Shattered Trail

Chapter Two

By time the sun comes up the next day, I’ve already eaten my breakfast (a small roll), gotten dressed (a navy-blue wool dress, another one that used to be Rosalind’s), and started to prepare my wash. My bed sheets are neatly piled up one on corner of the table, my dresses on one, and my under-garments on another. I would have them on the floor (I loathe having my clothing sit on the same table I eat my food at), but my floor is dirt, and I know that I would never get dirt stains out of some of my clothes.

The first thing I did when I got up was hike down to the creek for water, and I already have a large tub nearly boiling on the stove. As soon as I notice bubbles rising to the surface of the water, I quickly take my basin off of the stove and carry it outside. I always prefer doing my laundry out in the tiny square of grass and weeds in front of my house. Setting it down, I shuffle back inside and grab my first stack, my undergarments. By doing these first, before everyone else is up and walking around town, I can avoid the extreme embarrassment that would come if someone these articles of clothing. Despite the public’s opinion, I do have a bit of pride.

I drop my heavy load of clothes into the tub. The water is still too hot for me to put my hands in and start scrubbing, so I let them soak while I run back inside to grab my soap.

The soap is harsh feeling and an odd shade of purple, but it gets the job done. Mr. Emmerson’s wife, Faith, gave this to me one time when I came into the store, two coins short of buying some flour. She asked me what else I was needing, and I told her I barely had any soap left and didn’t know how I’d get my hands on any more, for the Emmerson’s didn’t sell soap- most people in town make their own. She went back into a store room for a few minutes and came out with a sack full of these purple chunks, telling me that she couldn’t find any use for them, she had enough soap to last her awhile, and that I might as well take this bag. My pride almost made me refuse, but then I realized that it might be better to have my pride wounded but have the soap, for I desperately needed it. It’s been a few months, and I’ve barely used a fifth of the bag. I still thank Mrs. Emmerson profusely every time I see her.

By now, my water should be nice and cool, so I step back outdoors. A small shiver runs through my body, and I tug my shawl a bit tighter around my shoulders. Even though it’s been warming up, it’s still late February, and it’s still cold. It’s odd of me to be doing laundry outside in this temperature, but I don’t care.

Plunging my hands into the basin, I begin to scrub at my clothes with the soap. It’s nice out here- chilly, but nice. My two chickens wander past the front of my house, clucking softly at each other and pecking at some grass. A lone goat on the road passes by on the road, a the tiny bell around it’s neck clinking as he trods on by. Markersville is about as rural as a town can get and still be called a town. We’re the only town for miles, settled nicely in the foothills of the Appalachian mountains. Marksville is a slow-paced town- not much happens. We have a few wealthy people that live in newly-built mansions up on hills above the town, living off old family money that came with them whenever they moved out here. Why these rich folks chose to move here of all places, I’ll never know. The only exciting things that ever happen in Marksville are the fights that start in the saloon, and even then, the wealthy folks are never part of them. I suppose they just enjoy sitting up in their large homes, all alone and practically swimming in their riches. The rest of us are the average people, folks like the Emmerson’s who own stores and such. Of course, the exception is my family and Lemuel. Lemuel’s home is a small canvas tent pitched in a field about a quarter-mile north of Marksville, and my house is what folks ‘round here call a shack. Dirt floor, cracked walls, rotting ceiling. But it’s served it’s purpose, and I suppose that’s all I need to think about.

By now, I see people starting to stir. The folks in the homes across the street from me are starting to push open their curtains, and a few are starting to send their oldest children to the creek (or their wells, if they’re lucky) for some water. Younger children are emerging from their homes with marbles, stones, and sticks, and they look prepared to play with each other all day. I can tell that it will turn out to be a nice day. It’s warmed up a few degrees since I stepped out here, and just a few wispy clouds lazily drift by.