anxious for the sale as well. She wanted to go visit Glenna.
That thought did not please Berta—but at least it might serve her purpose, she reasoned. With her mother longing to see her younger child, the farm was bound to get sold.
In spite of herself, Berta smiled. Her step quickened. As she continued on down the street she found herself looking at the houses along the way with new interest. Which one would she like to own? What would she look for? A single bedroom? No, perhaps two. Her mama might wish to visit….
The night was softly gathering in about her. Streetlights lent their glow to guide her steps. Muted lamplight spilled out from windows. Wispy smoke curled upward from lit fireplaces. An occasional fragment of conversation carried out to the street. All of these things spoke to Berta of home. A home. It would be so nice to have a home again. A real home. That was what she was missing. That was why she felt so disconnected from life. So restless and dissatisfied. Once she had her own home she’d be able to settle in and find her rightful spot in the world. She would feel whole again.
She smiled again to herself in the darkness.
A porch swing, she mused. I’ve always wanted a porch swing—like at Granna’s.
Yes, she would have a porch swing. That was one thing she would insist upon.
————
It was hard to wait. Mrs. Berdette did not seem to be able to bring herself to actually leave her little home. Berta chafed. Then fall moved into another winter, and Uncle John insisted that his sister not spend the cold gray months alone.
Still she did not accept the offer of the developer. Nor did she have her yard sale and pack up her treasures. Eventually she took only personal items and allowed herself to be moved in with Granna.
“I’ll take care of things in the spring,” she assured Berta, but Berta secretly wondered if her mother would ever be able to break her ties to the farm.
The winter was an especially cold one, and Berta found herself feeling more and more confined in her little room. At times she even considered joining the family for meals in the big dining room, but in the end she continued to deny herself that small pleasure. It would be admitting defeat—and need. Berta’s pride would not allow her to do that.
Stubbornly she carried on. She wondered if she was becoming more and more like her fellow worker. She arrived in the morning, said her curt “good-day,” walked through the hours in silence and solitude, said her “good-evening,” and went on home with a book tucked under her arm.
But Berta did make one resolve. She would not become a total hermit. She would at least seek some release from her self-inflicted prison on Sundays. And she would insist on tending to her own physical needs by eating properly and getting some exercise.
Berta assigned herself some blocks to walk even on the nippy days. She made the walks more interesting by studying the houses as she passed briskly by. When winter finally ended—as winters always must—she knew every residential area of the town and had already picked five small houses as “possibilities.”
She began to secretly hope that one of those families would decide, for one reason or another, that a move was in their best interest.
Why get anxious? she reprimanded herself. Mama still hasn’t parted with the farm.
She wondered if she would have to add her voice to her uncle John’s and try to get her mother to make the proper decision.
————
One afternoon Berta looked up from her desk at the library to find her mother standing mutely before her, looking cautiously around as though she might be escorted away if she dared to open her lips within the hallowed halls.
A flash of fear filled Berta. Her mother had never visited the library before. Was something wrong? But no, she didn’t appear to be disturbed.
“Hello, Mama,” she said in a soft voice, not just to greet her mother but to indicate that it was all right if
That thought did not please Berta—but at least it might serve her purpose, she reasoned. With her mother longing to see her younger child, the farm was bound to get sold.
In spite of herself, Berta smiled. Her step quickened. As she continued on down the street she found herself looking at the houses along the way with new interest. Which one would she like to own? What would she look for? A single bedroom? No, perhaps two. Her mama might wish to visit….
The night was softly gathering in about her. Streetlights lent their glow to guide her steps. Muted lamplight spilled out from windows. Wispy smoke curled upward from lit fireplaces. An occasional fragment of conversation carried out to the street. All of these things spoke to Berta of home. A home. It would be so nice to have a home again. A real home. That was what she was missing. That was why she felt so disconnected from life. So restless and dissatisfied. Once she had her own home she’d be able to settle in and find her rightful spot in the world. She would feel whole again.
She smiled again to herself in the darkness.
A porch swing, she mused. I’ve always wanted a porch swing—like at Granna’s.
Yes, she would have a porch swing. That was one thing she would insist upon.
————
It was hard to wait. Mrs. Berdette did not seem to be able to bring herself to actually leave her little home. Berta chafed. Then fall moved into another winter, and Uncle John insisted that his sister not spend the cold gray months alone.
Still she did not accept the offer of the developer. Nor did she have her yard sale and pack up her treasures. Eventually she took only personal items and allowed herself to be moved in with Granna.
“I’ll take care of things in the spring,” she assured Berta, but Berta secretly wondered if her mother would ever be able to break her ties to the farm.
The winter was an especially cold one, and Berta found herself feeling more and more confined in her little room. At times she even considered joining the family for meals in the big dining room, but in the end she continued to deny herself that small pleasure. It would be admitting defeat—and need. Berta’s pride would not allow her to do that.
Stubbornly she carried on. She wondered if she was becoming more and more like her fellow worker. She arrived in the morning, said her curt “good-day,” walked through the hours in silence and solitude, said her “good-evening,” and went on home with a book tucked under her arm.
But Berta did make one resolve. She would not become a total hermit. She would at least seek some release from her self-inflicted prison on Sundays. And she would insist on tending to her own physical needs by eating properly and getting some exercise.
Berta assigned herself some blocks to walk even on the nippy days. She made the walks more interesting by studying the houses as she passed briskly by. When winter finally ended—as winters always must—she knew every residential area of the town and had already picked five small houses as “possibilities.”
She began to secretly hope that one of those families would decide, for one reason or another, that a move was in their best interest.
Why get anxious? she reprimanded herself. Mama still hasn’t parted with the farm.
She wondered if she would have to add her voice to her uncle John’s and try to get her mother to make the proper decision.
————
One afternoon Berta looked up from her desk at the library to find her mother standing mutely before her, looking cautiously around as though she might be escorted away if she dared to open her lips within the hallowed halls.
A flash of fear filled Berta. Her mother had never visited the library before. Was something wrong? But no, she didn’t appear to be disturbed.
“Hello, Mama,” she said in a soft voice, not just to greet her mother but to indicate that it was all right if
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