Entry 3

Entry 3



This morning was particularly beautiful. Mother handed me some fresh greens to deliver to a neighbor, the Reynolds, and, eager to escape my incomplete sewing, I hastened out of the house to complete my newest task in the new day's fresh air.

I had tossed my skirts over Lilly's soft bare back and prodded her from the barn with my delivery tucked safely under my arm. The sun was still lurking behind the dark silhouettes of the trees, a risen star casting everything in her gold light. The first rustlings of activity were beginning at this hour, like every morning; Father and the boys were arranging the tools, Jacob carrying sloshing pails of Daisy's milk from the barn to the house. The chickens were contently quiet digging around in the dirt moistened by last evening's rain showers. The worms always seem to be in great abundance after storms and the hungry hens have great feasts the following morning.

I stay off the main road for my own entertainment, carving my own paths through oceans of sweet grass. The tall blades rippled like masses of seaweed, all alight with sparkling silver dew. The grass was so high in this one particular pasture that, in areas, it reached up and tickled Lilly's belly and soaked my shoes with the cold dew. The mare was quite tempted to bend down to snatch a hearty mouthful of the tender vegatation, but a gentle tug of the reins reminds her to keep her head up and a listening ear turned my way, her hooves dutifully plodding forward.  

I had angled myself through the pasture to the woods, crossing through underbrush to reach the Reynold's farm. They were similarly starting their day when I had arrived, and Mr. Reynolds came to greet me kindly. I was glad that Mrs. Reynolds was not yet out of the house, as she always enjoys trying to pair me up with one of her many young sons. Together she and my mother make a formidible duo, finding it fun to make me uncomfortable - the worst part being the both of them seemed to have gotten it into one of the boys, Ryan, that I would be the proper match for him. This morning he waved sheepishly at me as I spoke with his father, too busy with a goat at hand to come over and pester me further.

Why do I feel it so necessary to be harsh on him? It is not as if he is not nice. And Mother seems to remind me daily that, one way or another, the chances are I am to someday be a "Mrs. Katrina Reynolds" (which makes me cringe to even put it in words) whether married to Ryan or Charlie or Sam...

Even if she is joking, Mother that is, is it wrong for me to reject any advances Ryan may make in the future? Should I be flattered ... by such flattery? While not the best looking, my Mother (and his) continue to advertise him as the best option around. Will I ever be satisfied by any man who shows interest in an insignifcant plain farmgirl such as myself?  Will I ever be married happily, marriage being the destiny of every insignifcant plain farmgirl, as well as every beautiful Princess?

While these thoughts and those similar are rather deep for my age and circumstance, and the giggles and prods of Mother and Mrs. Reynolds are only a game to enterain themselves with, they are still here, in my mind, on this page.  And while my instincts tell me to rip this page from this journal and toss it in the fire knowing it would make good references for my brothers' comedic acts, I feel obligated to leave it. I feel as if I have poured my head onto this blank sheet, and burning it would be betraying myself somehow.





The End

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