begun to grow.
The trouble started last August when Eli lost his wife of seventeen years. Without warning, Marnie had died in her sleep. There had been no sickness to blame. From all appearances, she’d simply stopped breathing.
It was a balmy summer night , stifling if not for the breeze drifting through the half-open window. Eli awoke bathed in the cheerful rays of dawn to a morning that was bright and clear and full of promise—only to discover that his wife was dead.
Marnie had just turned thirty-six. She’d always been small, considered frail by some, but so strong in spirit that most did not see her as such. She was rarely ill, or at least rarely complained of being ill. And now she lay curled in his arms, delicate as a bird, pale and lovely in death, the warm air keeping the chill from her skin.
Eli was a big man, towering over his wife by at least a foot, his body as stocky as hers was slim. Running a farm was hard work. It made for hard people, and he was no exception. Why, some years it was his hard work and determination alone what kept a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. But he didn’t mind, because even when times got tough, they were happy. They were together, and that’s all that mattered, and their love for one another was deep.
Mandie, who’d never seen her father shed so much as a single tear, found him that morning clinging to her mother like an infant, sobbing, head on her still chest, muscular arms wrapped around her like a vice.
She had been concerned when she’d awakened on her own well past nine o’clock. And for good reason, too. They always called her and her younger brother, Erick, to breakfast at six on Sundays—a special breakfast on the most special day of the week, consisting of eggs, bacon, hot cakes, fried potatoes, and peach preserves that had been canned, they never failed to remind them, with love by their grandmother.
Church started at eight- thirty, which meant they were already late, and it was a twenty-minute wagon ride over rough terrain to get there. Her father usually got up at five in order to, as he put it, “Start the day before it gets away.” There were chores to be done, chickens to be fed, cows to be milked, eggs to be gathered, and about a hundred other things to do.
And here it was half past nine and the three-room cottage was still as a tomb, with a somber, dreamlike feel to the air. She walked from her bed to her parents’ door with her heart full of trepidation, bare feet cold against the wooden planks. She knocked several times, the feeling of wrongness growing more distinct, muffled sobbing issuing from the other side.
Eli wouldn’t have had the strength to go on if not for his children, sixteen-year-old Mandie and eleven-year-old Erick. After the death of their mother, they needed him more than ever. And he them. Things weren’t the same, of course, and never would be again, but they pulled together and kept going.
It was impossible to escape the memories, even if they’d wanted to. She was everywhere : singing cheerfully to herself in the kitchen, riding beside them in the wagon, sitting in front of the hearth in her high-backed rocking chair, knitting socks for her beloved husband who, as she put it, “Can wear out new clothes nearly as fast as he can wear out my patience!”
Their two sheep dogs, Graybeard and Blue, seeming to sense Eli’s profound loneliness, took to sleeping at his feet, breaking a rule that had been in place since they were pups. If Marnie were alive, she would not have stood for it, swatting them off the bed with a broom and a curse. As things were, however, he doubted she’d mind.
Mandie took o n many of the womanly duties, this on top of her already full schedule, cleaning, cooking, and even nagging—something for which she found she possessed a particular talent. No, things were not the same, and never would be again, but they kept going,
The trouble started last August when Eli lost his wife of seventeen years. Without warning, Marnie had died in her sleep. There had been no sickness to blame. From all appearances, she’d simply stopped breathing.
It was a balmy summer night , stifling if not for the breeze drifting through the half-open window. Eli awoke bathed in the cheerful rays of dawn to a morning that was bright and clear and full of promise—only to discover that his wife was dead.
Marnie had just turned thirty-six. She’d always been small, considered frail by some, but so strong in spirit that most did not see her as such. She was rarely ill, or at least rarely complained of being ill. And now she lay curled in his arms, delicate as a bird, pale and lovely in death, the warm air keeping the chill from her skin.
Eli was a big man, towering over his wife by at least a foot, his body as stocky as hers was slim. Running a farm was hard work. It made for hard people, and he was no exception. Why, some years it was his hard work and determination alone what kept a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. But he didn’t mind, because even when times got tough, they were happy. They were together, and that’s all that mattered, and their love for one another was deep.
Mandie, who’d never seen her father shed so much as a single tear, found him that morning clinging to her mother like an infant, sobbing, head on her still chest, muscular arms wrapped around her like a vice.
She had been concerned when she’d awakened on her own well past nine o’clock. And for good reason, too. They always called her and her younger brother, Erick, to breakfast at six on Sundays—a special breakfast on the most special day of the week, consisting of eggs, bacon, hot cakes, fried potatoes, and peach preserves that had been canned, they never failed to remind them, with love by their grandmother.
Church started at eight- thirty, which meant they were already late, and it was a twenty-minute wagon ride over rough terrain to get there. Her father usually got up at five in order to, as he put it, “Start the day before it gets away.” There were chores to be done, chickens to be fed, cows to be milked, eggs to be gathered, and about a hundred other things to do.
And here it was half past nine and the three-room cottage was still as a tomb, with a somber, dreamlike feel to the air. She walked from her bed to her parents’ door with her heart full of trepidation, bare feet cold against the wooden planks. She knocked several times, the feeling of wrongness growing more distinct, muffled sobbing issuing from the other side.
Eli wouldn’t have had the strength to go on if not for his children, sixteen-year-old Mandie and eleven-year-old Erick. After the death of their mother, they needed him more than ever. And he them. Things weren’t the same, of course, and never would be again, but they pulled together and kept going.
It was impossible to escape the memories, even if they’d wanted to. She was everywhere : singing cheerfully to herself in the kitchen, riding beside them in the wagon, sitting in front of the hearth in her high-backed rocking chair, knitting socks for her beloved husband who, as she put it, “Can wear out new clothes nearly as fast as he can wear out my patience!”
Their two sheep dogs, Graybeard and Blue, seeming to sense Eli’s profound loneliness, took to sleeping at his feet, breaking a rule that had been in place since they were pups. If Marnie were alive, she would not have stood for it, swatting them off the bed with a broom and a curse. As things were, however, he doubted she’d mind.
Mandie took o n many of the womanly duties, this on top of her already full schedule, cleaning, cooking, and even nagging—something for which she found she possessed a particular talent. No, things were not the same, and never would be again, but they kept going,
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