While it was somewhat exciting to be moving to a new location, I was already missing the friends and relatives we left behind. We had planned to write to them, and they said they would write to us too. My family and I were now looking forward to new beginnings and better opportunities. We were looking forward to our altered, but supposedly also potentially more favorable, future. I decided to remain optimistic and hopeful that it would truly go as well as my family had said it would.
Our previous home was located in Deerfield, New Hampshire. We lived in East Deerfield, a village of about 250 residents. The home was a small two-story grey house, situated on approximately forty-five acres of farmland. There were three bedrooms in the house —one for Abigail and me, another for my brothers, and then my parents’ room. There was a fourth room that could be used as a bedroom, but it was instead used as a sewing room. There was also the living room, kitchen, dining room, and the washroom.
The outside of our home was similar to those of other families in the region. In the front of the house was a lawn of green grass. Close to the house, in the front, flowers had been planted in the flower bed. In the back of the house was a garden, of where a variety of herbs and vegetables grew. There was also an apple tree and a pear tree in the pasture beyond the garden. In the distant part of the land, there was the farm of which we grew maize and barley. The outhouse was in the back, off to the side and close to the house. In the nearby distance of the home, within about the center of the yard, there was the barn and also the stable. Our grandparents’ residence was directly next to ours. Their home was a white house, with a small lawn, flowers in the front, and a garden lot with a grassy area in the back.
The farming pasture of our residence extended to the back of my grandparents’ house. They had given the farmland to my father to take over when they gave him a parcel of acreage from their property. Granpa had told Father that they now just needed enough space for the garden, the barn, and also the stable. Living so close by, we visited them often.
The summers in the village were always a splendid time of the year. We swam in the nearby lake and fished in the local rivers. Some nights, we caught fireflies in jars and let them all go at once. It was during this time, also, that we churned and ate ice cream and sherbet. In addition, Portsmouth, a nearby town, was especially known for its yearly events, to which residents near and further away visited. One of those events was the summer fair. The spectacle was a traveling carnival that was grand and special enough to our communities that the children were given two days off from school just so they could attend. Just like in the previous years, we were very excited to go.
The day of the fair had finally arrived. It was the late morning on that particular day. We had already eaten breakfast and completed most of our chores. The sun had been shining since dawn, and the climate was now hot. The kitchen, with the dining area, was located in the back of the house. About there was a large window, which was situated next to the back door, on the left of it. Directly in front of the window was our large square dining table. Currently, I was sitting at the table, on the side closest to the window. Drinking from a glass of lemonade and looking about through the window, at the outdoor environment, I was waiting for the others to finish getting ready, so we could leave. We had planned that we would make it to the fair in the early afternoon and stay until the early evening.
Someone walked into the kitchen, and I turned to see who it was. It was Mother. Continuing towards the counter, she grabbed and put away the remainder of the scones that she had made for us the day before, placing them high up on the shelf, where my brothers couldn’t easily reach them. As she was going towards another area of the kitchen, she looked over at me and subsequently noticed the dress I was wearing. “So, I spent my dear time sewing the other dress for you, and you decided to wear that old one instead?” asked she.
“I told you not to make me the dress,” I responded, “but you insisted on it anyway. And besides, I like this dress. The material is soft, and it doesn’t cling to me.” I stood up from the table and looked about at my dress, fluffing and straightening it.
“Well, at least you patched up that hole in the side of it nice,” she said to me. “Is that my plaid fabric you used?” she asked me.
“Only the scraps,” I replied to her. “I found them in the bin.”
“Oh, I suppose it will do,” she concluded. She then walked over to me and surveyed my attire at closer inspection, including checking the seams near the shoulders and also along the edges of the short sleeves. After an unenthusiastic nod of approval at the dress, Mother continued on with her investigation. She was now staring at my shoes. Following her careful observation of the shoes, she stared about at my head, of which I had gathered my hair upward and tied it with a yarn. Moreover, I had bundled it and tied it also with a ribbon to secure it. In addition, I had also placed a small flower on the side of it.
“This dress is fine, but you should have worn the other one. Not only does it have fresher fabric, it’s overall more sophisticated and beautiful, and it better complements your hair,” she said to me. “Uh, this one’s a bit tattered, and it looks odd. It’s those mismatched patches you decided to place onto it,” continued she, uttering mostly to herself.
I shrugged my shoulders and smiled briefly at her.
“Well, alright,” she concluded, smiling with tolerance in return.