She was a thin, stout woman with jet-black hair streaked intermittently with singular strands of silver barely noticeable until she stepped outside in the afternoon sunlight.
A wife to Henry and a mom to eleven children, Beatrice had long since learned how to hold her own when called upon to do so. It seemed the call came more often than not on their little farm in the sparsely populated hills and hollers of Missouri.
Being stout did not make her any less a lady. She was a lady through and through. But living in rural America in 1937 didn’t allow her to be much of anything less than tough, lady or not.
On her side of the closet were nothing but dresses. They either buttoned up the front or zipped halfway up the back, starting at the waist.
These dresses were either light-colored, dark-colored, or had a dark background with flowers scattered all over the fabric.
Today, she wore a light-colored dress, cream or off-white, depending on who you asked. She also wore an apron with stains dispersed here and there, along with minuscule remnants of that night’s supper peppering various sections.
Supper wouldn’t be much. Times were tough, but they were doing the best they could. Tonight, they would have rabbit stew and bread.
The afternoon sunlight poured through the kitchen window like a stream of golden honey. It settled across the kitchen table like a slather of butter on warm toast.
She was making fresh bread to go with the main course. Particles of flour danced across the light as she dusted the white oak board to knead the bread dough.
She always hoped for more, but considering the meager circumstances of the entire country, there wasn’t much more to have. Yet, there needed to be enough for everyone, and up till now, it always seemed to work out.
It was late October. The red maple in the front yard looked like someone had drenched the top of it in a dark red dye that had slowly worked its way down.
The tulip poplars were turning yellow. The sugar maple was the color of a blazing fire. And the nearby forests full of oaks were the color of apple cider.
Needing water for the stew, she stepped out the front door, across the old porch, down the weathered steps, to the front yard, where she turned left toward the well.
As she cranked up a bucket of water, she looked Northeast across the neighboring field at the narrow country lane that stretched behind their two-story farmhouse.
Their fencerow accompanied the lane until it reached the woods, at which point it changed direction, stretching South along the woods until it disappeared into a shallow holler.
Brush and briars had grown up along the barbed wire fence beside the lane and obscured most of it.
But something caught her attention. The brush seemed to be disturbed at a particular spot. It would move and rustle periodically. The wind wasn’t blowing much today, and if it did, it wouldn’t cause that much disturbance, especially in only one spot.
It was mid-afternoon. None of the children who could check it out were nearby; most were still in school, a couple were working elsewhere on the farm, and the younger ones were down for their naps.
The movement seemed out of place. Her curiosity piqued, and once back inside, she picked up the Winchester bolt-action rifle. The strap rested comfortably across her shoulder.
She started toward the fencerow beside the narrow country lane.
to be continued,
– Caleb
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