should learn to use a gun and counts on her eleven-year-old son to protect her. Ten miles is a long way to go with two small children. Still, I enjoy our talk of dress patterns and chicken raising and schooling. I have already made the journey several times.
Days pass when I see no one but the Mexican women who live near by. They are heavy-set, all of them that I have met, and dark-skinned, with black hair and eyes. They speak very little English. Mrs. Deering complains she hired a Mexican woman as a housekeeper and found her unreliable. She says she has heard they are worse than the Negroes. When the Mexican field workers get tired of their work, they just get on their horses and ride off, even if it is early in the afternoon. At the end of the week, they still expect a full weekâs pay, and it is hard arguing with them when they spit out streams of Spanish.
Our only other visitor is Dr. Mayfield, who has been kind enough to ride over every few days to check on us. Yesterday he helped Amy catch a horned toad to keep as a pet. She has become fond of goatâs milk mixed with her porridge in the mornings and recently took over the milking of Sybil, the goat, a gentle animal who would never bite but sometimes attempts to wander away before Amy has finished. Last night I made a sweet potato pie, and we ate it with a cup of the milk.
I heard from Sally recently; both she and Bea send letters at least twice a year. Sally has two boys now along with Rachel and reports they are all healthy. Her husband has gone north for a few months to earn money logging, while she and her little ones live with the Sterns until his return.
I have nearly given up writing to Mother, as my letters are never answered. Tell her that both of the children are well and that our crops have met with some success. I will send you a few of the seeds from the peppers we dried!
Your Loving Sister,
Abigail
November 4, 1872
Dearest Maggie,
George Michael has been sick three days now. His throat is all red and he has a bright rash all along his arms and back. Dr. Mayfield fears it is scarlet fever. He stayed with us part of the afternoon yesterday, giving every kind of medicine, and would take nothing for it.
I still have no word from Clayton, and it has been two months. I told Dr. Mayfield my fear that Clayton is hurt somewhere, and he said John Deering got back a few days ago and he would ride over to ask what the news is. I cannot see why Clayton would be gone this long with no word sent back, but there is every kind of danger on the open road through the desert, and the mining towns are so full of killings that many go unnoticed.
Your Sister,
Abigail
November 7, 1872
Dearest Maggie,
At just an hour past dawn, little George passed the crisis, and I know now, Sister, that he will live. Yesterday evening I was sure we would lose him. His temperature had risen, and he was so weak he could not drink anything. Dr. Mayfield stayed the night, and I am certain George Michael would not be alive this morning if Dr. Mayfield had not been here. He had a bottle of syrup and gave it to George Michael liberally, also quinine. All night I rubbed his arms and legs with alcohol and applied mustard packs, until the fever was drawn out.
Shortly after the fever broke, I walked outside to wash the used linens at the pump and fell down on my knees to thank God. When I stood again, my hands and knees were coated with red dust, as we have not had rain for several weeks. But I did not care. I wiped my face with this earth, grateful that it had not taken another child from me, unsure whether or not my husband is buried somewhere in it.
When I turned towards the house, I saw that Dr. Mayfield stood beside the door, watching me. He took my hands and placed them against his shirt so that he too was covered with dust. I pressed myself against him and we two stood like that, touching, as the air turned from darkness to a pale, palpable gray.
I should not have kissed him,
Days pass when I see no one but the Mexican women who live near by. They are heavy-set, all of them that I have met, and dark-skinned, with black hair and eyes. They speak very little English. Mrs. Deering complains she hired a Mexican woman as a housekeeper and found her unreliable. She says she has heard they are worse than the Negroes. When the Mexican field workers get tired of their work, they just get on their horses and ride off, even if it is early in the afternoon. At the end of the week, they still expect a full weekâs pay, and it is hard arguing with them when they spit out streams of Spanish.
Our only other visitor is Dr. Mayfield, who has been kind enough to ride over every few days to check on us. Yesterday he helped Amy catch a horned toad to keep as a pet. She has become fond of goatâs milk mixed with her porridge in the mornings and recently took over the milking of Sybil, the goat, a gentle animal who would never bite but sometimes attempts to wander away before Amy has finished. Last night I made a sweet potato pie, and we ate it with a cup of the milk.
I heard from Sally recently; both she and Bea send letters at least twice a year. Sally has two boys now along with Rachel and reports they are all healthy. Her husband has gone north for a few months to earn money logging, while she and her little ones live with the Sterns until his return.
I have nearly given up writing to Mother, as my letters are never answered. Tell her that both of the children are well and that our crops have met with some success. I will send you a few of the seeds from the peppers we dried!
Your Loving Sister,
Abigail
November 4, 1872
Dearest Maggie,
George Michael has been sick three days now. His throat is all red and he has a bright rash all along his arms and back. Dr. Mayfield fears it is scarlet fever. He stayed with us part of the afternoon yesterday, giving every kind of medicine, and would take nothing for it.
I still have no word from Clayton, and it has been two months. I told Dr. Mayfield my fear that Clayton is hurt somewhere, and he said John Deering got back a few days ago and he would ride over to ask what the news is. I cannot see why Clayton would be gone this long with no word sent back, but there is every kind of danger on the open road through the desert, and the mining towns are so full of killings that many go unnoticed.
Your Sister,
Abigail
November 7, 1872
Dearest Maggie,
At just an hour past dawn, little George passed the crisis, and I know now, Sister, that he will live. Yesterday evening I was sure we would lose him. His temperature had risen, and he was so weak he could not drink anything. Dr. Mayfield stayed the night, and I am certain George Michael would not be alive this morning if Dr. Mayfield had not been here. He had a bottle of syrup and gave it to George Michael liberally, also quinine. All night I rubbed his arms and legs with alcohol and applied mustard packs, until the fever was drawn out.
Shortly after the fever broke, I walked outside to wash the used linens at the pump and fell down on my knees to thank God. When I stood again, my hands and knees were coated with red dust, as we have not had rain for several weeks. But I did not care. I wiped my face with this earth, grateful that it had not taken another child from me, unsure whether or not my husband is buried somewhere in it.
When I turned towards the house, I saw that Dr. Mayfield stood beside the door, watching me. He took my hands and placed them against his shirt so that he too was covered with dust. I pressed myself against him and we two stood like that, touching, as the air turned from darkness to a pale, palpable gray.
I should not have kissed him,
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