The grass was cold and wet as I ran as fast as I could across the field to the gathering. I was racing my sister, Safi. We are always trying to see who can do things better. Like who can plant or work the fastest. My name is Aisha. I am fifteen years old and I live with all the other slaves and my sister on a cotton plantation. Everyday I see all the other slaves, my sister, the master and his family. My sister and I were sold away from our family, a mother, father and younger brother, to this plantation. The only good part of our condition is that all the other Africans took us in like family, and the Saturday night gatherings.

Everyday I work in the fields with the other slaves harvesting the cotton. After work I go right to sleep because it is late at night and I have to get up early at 5:30 in the morning each day. In the morning I listen to the morning birds chirping to each other. The birds all always there in the morning. I always loved the smell in the morning. It is a combination of morning dew and the sweet cold frigid air against my neck. Then at night it is cold and dark, almost mysterious in a way. The freezing air and grass tickles my toes as I run with Safi or walk by myself. Everyday is the same, get up, sometimes eat, work, sometimes eat, and then sleep. All days except for Saturday. On Saturday nights is when the slaves are allowed to come together and eat, sing, dance, play and socialize. I love the Saturday night gatherings, the elderly Africans tell about stories from Africa and tell us the way life used to be for us blacks. The younger children will play and the older children will dance and sing. I am usually dancing away to the beats of the African drums. Sometimes, though, when I am taking a break and eating I love to watch us all, dancing, singing and telling stories as if we were back at our home.

          Since everyday I work in the fields, I am a somewhat important person in the community. At least all the other Africans and I think so, I would imagine that master has no idea who I am. We are all a family around here and everyone knows every one else. Life without me would me hardest on Safi. Since we were sold together, me not being here would make Safi by herself. I feel that she is so young, even though she is very healthy and energetic. Without me there would be one less person in the fields, one less person to do the back breaking work to help the man who owns the place make lots of money. I like to think about it like that so as to make me feel better, I tell Safi to do the same. Living here is hard and there have been many times where I wanted to stop altogether, wishing I could just get up and move somewhere else. Far, far away from here, somewhere where I could be with my family once again.

An Apothecary Girl

“John!” I yell up the stairs “Time to get up,”

“But mama I don’t want to!”

“John! you get up this instant,” I say sternly “today you are going to work with your father,”

I hear his little feet crawl out of the bed and then he puts his clothes on, he is so cute, I think. Then I see him quietly tip toeing down the stairs, trying not to be noticed. “John,” I say again. “breakfast is on the table,” I see his longing eyes look at the piece of bread and glass of water on the table. Johns hair  is blonde, like mine, his eyes are brown, like mine, and he has very delicate features. John is one of my four children, I have him, Isaac, Eli and my only girl, Phoebe. They are all very good children. My husband Leo is 21 and he is tradesperson. He has short brown hair and blue eyes, he is quite handsome. As for me, I am 16, my name is Annabelle. I work as a midwife and an apothecary worker. I have two brothers and three sisters who all live I the colony with their own families. “Are you boys ready to work today?” says Leo walking in.

“Yes dad.” all the boys reply. They get up, put on their shoes and walk out the door. Leo hugs Phoebe and I and then walks out the door. “Well I guess it’s just you and I that have to go to work now.” I say to Phoebe.

I had just finished the remedy; the sweet, sugary smells of the boiling marsh mallow fill my body, making me almost, happier.  I watch the fire with the large pot hanging over it and enjoy the warmth and happiness cover my body in a blanket. Then I take the pot off the fire and pour the liquidy substance into a small glass mason jar. I place the jar on the medicine shelf  along with all the other remedies. The shelf is on the other side of the room, across  from the fire. It is wood and about eight feet tall; an inch away from the ceiling, and it is old and worn. The smell of pine still lingers in the wood, and when I smell it I think of my father. My father was the one that brought our family over to the colony. He was a poor carpenter in England who sought a new life. He is dead now, but that shelf gives me a nice reminder of him. Next to the medicine shelf is a small table with a basin of water and a bowl. The bowl and basin are made of silver and are also old and rusting. In front of the shelf and table is a counter, it is made of cheap wood on the base, and it has a smooth, cold marble counter top. On weekdays, when the shop is open I stand behind the counter, greet customers and get them what they need.  Besides the medicine shelf, table, counter and fire the room is bare. There is nothing else in the room except for a chair, which is in front of the fire. After I finish the marsh mallow root remedy I unwillingly sigh and look at the next order that had been made, a cure for typhoid. I shudder at just the thought of it, but start the ointment.

The ointment for typhoid is rather simple, it’s just a mix of oil and wax. So I take out a bowl, a mixing spoon, wax and oil and get to work. First I heat up the wax by putting it by the fire, then I dump the soft wax into the bowl and add oil. After I add the oil to the wax I mix them together and it creates a plastery texture. Which, if I were using, would be but on the affected area. Typhoid is one of the many diseases that goes around in Jamestown, and I often find myself making this particular ointment. I have realized that my profession is very important. If it weren’t for me the whole town would probably be dead. There are so many diseases in the new word that nobody knew about when they first came. Also when people first came to the new world nobody cared about healers, they thought that they didn’t need us; we were almost lower than peasants by social class. As time went on, in Jamestown people started to get sick and were cured by the apothecary and healers respect was gained for us, and now we are high in social class.

I hear the pounding of metal and smell the smoky air around me. The blacksmith is to my right, and he is currently making a sword. I am hauling the coal from the back for the blacksmith to use. I am the blacksmith’s apprentice, my name is John Adams and I am 15 years old. I am from England and in the middle class. When I was 13 my father signed an indenture (also known as a contract) for the blacksmith to care for me until I am 21 and have learned the skills of the trade. Everyday I wake up and get right to work from sunrise to sundown. Sometimes I miss my family because I rarely get to see them. I live with the Blacksmith now and watch him everyday. I admire his skills and think that if I put in a lot of dedication some day I will have the same skills as he does. It is difficult not seeing my family in the morning but I must get used to it.

         Every morning I wake up to the sound of pounding metal. When I get up I get right to cleaning and running errands for the blacksmith. Now that I am 15 I don’t clean as much as I did when I was younger, only in the mornings. For the first two years of my apprenticeship all I did was clean and run errands. By 11 AM we start making nails. At first, the Blacksmith instructs me how to heat the iron safely. Once I have become good at this and am not burning myself, he will show me how to shape the iron. I can feel the smooth iron as I place it into the fire. When the tip becomes orange, I take it out and put it on the anvil. When I hit it with the hammer I hear the ear-piercing sound as the hammer hits the metal and I cringe. I am used to the sound but I’m never this close because I used to always be busy cleaning and running errands.

Once I have flattened the metal the Blacksmith teaches me how to turn the iron so that the iron becomes more circular like a nail. Then he shows me where to put the iron so I can sharpen it. I stare in amazement because this is the first time that I have ever made something out of iron. Now it’s time to put the hot iron in the water.  There’s a bucket of water located next to the anvil so I pick up the nail and drop it into the water. When the hot iron touches the cold water smoke immediately comes up, making a hissing noise. I watch as the iron slowly changes from orange to the normal dark grey color.  The blacksmith watches me make a few more nails until he feels I am ready to make them by myself.  In a couple hours I have made about 90 nails. I smile at them, proud of my accomplishment and the blacksmith comes in and tells me, “You are doing a great job, John.” “Thank you, Sir.” We share a quick smile before I get back to work. What a great day so far.

         Together, the blacksmith and I, have a very important role in the community. We make so many things that almost everyone uses on a daily basis. We make iron tools such as chisels, hammers, axes, fire pokers, shovels, hoes, drill blades, corn grinders, saws, and more. We also make iron armor and weapons such as swords and knives. Sometimes, if people bring their children, the blacksmith will make the iron hoops out of scrap metal. The children use these to race down hills. If the hoops break, the children can bring them back to the “Smithy” (this is a name sometimes used for the blacksmith) and he will fix them. The blacksmith is a significant person who makes many useful things, which is why his shop is located on the corner of two main roads. This is so everyone can get to the shop easily. Without the blacksmith and I making materials everyday, our community would be struggling because they don’t have the resources that they need. We would be defenseless, we wouldn’t have the tools used for cooking, we wouldn’t be able to cut wood to make houses, we couldn’t do things that everyone does daily. I am proud to be apprenticed to a very important and helpful figure in the community – the blacksmith.

I was walking down the street when a man came up to me and asked where I got my dress tailored. I told him that I tailored it my self. He told me that I have true talent and should be working as a clothes maker. That is where I got inspired. That man was the boss of the millinery. He asked me if I wanted to be the boss and I took the job I make so much money every day enough to by a dress! I share the money with my family. My job is not the easiest job.

I work for hours everyday assisting costumes. I never get any breaks. The bones in my hands burning whenever I make a dress. Every time I make a dress, customers by three dresses. I loose material so I have to go to the general store across the block. At least I have enough money to by cloth. Everyday since I have got the job, I had more money and I can now make money by doing what I want to do. My boss, Mr. Browns, Told me that I was one of his best Milliners. He said, “It is time. I am now 21 years old. I have to retire. So now I am giving this Millinery to you. You are now the Boss! This is your reward. I hope you are happy, overjoyed, and excited! I know this is your dream!” I was so happy when he told me. This was a big shock to me. I never thought that Mr. Browns would do this for me. I never thought that I was this good to manage a millinery.

I wrote a letter to him saying:

Dear Sir. Barwicke,

Thank you for this wonderful opportunity. This is so amazing. I hope you have a wonderful life after you have retired. The only question I have is: Why would you choose me to be the Boss of the Millinery? Was I that good at my job? Anyway, This was my dream ever since I was little. In England, I used to put up a stand outside of my little house. I used to make small dolls with button eyes and a weaved nose. I also made clothing sets to go with them. I made a couple Euros selling them to friends and some people walking down the street. It was fun and I knew then what I wanted to do when I grew up. So thank you!

~Felicity

Everyday I go see my husband at his work place. He is a very crafty carpenter. He is a very talented young man. Everyday my husband makes something for the house. Something very natural. He carves wood and makes it into the shape of something. It is quite beautiful. This is the only time I could spend time with him since I am very busy now that I am the manager. He writes me letters everyday about how I am doing, what am I learning. That shows that he dearly cares about me.

Dear family,

I appreciate for all your support and comfort. You have made it possible for me to pursue my dreams of becoming a professional milliner. If Mr. Barwicke didn’t see me on the road with my newly tailored dress then I would never have the opportunity to be who I am now. I already thanked him a great number of times. He was one of my closest friends. He helped me along the way and sometimes when I was able to have supper with him. I hope he can visit the Millinery. Now I am thanking you for raising me and teaching me to do the right thing.I don’t want to boast but I feel as if I have become a very mature adult.  

Much obliged,

-Felicity

Katherine James

“Katherine James,” my mother calls from the other side of the hallway. When I hear her call my name I say,”Coming mother, just one second.” Thats me, Katherine James, I am 14 years old. I live with my mother, Aurinda and father, Connor James, who are from England, and my younger sister Eliza. Eliza and I were born in an upperclass family. Our parents put me and eventually Eliza in the Dame School, because that was the only school that upper class girls were allowed to go to. My role in the family is to wake up before the sun comes up to attend school. When I am home I see my mother and Eliza, but I don’t see my dad because his job takes up most of his time. When school is over I have to rush back home and take care of my sister so my mother can go weave and overlook the cooking and cleaning.

My day begins when I hear church bells at 6:30 a.m. That’s when I get out of bed and put on the clothes that my servant Martha has laid out for me. After Martha helps me get dressed, she leads me downstairs to the kitchen where my breakfast is waiting for me. As I enter the room I can smell the familiar scent of cinnamon. I don’t know exactly what it smells like, but it has a unique smell compared to the other spices I’ve had. Every morning Martha pours me a fresh glass of milk, some type of oats and a bowl of fruit. I can see the white glass of milk sitting right above the knife, the bowl of fruit above my fork and my oats in the center of the tan placemat. As I get ready to put my fork into the bowl of fruit I can see green, orange and red fruits mixed up making the colors stand out from one another.  When I am at the table Martha asks me either what I dreamt or what my homework was.

When I am finally done, Martha and I go to the bathroom so I can wash my face with cold fresh water. After I am done in the bathroom I go to the front door where Martha comes and says good-bye. I put on my jacket, shoes and backpack. As I get ready for school I always say, “Martha, make sure that mother knows that I will see her after school to take care of Eliza.” Then Martha says, “Yes Katherine, I will make sure that your mother knows.” As we talk to each other I am half way down the stairs when we both finally say, “Good-bye.” Then I am off to school. Along the way I meet my friends, Jason, Abigail, Mary and Jonathan. As I walk with them to school I see the beautiful sunny fall morning. The leaves are yellow, red and orange and are falling one by one. As I get closer to school I can see more of my friends. As I walk down each street it feels like brisk cool air with a touch of warmth from the sun touching my face. When I am one block from the school I can see the chocolate colored old bricks start to chip off. I can hear children talking among themselves.

My role in being apart of my family is really important to my family because my mother always wanted a girl of her own to keep her company and to take care of while father worked all day being a lawyer. Another reason that I am important to my family is because recently my mother had another child named Eliza who was a big whiner. Mother would stay up really late trying to put her to sleep so finally when I was 12 years old I asked, “Mother, could I take care of Eliza after I get back from school? And then she said, “That would be really helpful sweetie, because I have been in a lot of stress lately.” Since then I have been taking care of baby Eliza, mother has been less stressed out and has been more relaxed.

Needlework Class

“Sarah! Where have you been?” my friend Catherine calls.  I glance into the classroom and in the direction of her voice, and spot her sitting with our other good friend Susan.  I walk into the classroom, past girls doing each other’s hair and whispering.  I take a deep breath and I can still smell the fluffy warm biscuits and eggs that we had for breakfast.  My name is Sarah.  I am 14 years old and I lived in a big wooden house in Jamestown with my mother, father, brother, and sister.  I just started finishing school, a boarding school for upper class English girls like me, in Williamsburg, Virginia.  We learn many skills such as French, Latin, dance, music, and needlework.  It is supposed to “finish” off my education and prepare me to marry  and run an upper class home.  

The school building is impressive, with a separate area for our dormitory.  All of the girls get their own rooms with a bed, dresser, and desk, and we all share the washroom at the end of the hall.  All of the classrooms are on the other side of the building.  There is a music room, dance room, French room, writing room, and many more rooms in the school.  I am still adjusting to this new life, and occasionally I feel homesick.  My sister Jane, who is tutored at home, misses our hours together exploring the woods and watching the many types of birds there.  My brother is at boarding school so that he can be prepared to go to the College of William and Mary here in Williamsburg in a couple of years.  He gets to learn navigation and astronomy, which I love.  I visit my family a few times a year, but I get to see all of my friends, including my best friend Catherine, every day.     

In the classroom, I run my hand over the cold hard surface of the stone walls as I continue to walk over to Catherine.  I pass the wooden desks and chairs.  In the front there’s the fireplace, where a fire has already been started and the smell of burning oak fills the room. The bright orange, yellow, and red flames are dancing, and I can feel the radiating warmth on my body.  There are two windows in the classroom, one facing the front and one the back.  Outside you can see the luscious green grass and colorful black-eyed susans. The floor beneath is hard and uneven.  The room smells clean and fresh.  I reach Catherine and take a seat next to her, ready to show her my design.  The chair sinks with a crinkle, and I can hear faint mumbling from the other students.  The first class of the day is needlework, where we learn how to sew and embroider.  Everyone in the room hears the crack of the door, and we quickly settle down.  

“Good morning class,” Mrs. Smith says.  “Good morning Mrs. Smith,” we reply.  “Everyone get out your needlework square and start practicing the stitches and some designs.  Once you are ready you can start your real project.” There’s a rush of people as everyone pushes their way to the front and gets their needlework square.  I take my seat again and start to thread by needle.  “Your needlework looks so good!” I compliment Catherine.  She smiles, “Thanks, yours is really good too.  I love your pink roses.” “Thank you.  What class do we have next? Fre–” I start to say.  “Excuse me, Miss Sarah, but we do not talk while we work.”  I quickly quiet down and sink lower in my chair, embarrassed at being chastised in front of everyone.  After practicing a few stitches, I decide to start my real project which I am making for my mother.  I embroider beautiful flowers and birds on the fabric because I know these are her favorite things.  I can’t wait to see my mother again in a few weeks because I miss her so much.  I miss my dad, brother, and sister too, and how cozy our house is.  I think about how much finishing school has changed my life, because it has helped me to be more independent.  However, there are many things here that remind me of home: the warm, cackling fireplaces everywhere, the wonderful smells of delicious food, and my friends that have become as close as family.

My role is important to the community because I am always willing to be helpful and kind.  My family has many hopes and dreams for me.  They hope that I will succeed in finishing school and marry a wealthy gentleman.  I try to be a good friend to all of the girls at finishing school.  I have decided that after  finishing school I want to help make education better for girls.  I want to make girls’ learning experience be just as strong as boys and for girls to learn the same skills as boys.  I want to change this for girls because to make the colonies better, it’s good to have women who are highly educated.  I would also like a better learning experience so that I can get as many opportunities as my brother will.  Girls should be able to go to college and become ministers or lawyers if they want.  I hope that one day in the future I will be able to make a real difference in girls’ education.

Violet and the Blueberry Glaze

I had just woken up; the window was cracked and the air was brisk. The sun had not yet risen, as it was just the beginning of dawn. I crawled out of bed, still exhausted, but I had to meet Mother in the kitchen. I walked over to the rough dresser, to the mirror that was old and tinted a frail black. I dumped my hands into the washing bowl, dousing my face in a layer of cool water. I saw the gardeners in the distance through my shaded window, gently picking the vegetables, and starting their long day of work. I grabbed the towel next to the washing bowl and patted it against my face. I lifted my chin and headed towards the kitchen. I worked as the cook’s apprentice in the governor’s house. The governor is prepared the best food, and had many maids and butlers. The stairs were aged and noisy. Every step that I took made a raucous noise, and I finally stepped into the kitchen. There was my mother, already hard at work, grinding the corn for the late breakfast. “Morning mum!” I called out to her. With her thin hands she approached me with a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Morning.” She replied with a smile. The kitchen was dark this early in the morning. A couple of candles were lit around the perimeter of the kitchen. Quite eerie, I thought. All of the pots and pans were cleaned the night before and stacked neatly on a pair of shelves. Beside them was the fire oven; it would be on all day, used to bake goods. It smelt of vinegar, for we had just started pickling yesterday for the long winter. By the time I had started the daily fire in the center of the kitchen, the sun had already started to peek out through the window, and was glistening against the blue of the sky, I knew it would be a beautiful day.

. . .

The governor and his family had just finished breakfast. According to where the sun was placed in the sky, I calculated that it was approximately noon, and it was time to start dinner. My mum and I had just dealt with the vast menu for the governor’s dinner. A wide variety of meats, all cooked to perfection for him and his guests. Mum had just taught me how to bake pastries, cakes, pies and sweets.

I started a blueberry tart for dinner. I had made dough the day before that my mother had made me memorize until I could recite it with no flaw. Rolling the dough out, I realized how soft and flakey it was to the touch, it was perfect. I place it with caution into the ceramic pan, pressing delicately until it had fully reached all sides of the ceramic. I placed it aside and began a blueberry compote. In an iron pot I threw together blueberries, lemon juice and lemon zest. I lit the stovetop till the flame grew into a fiery red. I stirred it until it was a thin purple sauce. I measured two cups of sugar and dumped it into the pot and began to mix again. I mixed until it was rich and thick, and its color was a deep violet. I took a spoonful of it and delicately placed it onto my tongue, making sure that no one was watching. It was brilliant really; it was sweet but had a tang at the end of its taste.

I poured it into the dough, smoothing it out until the compote was even against the bare pan. I put oven cloths over my hands and lay the tart inside the brick oven. The heat coming from the oven was radiant against the cool breeze. The aroma of fresh blueberries soon filled the air to the brim of my nose. I could smell fresh baking crust and tart lemon zest, and I could hear the blueberries simmering and the crust cracking. It was quite inviting to just open the oven and eat the tart myself; alas I could not, for it was for the governor and his guests.

The grass was cold and wet as I ran as fast as I could across the field to the gathering. I was racing my sister, Safi. We are always trying to see who can do things better. Like who can plant or work the fastest. My name is Aisha. I am fifteen years old and I live with all the other slaves and my sister on a cotton plantation. Everyday I see all the other slaves, my sister, the master and his family. My sister and I were sold away from our family, a mother, father and younger brother, to this plantation. The only good part of our condition is that all the other Africans took us in like family, and the Saturday night gatherings.

Everyday I work in the fields with the other slaves harvesting the cotton. After work I go right to sleep because it is late at night and I have to get up early at 5:30 in the morning each day. In the morning I listen to the morning birds chirping to each other. The birds all always there in the morning. I always loved the smell in the morning. It is a combination of morning dew and the sweet cold frigid air against my neck. Then at night it is cold and dark, almost mysterious in a way. The freezing air and grass tickles my toes as I run with Safi or walk by myself. Everyday is the same, get up, sometimes eat, work, sometimes eat, and then sleep. All days except for Saturday. On Saturday nights is when the slaves are allowed to come together and eat, sing, dance, play and socialize. I love the Saturday night gatherings, the elderly Africans tell about stories from Africa and tell us the way life used to be for us blacks. The younger children will play and the older children will dance and sing. I am usually dancing away to the beats of the African drums. Sometimes, though, when I am taking a break and eating I love to watch us all, dancing, singing and telling stories as if we were back at our home.

          Since everyday I work in the fields, I am a somewhat important person in the community. At least all the other Africans and I think so, I would imagine that master has no idea who I am. We are all a family around here and everyone knows every one else. Life without me would me hardest on Safi. Since we were sold together, me not being here would make Safi by herself. I feel that she is so young, even though she is very healthy and energetic. Without me there would be one less person in the fields, one less person to do the back breaking work to help the man who owns the place make lots of money. I like to think about it like that so as to make me feel better, I tell Safi to do the same. Living here is hard and there have been many times where I wanted to stop altogether, wishing I could just get up and move somewhere else. Far, far away from here, somewhere where I could be with my family once again.

The Day the Handle Turned

I rush into the print shop and Jim, the pressman who trains me, laughs,”Late? Again? Come on Peter!” I smile, and watch as he inks up the form in the press. The ink is sticking, and making suction noises. “I’m sorry.” I say, downcast that for some reason, I am always late. The slaves working in the shop look at me with disgust at the fact that I can get away with being late, when they can be severely punished if they come in late to work. I pity them, because they have to live such a hard life, but the master printer told me that in the Bible, it says that Africans are supposed to be slaves, and live their lives working, so I guess it was just meant to be. I go back to watching Jim, and become mesmerized with the way he works the press, so elegantly, with such ease, such beauty. I hope someday I will be able to print like Jim does.

My name is Peter, Peter Gray. I am thirteen, and have been working as an apprentice in the print shop for a while now. I hope I will be able to become a real pressman soon, since I am almost finished with my training. I used to live with my mother, father, two brothers, one older, one younger, and a younger sister. My older brother, John took on the job of learning how to run the farm, so when papa died, he would be able to keep on farming. My sister, Clara was taught by mother, and hopes she will be married off to a decent husband. I wonder if she has gotten married yet. My younger brother James wants to be a king, but of course that is impossible because of our class. When I still lived on the farm, I used to play nobles with him, seeing as he was only four, and we had a grand time. I wonder if he still has his dream of becoming a king now.

Lastly, there was me. My parents loved reading the paper, and hoped one of their kids would go into the business of printing. They were so encouraged that they taught all of their kids how to read and write, and so I learned at a young age. My parents’ dream came true when I was accepted as an apprentice of a pressman, and I left home at the age of nine. I now train as an apprentice, and live in a room and board house with seven other boys. We all share one room, so it can get very stuffy, crowded, and smelly. We are all apprentices in the upper lower class, and are all Christian. I also tend to see the printer’s kids a lot (the printer is the owner of the print shop), since they are always sticking their noses into the shop whenever we are working, and I have become good friends with all of them. My best friend though is Paul, who lives in a room and board a little while away from mine, and is a bookbinder’s apprentice.

The bookbinding shop is right across from the print shop so Paul and I have naturally become great friends. We tell each other everything, and one time, when we were taking a walk during our lunch break, I told him that I had feelings for Samantha. Samantha is a girl my age who is one of the printers daughters. Paul teased me about it for a little while, and then let it go. I sadly think about the reality though, Samantha is of a higher class than me, so we can never be together. Also, she will be probably be married by the time I finish my apprenticeship anyway, so it’s a lost dream.

Going back to work, I am in the small, quite stuffy room of the print shop which seems to be particularly hot in the midst of this summer day. Jim, as you might remember, he’s my trainer-starts to fill the ink ball up with fresh ink, and he smiles, saying, “Today is a big day for you, my boy.” I love his smile, the way it fills up his whole face, radiating enough love to fill the whole world. He has become so close to me that he is almost like my new father. I wouldn’t dare say he is better than papa, but they are equals, seeing as I feel like I have known Jim all my life. I smell the sweat of all the people hard at work in the tiny shop, and know I should start helping, even though it is a big day. I delicately take hold of a sheet of a freshly printed paper, and feel the faint dampness of it as I slip it off the pile that has been started on the old oak table. I gasp, and practically drop the golden paper when Jim touches my wrist, and stops me from taking the newspaper over to the drying lines, hanging crisscrossed across the old faded wood ceiling.

Jim gently places my hand down on the table, and lets the paper I was dealing with slip back on top of the pile, saying, “Peter, it’s time.” I nod my head, understanding that this was my big moment, my only chance to get it right, and Jim understood that this had to be something that only the two of us experienced together. Jim told the slaves working in the print shop to take a break outside for a few minuets, and we waited as they shuffled out of the building leaving Jim and I standing in silence, hand in hand. “Look around my boy, what do you see?” Jim said full heartedly. “Take into account everything, and cherish it greatly, because you will be looking back at this moment for the rest of your life.”

I looked around the small room, and saw the type case where the compositors had been busy doing their work, the case now strewn carelessly with papers and writing that had been sent in to be printed. I then let my gaze drift to the old ceiling, the rope strung across twisting and fraying off at the ends. I looked at the printing press with its wood carved with such skill, and elegance, the metal fitting it perfectly. It really was a work of art. I felt the slightest cool breeze drift in through the open door and Jim said,”Ready?” “Ready,” I replied. I walked over to the printing press, and picked up the rough wood, leather, nail, and sheep wool ink ball, dabbing it in the deep black ink, and listening as it made sticking noises as I inked up the form. I then walked over to the handle of the press in a trance like walk, and placed my hands on the cool metal handle. I heard the familiar clacking, and creaking noises of the press in my head, and knew I was ready. I pulled back, and the press was in full swing…

I had printed a perfect paper. Perfect, I gasped to myself. Jim was so proud, and I was too. By printing that first paper of mine, I realized how important my job really was in the community, and wondered what printing would become. Without pressmen, people wouldn’t be informed about the world around them, about the homeland, England. Without pressmen, the colonies might not have existed, and with that, I wonder, what would life be like without the magnificent, wonderful, beautiful, and elegant printing press.

A Slave’s Life

Working in the fields is tough. The smell of tobacco fills the air as I farmed the tobacco. My name is Jackson Peters and I am 16.  I am an African slave and lives with my mother, my father, and my sister. Everyday I work in the plantation fields, from dusk to dawn. I see the same people everyday, and work with the same people everyday but its fine. I would rather see the same people everyday than to be missing a person. I work side by side by best friend, Will. He lives next door from our little cabin. Our cabin was made of wood, and that’s about it. Wood wood wood. Everything wood. Where the windows would be are shutters that close with a block of wood. The silverware, plates, cups everything was made of wood. I take a path to the plantation fields that leads through the forest. The spiraling trees border the path. Not many people take the path since it is so creepy. I probably could try to run away but those dogs would find me in a flash. The walk to the plantation was nice, I got to be alone. The cool breeze runs against skin and ruffles my clothes. I turn the corner and see the master. I duck behind a tree and wait for a minute until he leaves. I don’t want to have any business with him.

As I approach the field, I see my friend Will hard at work hoeing at tobacco.

“Hello,” I say. “Are you feeling any better?”

“No,” he says. “My side still hurts from yesterday.”

Yesterday, after our work time, Will saw an apple on the ground. He picked it up and smelled it to see if it was fresh. The sweet smell of the apple filled his nose. We only have a limited amount of food, so when someone sees free food, they have to take it. When someone sees a good apple on the floor you take it, right? So that’s what Will did except he has the worst luck ever. As he took his first bite of the apple, the slave master saw him eating the apple. He took him by the arm and beat him to near death. Me and Will laugh about it now saying how stupid he was. It really isn’t a funny topic but laughing does help shake it off. As I hoe the tobacco,  I feel a pain in my back. I am used to this pain since I feel it everyday. It is a pain that comes from bending down for fourteen hours, hoeing the tobacco. From the look on Will’s face, I can see he is feeling the same pain. Either that or his side still hurts. Maybe both.  The smell of the tobacco leaf soothes the pain. Many people thinks that tobacco stinks but in fact, it only stinks when it is brewing dried. The smell of the tobacco leaf is quite sweet which helps lighten the mood a bit. Everyone in the fields start singing a song to control the tempo of the hoeing. The faster the singing the faster we hoe, the slower the singing the slower we hoe. If the master comes we sing faster so he thinks we’re working really fast but when he leaves we go back singing slower back to our normal pace.

As I am hoeing the tobacco, I realized that Africans in the colonies leads the economy. We have to hoe tobacco which is their main profit. Even though we weren’t originally from here we still do most of the work for the Americans. I wish I was back home with my family, enjoying ourselves. Maybe if the Americans didn’t enslave us, and we found ourselves here, it wouldn’t be half bad.