flax that she had planted for spinning and weaving. The flax beds were the most difficult to care for, but very important because her weaving had become the only source of income which was hers alone.
One morning, while standing among the flax plants, Maria looked down at her bare feet and smiled at how fortunate she was that her feet were small enough to walk and weed between the rows of flax. She knew to be careful among the delicate plants. Stroking her round belly, she thought, I have no children to help me now, but soon enough...there will be.
Bending over to weed, she recalled Minda’s words to her when she was small, “Dig the plant, do not pull it out...as you weed, step carefully down the rows of flax.”
Maria learned everything about weaving from Minda: how to soak the harvested plants in streams or ponds to loosen the flax fiber from the woody core of the plant; how to dry and break it apart by skutching or hitting the hard stalks with a wooden skutching knife to scrape off the hard pieces and reveal the fibers. Maria became skilled at hackling and combing the strands into coarse, short, and long fibers. She needed more of the long fibers to spin into fine twisted threads, carding the short for coarser, everyday woven cloths. As the morning sun warmed her back, she felt good, and the memory of Minda’s encouraging words stayed in her heart, “Maria, you are a smart child, and you learn fast. You will make a fine weaver. Your mother would have been proud of you.”
As September neared its end, Maria had grown too large under her skirts to hide her secret from those around her so she was forced to stop working at the inn and attending church services. Almost daily, her lack of energy became a burden for her; she took to napping. One afternoon, a knock on the door of the Hallett house roused Maria from her rest. She cracked open the door and pulled her shawl close, hoping to hide her protruding stomach from whoever was outside. It was a woman from church. Maria’s voice trembled with fear, “Good afternoon... Widow Baker.”
“Miss Hallett, I have come to call on you... on behalf of Reverend Treat.”
The thin elder widow, dressed in a black dress and hat, cocked her head to look past the young girl to see what was inside. Maria stood large, blocking the widow’s view into the house.
The inquisitive woman stretched her neck high above Maria’s head but saw nothing unusual. She stepped back and focused her attention onto Maria. “I am here to inquire as to why you have not been honoring the Sabbath.”
“I have not been feeling well,” Maria replied. “I’m tired from the harvesting.”
“I see.” She pushed on the door and stepped a little closer into the house to take a better look at Maria’s body. “You don’t look tired. In fact, you look very healthy indeed.” Then she noticed the bulge under Maria’s shawl. “Very healthy!”
Eager for the woman to leave, Maria spoke quickly, “My father will be home soon, I must get back to my work. Thank you for your concern.” Frightened of this mean and meddlesome old woman, Maria wanted her to go. In a panic, she pushed her outside and slammed the door shut behind her.
The Widow Baker quickly turned on her heels, only to stand face to face with the weathered and splintered door. “Well, of all the rudeness. I never....” She left in a rage. “The ladies and the Reverend will be very interested in this little encounter.”
18
September 1715
EASTHAM – CAPE COD
AS MARIA CLOSED THE DOOR she knew her life would never be the same; the Widow Baker would see to that. She leaned her back against the wooden door and let her head fall forward, her emotions exploding in cries and fits of piercing screams. Her distended body slid to the floor. “Sam, where are you?” Her shawl caught on the rough edges of the old door and trailed in a pattern of grotesque shapes above her head. With her legs outstretched on the dirt floor before
One morning, while standing among the flax plants, Maria looked down at her bare feet and smiled at how fortunate she was that her feet were small enough to walk and weed between the rows of flax. She knew to be careful among the delicate plants. Stroking her round belly, she thought, I have no children to help me now, but soon enough...there will be.
Bending over to weed, she recalled Minda’s words to her when she was small, “Dig the plant, do not pull it out...as you weed, step carefully down the rows of flax.”
Maria learned everything about weaving from Minda: how to soak the harvested plants in streams or ponds to loosen the flax fiber from the woody core of the plant; how to dry and break it apart by skutching or hitting the hard stalks with a wooden skutching knife to scrape off the hard pieces and reveal the fibers. Maria became skilled at hackling and combing the strands into coarse, short, and long fibers. She needed more of the long fibers to spin into fine twisted threads, carding the short for coarser, everyday woven cloths. As the morning sun warmed her back, she felt good, and the memory of Minda’s encouraging words stayed in her heart, “Maria, you are a smart child, and you learn fast. You will make a fine weaver. Your mother would have been proud of you.”
As September neared its end, Maria had grown too large under her skirts to hide her secret from those around her so she was forced to stop working at the inn and attending church services. Almost daily, her lack of energy became a burden for her; she took to napping. One afternoon, a knock on the door of the Hallett house roused Maria from her rest. She cracked open the door and pulled her shawl close, hoping to hide her protruding stomach from whoever was outside. It was a woman from church. Maria’s voice trembled with fear, “Good afternoon... Widow Baker.”
“Miss Hallett, I have come to call on you... on behalf of Reverend Treat.”
The thin elder widow, dressed in a black dress and hat, cocked her head to look past the young girl to see what was inside. Maria stood large, blocking the widow’s view into the house.
The inquisitive woman stretched her neck high above Maria’s head but saw nothing unusual. She stepped back and focused her attention onto Maria. “I am here to inquire as to why you have not been honoring the Sabbath.”
“I have not been feeling well,” Maria replied. “I’m tired from the harvesting.”
“I see.” She pushed on the door and stepped a little closer into the house to take a better look at Maria’s body. “You don’t look tired. In fact, you look very healthy indeed.” Then she noticed the bulge under Maria’s shawl. “Very healthy!”
Eager for the woman to leave, Maria spoke quickly, “My father will be home soon, I must get back to my work. Thank you for your concern.” Frightened of this mean and meddlesome old woman, Maria wanted her to go. In a panic, she pushed her outside and slammed the door shut behind her.
The Widow Baker quickly turned on her heels, only to stand face to face with the weathered and splintered door. “Well, of all the rudeness. I never....” She left in a rage. “The ladies and the Reverend will be very interested in this little encounter.”
18
September 1715
EASTHAM – CAPE COD
AS MARIA CLOSED THE DOOR she knew her life would never be the same; the Widow Baker would see to that. She leaned her back against the wooden door and let her head fall forward, her emotions exploding in cries and fits of piercing screams. Her distended body slid to the floor. “Sam, where are you?” Her shawl caught on the rough edges of the old door and trailed in a pattern of grotesque shapes above her head. With her legs outstretched on the dirt floor before
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