Emma Field Book I - coming of age in the changing times of the mid-19th century

Chapter I - Emma's World

Emma lived in a quiet world. Most of the sounds and all of the colours came from nature. She absorbed them like moss absorbing a spring rain.

Emma Field – daughter of Jeremiah and the late Josephine, child of the land, child of a Methodist and Quaker community swept by the winds of Lake Ontario – knew where she belonged. The circles of her life were clearly defined. That gave her comfort. It also filled her with fear.

She shoved the sleeves of her dove-grey dress to her elbow and scraped the sticky bread dough from the bowl onto the table top. Closing her eyes, she sprinkled the mound with flour with one hand while with the other she folded the edges over into the middle. She often created games in which she closed her eyes. Today, it was to practise for a day when her vision might be gone. Yesterday, it had been to notice things with her frailer senses. Other days it was to memorize the smallest details of things that mattered to her.

Emma kneaded the dry flour into the dough. In her mind's eye she could see the land to the south of the cabin and the ribs of the rail fence following the contours of the fields sloping down toward the creek. No need to open her eyes: she knew where the fence intersected first with a small pile of snow-dusted rocks, then with a patch of silvery ice. She saw the ribbon of barren maples and beech and butternut and elm stretched from the creek's edge to the far ridge.

Swinging her view to her left, Emma opened her eyes to see if the sun had yet broken through the heavy veil covering the November sky. It hadn't. The bands of cloud were only a lighter grey above the woods.

She closed her eyes again and in her imagination swept past the simple frame house and barn belonging to the Coopers, past the newly constructed log schoolhouse, and on to the fine brick house in the southwest. Emma liked its size, dignity, and sturdiness. It was full of surprises – like the indoor privy and especially the dumb-waiter in the pantry. As they had cooked for each threshing, Anna and Mary Victoria Williams had let Emma use this convenience to pull the jugs of cream up from the coolness of the cellar.

Emma liked Anna and Mary Victoria. They were nice and they were kind. They worked hard. They wore pretty dresses and had older brothers – and both parents.

With the back of her forearm, Emma pushed her hair from her face. She wondered what it would be like to have so much and so many in one's nearest circle. Opening her eyes, she went to the window. The road was empty: empty of people; empty of beasts; empty of colour. Emma cocked her head to one side. She had never noticed until now how the woods, barren of leaves, wrapped themselves around the house like a worn and frayed mother. "Huh!" she said, pleased with herself for having discovered a fresh detail of the world so familiar to her.

Emma returned to the circular mound of silky gold-and-brown dough, plopped it into the three-legged kettle, and gave it a satisfied little pat.