February, 1861
I wake this morning, as I do every morning, to the sounds of Penny and Ethyl, our negros, preparing breakfast. The bed chamber I share with my younger sister Emma is next to the server’s stair, which comes up from the kitchen, and we are always privy to the first sounds and smells of our daily meals.
I stretch in my narrow bed, wishing our fire had not burned down quite so much overnight, and force myself up into the chill air. Emma, still deep in slumber, wakes the way she does every morning.
“Emma, wake yourself, it’s nearly seven,” I say, pulling the quilt down from her face. I’m greeted with a scowl, but she rouses herself when I threaten to pull away more of her blanket.
“What do you suppose we’re eating this morning?” Emma is ravenous as soon as she wakes up, which makes waking her up far easier than waking Caroline, our older sister. I take a sniff at the wall adjacent to the stairs.
“Eggs, biscuits, and hmmm, cooked fruit of some sort,” I say. Emma squeals and redoubls her efforts at the wash stand, splashing water on wall and floor.
My sister at fourteen eats like a boy and stands nearly as tall at five foot eight. Pa says it must be the Norwegian blood he gets from his father, as Viking women apparently stood as tall as their husbands. Mother and I hope she has stopped growing, as we might finally be able to put our needles into something other than Emma’s dresses, reworking them to fit for just a little longer until she has another height increase.
Our room is a lovely eastern-facing one, with wide windows and a high ceiling. But despite all the space it still seems to fit my five foot four stature better than Emma’s. Perhaps it is the furniture, perfectly suited to me, but forcing her to stoop in order to reach a drawer or wash her face.
Both dressed, Emma dresses my hair in a braided coil while I read our morning Psalms aloud. I brush her short hair and secure a ribbon across the top of her head, and we are both ready for breakfast.
I stretch in my narrow bed, wishing our fire had not burned down quite so much overnight, and force myself up into the chill air. Emma, still deep in slumber, wakes the way she does every morning.
“Emma, wake yourself, it’s nearly seven,” I say, pulling the quilt down from her face. I’m greeted with a scowl, but she rouses herself when I threaten to pull away more of her blanket.
“What do you suppose we’re eating this morning?” Emma is ravenous as soon as she wakes up, which makes waking her up far easier than waking Caroline, our older sister. I take a sniff at the wall adjacent to the stairs.
“Eggs, biscuits, and hmmm, cooked fruit of some sort,” I say. Emma squeals and redoubls her efforts at the wash stand, splashing water on wall and floor.
My sister at fourteen eats like a boy and stands nearly as tall at five foot eight. Pa says it must be the Norwegian blood he gets from his father, as Viking women apparently stood as tall as their husbands. Mother and I hope she has stopped growing, as we might finally be able to put our needles into something other than Emma’s dresses, reworking them to fit for just a little longer until she has another height increase.
Our room is a lovely eastern-facing one, with wide windows and a high ceiling. But despite all the space it still seems to fit my five foot four stature better than Emma’s. Perhaps it is the furniture, perfectly suited to me, but forcing her to stoop in order to reach a drawer or wash her face.
Both dressed, Emma dresses my hair in a braided coil while I read our morning Psalms aloud. I brush her short hair and secure a ribbon across the top of her head, and we are both ready for breakfast.
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