herself but someone she might almost have been.
The girl on the ridge, under the ground: Margaret wondered if sheâd ridden, had a special pony sheâd recognize in a herd from a distance, the familiar sheen of sunlight on the flank, the whiskery feel of her lips against her hand as she fitted on a bridle. But she supposed there hadnât always been horses here in the valley. And certainly the girl wore buckskin, unless she was very poor; then sheâd have worn a robe of willow or sage bark. Maybe she had died of influenza. This past winter, when the younger children had been so sick, Mother and Father had told her that they must be prepared for the possibility of losing one of them. There had been high fevers and delirium, and Mother had worked so hard to keep the children comfortable, making broth and plain puddings, cooling their heads with cloths soaked in spring water. Margaret had tried to think of what life on the ranch would be like without their voices, their presence at the long table, the girls giggling in bed at night in their shared room.
A gravestone in the graveyard at St. Andrews Church had always haunted Margaret. It was white stone with a carving at the top, a woman lying down with her left arm cradling a baby. Underneath was written: In affectionate remembrance of Mary Ann Whitford, beloved wife of Samuel Moore. Born 31 Octâr 1855, Died 13 Octâr 1881 also infant dau. Mary Agnes Moore, Died 31 Octâr 1881, aged 19 days . That meant the mother died one day after her baby had been born, and the child died on her motherâs birthday. Margaret wondered if anything sadder had ever happened to anyone and how the father went on living. When she realized that the father was the Samuel Moore who lived at Beaver Ranch â heâd died of old age when Margaret was about ten â she felt sadder still. That house must have been haunted with the ghost of the exhausted mother, having carried her baby for so long only to die before she had a chance to know the wee thing, and the ghost of the babe, taken to be with its mother in heaven, leaving the father with his hope and love departed. In 1881, her own father was still in Astoria, not even knowing this valley existed. Two years later, he was working on the Thompson Plateau, six years later heâd met and married her mother, seven and a half years later, Margaret herself had been born in the tiny cabin that the cowhands now slept in. That little girl born in 1881 would have been a woman now, someone Margaret would certainly have known; sheâd have seen her at the entertainments, at church, community picnics, perhaps even accompanied her to Kamloops for dress materials as she had Mrs. Lauder. Some days it was too much to fathom, how a year could pass and leave so much change and sorrow in its wake and such tremendous happiness, too. And to imagine her life any different, a father who hadnât come north through Washington territory, a different mother, a grandmother who didnât live in a log house near the shore of Douglas Lake with an osprey nest in her tallest tree.
And now the knowledge of this young girl, at the threshold of womanhood, lost to her family, bound in the earth with her digging stick of antler, her medicine bag, a necklace of elk teeth. Margaret could see her, almost, an outline fading in and out of view, a shadow in the tall grass which parted and rustled as she passed. Who would she have become? Grandmother had told Margaret that mothers used to take their babies in their buckskin sacks laced to the cradleboard to the digging ground with them, and, after the mother had painted her own face, she danced before the infant all night, praying to the mountains and other spirits that evil and sickness might never come to her child. When the child had outgrown the cradleboard, it was hung in a tree a distance from the village site and not used again for any other child. Margaret wondered about this girlâs
The girl on the ridge, under the ground: Margaret wondered if sheâd ridden, had a special pony sheâd recognize in a herd from a distance, the familiar sheen of sunlight on the flank, the whiskery feel of her lips against her hand as she fitted on a bridle. But she supposed there hadnât always been horses here in the valley. And certainly the girl wore buckskin, unless she was very poor; then sheâd have worn a robe of willow or sage bark. Maybe she had died of influenza. This past winter, when the younger children had been so sick, Mother and Father had told her that they must be prepared for the possibility of losing one of them. There had been high fevers and delirium, and Mother had worked so hard to keep the children comfortable, making broth and plain puddings, cooling their heads with cloths soaked in spring water. Margaret had tried to think of what life on the ranch would be like without their voices, their presence at the long table, the girls giggling in bed at night in their shared room.
A gravestone in the graveyard at St. Andrews Church had always haunted Margaret. It was white stone with a carving at the top, a woman lying down with her left arm cradling a baby. Underneath was written: In affectionate remembrance of Mary Ann Whitford, beloved wife of Samuel Moore. Born 31 Octâr 1855, Died 13 Octâr 1881 also infant dau. Mary Agnes Moore, Died 31 Octâr 1881, aged 19 days . That meant the mother died one day after her baby had been born, and the child died on her motherâs birthday. Margaret wondered if anything sadder had ever happened to anyone and how the father went on living. When she realized that the father was the Samuel Moore who lived at Beaver Ranch â heâd died of old age when Margaret was about ten â she felt sadder still. That house must have been haunted with the ghost of the exhausted mother, having carried her baby for so long only to die before she had a chance to know the wee thing, and the ghost of the babe, taken to be with its mother in heaven, leaving the father with his hope and love departed. In 1881, her own father was still in Astoria, not even knowing this valley existed. Two years later, he was working on the Thompson Plateau, six years later heâd met and married her mother, seven and a half years later, Margaret herself had been born in the tiny cabin that the cowhands now slept in. That little girl born in 1881 would have been a woman now, someone Margaret would certainly have known; sheâd have seen her at the entertainments, at church, community picnics, perhaps even accompanied her to Kamloops for dress materials as she had Mrs. Lauder. Some days it was too much to fathom, how a year could pass and leave so much change and sorrow in its wake and such tremendous happiness, too. And to imagine her life any different, a father who hadnât come north through Washington territory, a different mother, a grandmother who didnât live in a log house near the shore of Douglas Lake with an osprey nest in her tallest tree.
And now the knowledge of this young girl, at the threshold of womanhood, lost to her family, bound in the earth with her digging stick of antler, her medicine bag, a necklace of elk teeth. Margaret could see her, almost, an outline fading in and out of view, a shadow in the tall grass which parted and rustled as she passed. Who would she have become? Grandmother had told Margaret that mothers used to take their babies in their buckskin sacks laced to the cradleboard to the digging ground with them, and, after the mother had painted her own face, she danced before the infant all night, praying to the mountains and other spirits that evil and sickness might never come to her child. When the child had outgrown the cradleboard, it was hung in a tree a distance from the village site and not used again for any other child. Margaret wondered about this girlâs
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