at night to be fed, David brought him to me.

David slept for a week with me, mostly at Amy's urging, then we went back to every
other night. Days, David took the cradle downstairs and we all gave Sampson so much attention
that he seldom had a reason to cry.

Evenings I remember especially. He'd often whimper a little from gas or something; I'd
lay him across my knees and rub his back and stroke his sides while Amy played her flute. It
never failed to quiet him. His bright, big blue eyes would turn toward her and he'd kick his arms
and legs and gurgle, almost as if he was trying to march and sing in time with the music.

When Sampson was so little, he could lay across my lap, then he grew enough to lay
facing me lengthwise with my legs close together. I'd bring my knees up and play with his hands
and tickle his belly. He especially liked the bee game. We'd all burst into giggles with him when
I finished circling my finger with the funny buzz into his tummy or under his arm or under his
chin.

David returned to his painting. He painted a picture of me nursing Sampson. He made
me more beautiful than I was, with my hair falling loosely around my shoulders, and he caught
Sampson's serious look of concentration, the furrowed forehead when he was working at dinner.
He titled it "Love of Work." Although it was his best, he would not sell it. Most of his paintings
that spring were a record of life within our house.

Amy returned to her writing and did a series of poems and short stories, some of them
springing from the same well as David's drawings, Sampson. The poems concentrated on the
wonder of birth, but the stories were tales of a small boy named Sampson, and his adventures at
his seaside home. They were wild fantasies of him taming sea lions and a whale, and riding over
the waves on the backs of seagulls that came whenever he called. He had only to play his flute
and all sorts of creatures came to play with him, a miniature Tarzan of the sea.

In late July, when Sampson was almost three months old, Amy began reluctantly to pack
David's paintings and her writing for her annual trip to the city. She didn't want to go and
worried that she was leaving us with no one to care for us. We just laughed and reassured her
that we would be okay and told her to enjoy her vacation.

"Vacation?" She sputtered. "You two better hope I bring home plenty of money from
my 'vacation'." She finally left, but planned to be gone for only a month. Even that was more
than she could bear, she said, but what must be done, must be done.

I was surprised at how much I missed her in the house. We'd grown close and I loved
her, but still I was looking forward to having David and the baby all to myself for a month. But
the house seemed almost empty without her laughter and singing as we worked together or
played with Sampson. He missed her too, and when we sat by the fire at night he would look
bewildered when he whimpered and there was no Amy to play for him.

I think David missed her least of all, because he was used to her yearly absence and for
once he had other people to talk to. It was now clear why he'd been so happy to have me when
Amy was gone before. David hated being alone. The only difference that we both enjoyed from
her departure was that we made love almost every night, but in my bed, not theirs.