you that the place to begin is at the beginning, not in the middle."
To Roe's horror, tears welled up in Jesse's bright blue eyes. "We got to start right here," he insisted. "This is where Pa taught me to start and it's the way I know."
Alarmed at the young man's emotion, Roe voluntarily touched his shoulder in an uncertain attempt to comfort him. "It's all right, Jesse. Don't cry," he said.
"I ain't crying," the young man insisted through his tears. "I'm too big to cry."
Roe nodded as he passed Jesse his handkerchief. "Forget I even brought it up," Roe told him. "We can start plowing right here."
"No, no," Jesse answered, sniffling. "You're lots smarter than me and if you think it should be a different way, then we'll do it that way."
"It doesn't matter, Jesse," Roe said. "I don't want to upset you."
Jesse swallowed and looked around the field. Roe could see him struggling with his thoughts, trying to put them in a coherent order. "It takes me a long time to learn things," he told Roe finally. "When I learn 'em, I try to hold on real tight. It's kindy scary for me to try to unlearn 'em."
Roe nodded. "But, don't you feel great when you learn something new?"
Jesse nodded a little hesitantly. He gazed at the field once more solemnly, then managed to smile at Roe. "Where do you want to start the plowing, my frien'?" he said finally.
Following Roe's directives, Jesse led the mule to the far left corner of the field and made ready to set the plow in the ground.
"You're facing the wrong way," Roe said.
"Huh?"
"You're facing the wrong way. It will be a lot easier to plow up and down on the hillside than crossways."
Jesse looked confused and slightly scared all over again. "We always plow crossways," he said. "Ever' farmer on the mountain plows crossways."
Roe waved away his concern. "Just because everyone on this mountain does it that way, doesn't make it right. Plowing crossways on a hill like this is much harder. You have to stand crooked all day long."
Jesse nodded. "That's why they call plowing work."
"But, if you plow up and down the hill, you can stand straight up and every other furrow, the down furrows, will be much easier with the help of gravity."
"Who's grab-ba-dee?"
"It's a force that… well, it's what makes it easier to run downhill than up."
Nodding as if he understood, he stared at the field once more with worry. "You sure this is the best way?"
"Absolutely."
With his friend's certainty in mind, Jesse turned the mule to face up the hill.
* * *
Meggie tossed the thread-wrapped shuttle hand-to-hand through the multitude of cotton and linen lines that made up the weaving harness. Forcefully she tromped the first treadle, lifting the threads across the warp. Passing the shuttle back once more, she tromped the second treadle which raised the second harness of threads that had laid low before. After another throw of the shuttle, she pulled the batten toward her with a firm jerk. In this methodical, rhythmic pattern she, Meggie Best, created the cloth that was worn by herself, her father, and her brother. And now by Roe Farley. She did it with the ease of familiarity, but her mind was not on weaving.
She hummed quietly to herself as in her imagination she spun and twirled across the dance floor in the arms of a handsome prince. She was beautiful, of course. Her dark blonde hair had magically turned the color of the palest cornsilk and was twirled on top of her head in a braided coronet entwined with blue ribbons. Her dress was blue also. Not the blue that she could make by soaking homespun cloth in cedar tops and wild flag petals. But a real, dyed blue, like the bolts of fabric in Phillips' Store. Soft, shiny blue that would never fade to gray even if it was washed a dozen Wednesdays. The dress had a wide skirt reaching clear to the floor and yards of material belled about her with circular hoops. The tiny stitches in the seams and facings were flat-felled in thread of pure gold, and the yoke was
To Roe's horror, tears welled up in Jesse's bright blue eyes. "We got to start right here," he insisted. "This is where Pa taught me to start and it's the way I know."
Alarmed at the young man's emotion, Roe voluntarily touched his shoulder in an uncertain attempt to comfort him. "It's all right, Jesse. Don't cry," he said.
"I ain't crying," the young man insisted through his tears. "I'm too big to cry."
Roe nodded as he passed Jesse his handkerchief. "Forget I even brought it up," Roe told him. "We can start plowing right here."
"No, no," Jesse answered, sniffling. "You're lots smarter than me and if you think it should be a different way, then we'll do it that way."
"It doesn't matter, Jesse," Roe said. "I don't want to upset you."
Jesse swallowed and looked around the field. Roe could see him struggling with his thoughts, trying to put them in a coherent order. "It takes me a long time to learn things," he told Roe finally. "When I learn 'em, I try to hold on real tight. It's kindy scary for me to try to unlearn 'em."
Roe nodded. "But, don't you feel great when you learn something new?"
Jesse nodded a little hesitantly. He gazed at the field once more solemnly, then managed to smile at Roe. "Where do you want to start the plowing, my frien'?" he said finally.
Following Roe's directives, Jesse led the mule to the far left corner of the field and made ready to set the plow in the ground.
"You're facing the wrong way," Roe said.
"Huh?"
"You're facing the wrong way. It will be a lot easier to plow up and down on the hillside than crossways."
Jesse looked confused and slightly scared all over again. "We always plow crossways," he said. "Ever' farmer on the mountain plows crossways."
Roe waved away his concern. "Just because everyone on this mountain does it that way, doesn't make it right. Plowing crossways on a hill like this is much harder. You have to stand crooked all day long."
Jesse nodded. "That's why they call plowing work."
"But, if you plow up and down the hill, you can stand straight up and every other furrow, the down furrows, will be much easier with the help of gravity."
"Who's grab-ba-dee?"
"It's a force that… well, it's what makes it easier to run downhill than up."
Nodding as if he understood, he stared at the field once more with worry. "You sure this is the best way?"
"Absolutely."
With his friend's certainty in mind, Jesse turned the mule to face up the hill.
* * *
Meggie tossed the thread-wrapped shuttle hand-to-hand through the multitude of cotton and linen lines that made up the weaving harness. Forcefully she tromped the first treadle, lifting the threads across the warp. Passing the shuttle back once more, she tromped the second treadle which raised the second harness of threads that had laid low before. After another throw of the shuttle, she pulled the batten toward her with a firm jerk. In this methodical, rhythmic pattern she, Meggie Best, created the cloth that was worn by herself, her father, and her brother. And now by Roe Farley. She did it with the ease of familiarity, but her mind was not on weaving.
She hummed quietly to herself as in her imagination she spun and twirled across the dance floor in the arms of a handsome prince. She was beautiful, of course. Her dark blonde hair had magically turned the color of the palest cornsilk and was twirled on top of her head in a braided coronet entwined with blue ribbons. Her dress was blue also. Not the blue that she could make by soaking homespun cloth in cedar tops and wild flag petals. But a real, dyed blue, like the bolts of fabric in Phillips' Store. Soft, shiny blue that would never fade to gray even if it was washed a dozen Wednesdays. The dress had a wide skirt reaching clear to the floor and yards of material belled about her with circular hoops. The tiny stitches in the seams and facings were flat-felled in thread of pure gold, and the yoke was
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