1825

When I was seven and Sarah was ten, we spent all our time together.  People used to comment that we acted like twins.  We would laugh in unison, and she would protest, “We look nothing alike!”  It was true.  I was tall for my age, with lanky limbs that greatly contributed to my overall clumsiness.  More often than not, by face was dotted with freckles, and my hair was windblown.

     Even at ten, Sarah was far more graceful than I.  Her hair and dress were always spotless and tidy, just like the bonnet that she always wore to keep the sun off her face. 

     Mama used to sigh after having to clean up one of my messes.  “Why can’t you try to be a little more like your sister?” she’d ask.

     I would shrug.  I adored my sister, but it was extremely difficult to live up to her example.

     Once, Papa told Mama, “Annabelle’s just fine.  She’ll grow out of this eventually.”

     “I know she will.”  Mama said, “I just wish it would happen today.”

     I was not terribly hurried to make my mother’s wishes come true.  I was constantly coaxing Sarah to play with me in our woods.  She would walk, very sedately, holding up her skirts.  I would run ahead, braids and skirt sailing behind me.  I waited for her, seated on a patch of moss.  I’d listen to the birdsong and the chatter of the squirrels in the trees.  Rays of sunlight danced along the ground, sometimes creeping into my lap.  I would smile, not daring to break the magical silence with my voice. 

     Eventually, Sarah would arrive with our farm dog, Blue, trotting along beside her.  He would chase the squirrels, and the sunlight.  I would laugh.  The spell would be broken, and we would play.  Sometimes we fought.  She always wanted to pretend we were great ladies in horse carriages, going to a ball.  I came up with other ideas.

     “Let’s play ‘house’” I’d suggest.

     “How?”

     “Well, we can make pies with mud to bring to the quilting bee, or churn butter, or…”

     “Those things are boring.” She would say.

     “No, they’re not!”  I would exclaim, not understanding why she was so disdainful.

     Years sped by, and I stopped imagining that I was making butter, and started actually doing it.  Then, the year that I was fourteen and Sarah was seventeen, I finally convinced my father to let me help him plant the fields.  That summer, I checked them regularly for pests and invasive weeds.  I groomed the horses, and talked to Blue while I milked the cows.  I loved every minute of it.

     I was far less clumsy now, and Mama didn’t mind so much if I did make a little mess.   We’d laugh together while we made pies or mended socks.  She never asked me to be like my sister.

     I knew why.  I had discovered that growing up was everything I dreamed it would be.  Every new job delighted me.  Sarah was not lazy, but every time she could get away, she would grab a book or a newspaper and curl up and dream.  The farm had no joy for her, because her dreams were different than mine.  She was still staring longingly at her castles in the sky. 

     Mama worried.  Papa said, “Sarah’s just fine.  She’ll grow out of this eventually.”

     If Sarah had been born a couple generations earlier, Papa’s prediction would have been just as right as the one he made about me when I was seven.  However, these were not our grandmother’s childhood days.  This was 1825.

     One evening, Sarah, Mama, and Papa stayed up late, talking.  I was exhausted, so I went to bed.  The next morning, Sarah told me the news: she was going to start a job at one of the textile mills in Lowell the next week.

     “Lowell is so far,” I said, “You won’t be able come home in time for supper every night.”

     “I’m going to live there.” she told me, “They have rooms for the workers, called dormitories.”

     “You do not have to work there,” I protested.  “We can get a spinning wheel and a loom right here, and sheep, too.”

     “This is not like that.” She said.  “I’m going to do the same job, every day.”

     It sounded boring to me.

     “I’ll make money” she continued, “And then I can buy dresses, nice, new dresses for all three of us- you, Mama, and me.  Wouldn’t you like that?”

     Her eyes were so bright, so hopeful, that I couldn’t tell her no.  I could not tell her how I honestly felt; how I knew that no amount of dresses in the world would be able to replace my sister.  She would not have understood, anyway.  We were so different.

     All of us cried when she left the next week.  “I’ll miss you.” she said.

     “Not as much as I’ll miss you.”  I thought, but I just hugged her one more time.

     She came to Mama.  “I promise I’ll write.” she told her.

     Mama cried some more and said, “You’d better.”

     Sarah was smiling through her tears as she adjusted her hat and stepped into the horse-cart, where Papa was waiting to take her to Lowell.

     As soon as I could, I ran to the woods.  I laid down on the moss.  All my old friends were still there: the birds, the squirrels, the sunbeams.  Even Blue arrived after a while, except that he was too old to want to chase things anymore.  I wanted to cry, but somehow I could not bear to break the lonely silence.

     Instead, I thought about Sarah.  The mill had sounded strange and ugly to me, as she described it with an excited glimmer in her eyes.  I wondered what she would think of the mill after a couple weeks.  Then Blue started tickling my ear with his breath.

     I laughed, as some of the loneliness dispersed.

     Now I’m seventeen, and Sarah’s 20.  She comes home at holidays, in pretty dresses, with gifts for everyone, and talking about all her friends in the city.  When she is here, everything seems brighter, but she’s not coming back anytime soon.  She loves her job.

     I still love the farm.  You can usually find me milking cows, plowing fields, or in the kitchen with Mama.  Or, if those tasks are done, there’s a certain clump of moss in our woods, where I go sometimes to think about the past and smile at the beauty all around me.