Mary Ann Pratt had been married to Henry Brother now for 14 years by the 1840 presidential election. Of course, the Pratts and the Brothers agreed that William Henry Harrison, a Whig, would certainly win, for his campaign was like no other. All over there were displays of support for the colorized merchandise, spirited songs, and hard cider.
Thirteen-year-old Valentine Brother was delighted when Mary Ann’s brother, Ira Pratt, showed off that campaign flag over Thanksgiving.
Ira was home from break his final year at Rensselaer, where he was studying civil engineering.
Ira was a handsome and serious student, but seemed too pale for Mary Ann. As he was hunched over the dining room table with Val, she patted him on the back and swung him around. She cupped her hands around his forehead and chin, tugging on his lower eye lids, and announced that the show-and-tell session was over.
She led him to the sick room. All the children understood that their spare stage was lost. Their costume storage would have to come out now if they were ever to gain access to it over Christmas. They began to pack up and drag out their capes.
As she tucked him in, he confessed that he had gone on a geological excursion with his class and, because he had overslept, was pressed to leave in a hurry and he failed to dress accordingly. He wanted to apologize for his drinking the night before, but decided he could not disappoint Mary Ann and Henry, his foster parents—the Rices—Val and all his other nieces and nephews. Great sacrifices were made to get him to college and now he was causing worry for his illness.
A few months later, when news came that President Harrison died from his improper clothing and shelter during his inaugural address, Mary Ann burned the newspaper, even before Henry and Val had a chance to read it. She missed her brother, who died in that sick room, too soon to learn that Harrison had won, and it pained her to know that these talented, heroic men, needed tremendously by their country, were lost for something so regular as rain. Foolish endeavors of absentminded, brilliant men who were loved and lost. As the fire burned she held the flag, too, but did not toss it in.