Of Needles and Haystacks by Ann Fryer (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) 📕

usually revealed my arithmetic lesson over hot cocoa—to sweeten the challenge. Mother would slip away while father and I put our thinking caps on.

Aunt had roasted two tender chickens, whipped potatoes, fried sugared apples, and stewed a brown kind of bean they called shuck beans. Apparently parched in the summer heat and reconstituted in boiling water. Tender and salty—I had too many on my plate. I asked outright what they were, and received the quiet, hushed answer. As if the moment we bent over our food transformed a holy moment. That for which one lives. Survival, perhaps? Maybe at the moment we all come together at day’s end, we must simply and quietly sustain ourselves lest our superfluous words spoil Aunt and Uncle’s arduous effort?

Despite any misgivings, I must admit, supper—even the beans— could not have tasted better. Weary as I am from this long day, truth be known, I did not care to rattle-on as I usually do.

An older cousin, Helen, I think, just brought to my door a mug of steaming chamomile tea steeped with honey and a stack of Turkish towels. Another cousin, Kirsten, followed her into my room with a pitcher of hot water for my washstand. Oh, the glory of hot water, hot tea, and the faithful flannel nightgown—and the grace of dark nights, when my own dark clothing can be set aside for something lighter, unrestrained—when life can be still for pondering and sleeping.

Chapter 3

FEBRUARY 25, 1880

I am absolutely frozen to the core. Must find heat. Simply must or they’ll have to chip me out of bed.

After reaching the kitchen, I sufficiently warmed up. Aunt forced me into the hickory bottom ladder chair in front of the woodstove while she cooked breakfast at the range. “You look shaky as a ghost. Coffee’ll cure that!” Her flushed, cheeky-smile and rolled sleeves told me she’d been awake and working for a while.

She handed me a mug of coffee, sweetened and stirred with globby fresh cream.  Without my prying, she rattled on about everyone’s duties around the farm, and insisted more than once that I mustn’t feel obligated to take part unless I wished. However, she added, whatever chore I might decide to choose, I would need to let her know so that she might record my plan in the family book.

“What is a family book?” I asked.

She pulled a bulging leather-bound ledger of sorts from the top of the pie safe. (Which, by the way was full of pies. Wouldn’t last long if Father were here.) “This book is why I haven’t ended up in a sanitarium. Yet. With a family as large as ours, I need to keep my children’s goings-on perfectly straight in my head.”

“And that’s quite a lovely head.” Uncle entered the kitchen in a blast of cold air. He limped to Aunt and hugged her. He turned to me. “Good morning, Dorothy. Trust you rested well?”

I assured him I had. “Slept without knowing a thing.”  I didn’t mention that exhaustion still yanked at my eyelids. I feel as if I need another long and dreamless night.

I assume Aunt wishes me, quite strongly, to find useful chores to do after her speech. I had expected this, but such a strange way she has of putting it! After city living, I only know how to do indoor things. I shudder at the thought of being asked to milk a cow. Surely they won’t require me to do this else they’ll soon be crying over spoiled milk. I may—perhaps—have the ability to learn, I suppose, but ability doesn’t quite meet up with the mere desire to do so.

Thank Heaven, no one expected me to do work of any kind today. Helen and Kirsten showed me around the farm after breakfast. I could tell the others wanted to shirk duties and follow me—Ernest, the eldest son, tossed his napkin into his breakfast plate (receiving a swat on his sleeve from Aunt) and offered me his arm like a gentleman. He showed me conjoined barns— massive and completely foreign. A good place to get lost and not be soon discovered. Rooms, sections, and levels for every kind of farming implement or stock.

A black barn cat trotted by with a mouse in its mouth. Ernest gave me a sidelong glance, probably expected me to swoon. I did not. “I suppose cats are needed in the country as much as the city.”

He pointed at things to never touch, not that I would, being a woman and all. Then he sat down a stool and began to sharpen some very large blades while Helen showed me the horse stalls. I had already the pleasure of meeting these beasts yesterday. Useful, capable creatures. What struck me most is when Helen turned and I had a full view of her profile. It closely resembles my own! Only her hair is auburn and mine is dark blonde.

Cattle trudged about in the muddy field, making their way towards a large haystack. Uncle worked at a distance tending fences.

“The flower garden is ugly now, but we’ll plant zinnias in the far corner.” Helen seemed to thrill at this. “Nasturtium will climb the grapevine tee-pees and I’ve a mind to put as many  roses as will fit into the rest of it.”

I didn’t show my ignorance. Haven’t a clue what a zinnia or a nasturtium is. I smiled and played along.

Kirsten waved me over to another barren stubbly spot near the house. Nothing now, but she seemed excited about this work of hers. “This is where I help mother grow herbs.” She pinched off a thin bit of stick and waved it under my nose. “See, it still has life within. They’ll be greening-up soon.”

“Potent. Quite potent.” Flowers and herbs...I am dropped as a curious character in some Shakespearean play. The sun warmed just at that moment—golden upon our heads. Kirsten twirled before declaring her desire to be off upon her chores. She looks like Aunt but with the family dimple.

Helen turned to me