HOMECOMING: From the American Folksong Suite

It was a long journey through the passes between the mountains. It took days. I had to stop often to water the horses, to find places for them to graze. They told me I was a fool to keep six horses, but they’re all I have of Father’s, them and his old red flannel shirt and hunting trousers that I wore all the way. I tucked my hair up into his cap, too. Not that I was afraid–Father taught me how to shoot, and more than one man has felt my knuckles on his jaw– but I figured it would be easier, pretending to be a man–nobody would stop to help. I didn’t want help. I didn’t get much when Mother died, and I didn’t get any when Father did. I was too busy even to cry–selling the coach and the house and barns to Parker Brady. He wanted the horses, too, but I wouldn’t sell– he’s hard on horses. Then I was occupied with getting the old wagon mended, and seeing to the canvas and tack, and packing up some oats for the horses and some pork and flour for me, and the few bits of furniture and things of Mother’s I wanted to bring. It took longer than I thought, but I did all right. I always have. It was a long journey, but at last I looked down into the valley, and saw the yellow house like a toy house with the lamp already shining from Grandma’s bedroom window, and Uncle Heman, still so far away in the yard, like a little toy person, waving to me. I got a lump in my throat–I couldn’t help it. And then I drove into the yard, and the little kids gathered round, all yelling hello, and Uncle Heman took the reins and I climbed down, kind of wobbly. I didn’t know how tired I was till then. And when Aunt Ella came out of the shed and ran to meet me in her bloody apron, brushing feathers off her hands, I couldn’t help but cry.