“A Look At the Colonial World Through the Eyes of….”

Day 1: I am on the forest floor, covered in dirt and mud. I don’t remember anything that happened.  All I remember is falling, someone was yelling that they will come back. The mosquitos whine softly in my ear. How did I get here? I try to sit up and feel a sharp pain in my left thigh. I slowly sit up and inspect my surroundings. Nobody is here, but I can tell they were because I can smell the gunpowder and see smolders all along the ground. As I inspect my surroundings more, I hear a deep, low rumbling and then gun fires in the distance. I look back at my leg for a sign, anything that will tell me why I’m  bleeding. My leg gives me nothing, but from the looks of it, I’ve been shot with a musket. I have to get out of here, fast. I rip some cloth from my soldier’s uniform  and double tie it around my thigh and try to stand up. As soon as I do that, I fall down. I get up a second time, this time with more steadiness. I look down and the blood has already soaked through my faux bandage. I have to find a doctor, a surgeon, SOMEONE that can help me. If I am going to find a doctor or a surgeon, I have to hide. I realize this after limping for a while. I spot the red coats, at a camp, talking and loading their muskets and bayonets. As soon as I see them, my throat closes. If they find me, they will kill me. I turn around and quietly limp away. I have to find a tree, the tallest tree. It won’t be easy but I have to climb it. Its the only way to see how far away I am from help.

Day 2: I have been walking around for a while, looking for the tallest tree. I can tell it’s been a few hours since I started walking. So far, I haven’t seen anything. I’m losing hope, fast. Oh, maybe those colorful people in the distance can help me. They look like they can point me in the right direction.

Day 3: Those colorful people, I’m not nice at all. They think that I’ve come to take their land, take the people away from them. I tried to explain to them that I’m I don’t want to take the people I just want some directions. But they decided that they will not help or listen to me. I don’t even know where I am, and they still won’t help me. As I was walking off I saw a canoe, and immediately knew that there must be water nearby. Later that night I went back over to where I had met the colorful people out earlier, and I saw the canoe still sitting there. Though it is harder for me to get the canoe over to the water, because of my injury, I manage to get the canoe in the water without much noise. And then, they came. All of a sudden, an arrow comes flying my way, almost ripping my ear clen off. Another one comes, this time with more accuracy. It strikes the side of the canoe, dangerously close to my leg. I turn around slowly, and staring back at me are 300 angry Native Americans, arrows placed in their bows. They are ready to fire.

“A Look At the Colonial World Through the Eyes of….”

My name is Lucy Smith and I am 14 years old. I am a middle class girl living in colonial America. It is 1634, my parents are both European and came from Europe, but I have been living here in Virginia my whole life. Life has been good here in America so far.

I am not planning on working in any trade because my mother does not. Since I was a little girl I always stayed home and helped my mother with her household chores. Everyday I help her cook our meals which are often soup and bread. I also help her with cleaning the house and planting and harvesting vegetables in our garden. I help her in our kitchen which is small but has everything we need including a fireplace, oven, cooking utensils and a table. My mother and I try to keep the house neat, but it is very hard work. Every morning my mother and I start by doing laundry. We must hand wash all of our families clothing. This can sometimes take up the whole entire day! I live in a medium sized home made of wood. I share a room with my older sister who is 19 years old. She will be getting married soon, although she has not met the man yet she is very excited for her wedding day. I want to be just like my mother, get married and have children because if I don’t I will not be respected by all of my friends and family. I wonder who I will end up marrying. My father is an architect, but I do not see him very often because he is always working.

It is about seven in the morning when my mother shook me awake. “Lucy, we have a big dinner party today. Your cousins and grandparents are coming,” my mother says. I pulled myself out of bed and put on a clean shift, (which I also wear as a nightgown), followed by a stay, then a petitcoat, and lastly my light blue gown that buttons down in the front. I felt the dusty would floors against my bare feet. I walked into the kitchen where my mother and sister had already started cooking. “Good, your awake,” my sister, Jane, said.

“Will you go gather some wood for the oven?” my mother asked me.

“Of course,” I said.

I pull open our heavy door to outside and took a big handful of chopped up wood. I lifted them up with all my strength hoping I would not get a splinter in my hand. I entered the kitchen and put the wood in the fire one by one. On top was a pot filled with chicken broth and vegetables. I stirred it around with a wooden spoon. Tonight we are going to eat bread, chicken, soup and corn pudding. As my mother and sister continue cooking I start working on the laundry. When we are finally done with all of our chores the guests start to arrive. In the end we had a very nice dinner party.

The Daily Life of A Colonial Scientist

I am a colonial scientist. My name is Theophilus Enoch Zaccheus IV. I am a wealthy gentleman, which allows me time to do my experiments. I have no continuous daily life, though there is a couple of activities I do often. I generally study in the field of natural history, so I often go out into the woods accompanied by one of my slaves. Using the few rare or new plant samples I discover, I am able to earn a profit. I sell the samples to others of the gentry class, who plant them in their gardens.Doing this, I have expanded my family’s vast wealth. Though I generally study in the field of natural history, I have had a good education, so I know much about other topics in science also. Also, somedays I just stay at my house and study either my books or my newest plant samples. When I study books, I often study about Thomas Jefferson or John Bartram, because they work in the general field as myself, though occasionally I study others such as Benjamin Franklin or John Winthrop.

It is about twelve o’ clock in the afternoon and we are deep in the forest south of my house, when something caught in the corner of my eye. In the tangled roots of a tree, I saw something that was once ivory white, but is greatly tainted by brown. “Insimad” I say, “thee shalt uncover that.” My slave went to work. As he uncovered it, it became clearer what it was. “T’is a huge moose skeleton!” I say! I and my slave starred in the pit, and indeed it was. I measured it and it was seven feet tall. “T’is a truly amazing specimen,” I thought, and indeed it was! It’s antlers towered two feet high with a five foot span, it’s hard  hooves still sharp enough to puncture skin. T’was a magnificent beast. I brought it back to my house.

My name is Anna. I am the apothecary’s sister. I normally help my brother, Andrew, around the shop, mixing herbs and cleaning up after his messes. When he has to leave to treat a patient, I tend to the shop with my sister in law, Ingrid, and watch over the apprentice, if he isn’t doing as well.

My brother and I came from England with some others a while back, back to about 1620. We now live with just enough to live comfortably, but I fear that somewhere in the future we will run out of money. Andrew doesn’t think the same, but he isn’t the brightest when it comes to money. He’s a good apothecary, sure, but I think that the women in this town could be a little bit more kind and caring if given the chance.  

Each day I must take the money that my brother earns from trade and healing and hide it away in his tiny little cottage, for I fear that he will spend it, unknowingly, on spices that he will never use or tobacco. We aren’t poor, but we also aren’t considered rich. Our stuffy little shop brings in more customers in the winter, for it stays so warm with scents of dust and dried herbs. I used to cough and sneeze when it reached my nostrils, but now I don’t notice it. Though I do love it here in the new world, I wish that I was at home, where our rags were traded for riches and we could be with my parents.

Henry, my husband, is the shoemaker. Our tiny little house has close to no room at all, but at least his and Ingrid’s children aren’t screaming and running around everywhere anymore. When I walk into our shop, it feels as if it is somehow snowing inside because of the herbs drying overhead. My brother doesn’t see it though; my brother who has no imagination. He does everything that he needs to but no more, always walking around in his blood-stained coat because it “shows his experience.” If I get sick at the sight of it, wouldn’t everyone else? I just don’t see why anyone would want that on their coats. Thomas, the surgeon, agrees with me and hates the awful sickly-sweet smell.

My own husband, Henry Michalson, is the shoemaker in our small town. He is very kind, but I didn’t know him until we married. Our parents set us up with letters, and soon we were sending some of our own. At least I got lucky with someone who treats me nicely. My friend, Alice, wasn’t as lucky, and she ended up marrying an awful, drunken hag. She now has to live with him for the rest of her life. He is the blacksmith, so he isn’t at home most of the time, but Alice still comes over to the house that Henry and I share. It isn’t nearly as small as my brother’s cottage, but it also isn’t as big as some of the gentry class’s houses. Those things are huge, with too much room for living. While I work in a long, black skirt and an apron, these people are wearing big, poofy ballgowns just go outside! Some people are just too rich.

My daily schedule consists of waking up early, eating breakfast, and going to the shop to get ready for the day. Some time after that my brother Andrew comes around with his eyes half shut, continuously splashing cold water on his face from the well out back. The apprentice comes at about the same time as him, always apologizing because he was so late. He says it won’t ever happen again, but then the next day the cycle repeats. My sister in law comes at about the same time that I do.

I guess waking up early is just something that women can do better. This is about the time that all of the shops start opening up. There’s the millner and shoemaker’s shops next to me, and Thomas’ surgery shop across the street. We all know each other very well by now after doing this for about 5 years.

Every day someone comes in, asking for a cure for a cough, and we pound up some licorice in our stone mortar and pestle. This continues throughout the day, but with different things. Sometimes someone is looking for a cure for a rash, or a sore throat. We once again mash up the remedy in our mortar and pestle, and give it to them in small mason jars.

Every once in awhile, someone comes running in, begging for help. We ask them to calm down and catch their breath, and eventually they can tell us the problem. Normally someone has broken a bone, or is on the verge of death from a sickness that they thought they could handle by themselves. Sometimes we even get a need for a midwife, because the midwife and surgeon are both busy. We have been trained for this moment when we were apprentices, back in England.

Some people have the soul to walk into our shop and walk straight out because it is run by mostly women. Ingrid and I just look at each other and shrug, because we know that we are better at healing than they will ever be. It does make me mad sometimes, that people have the nerve to do that, but I know that I have asked for that position. Ever since I was little I have been in love with the idea of doing something to benefit people. I always thought that because most of our population lives to about 25 or 30 years old, I could at least try to take that number to 35. I am 27, Ingrid is 28, and Andrew is 28 as well. This means that our lives are nearly over, but at least we all know how to heal most of the sicknesses out there.

I even heard a rumor back in England that someone in Germany said that there was this thing called “germs” that made you get sick. I think that I might even believe that, and so did Ingrid. We are too afraid to talk to Andrew because he will think that we are challenging his way of thought. Sometimes I just wish that women had the same respect as men, but I know that I will get punnished for thinking that. Ingrid, Alice and I talk this over sometimes after work, when Andrew and Henry are still cleaning up the shop. We have agreed that we will try to be better than every man out there, so that they can’t ignore us. Don’t get me wrong, I love my life here in the new world, but I wish that we would be treated better as people.

A Day in the Life of a Colonial Gunsmith

My name is John Greene. I am a 20-year old gunsmith of the midling class, living in the English colony of Jamestown. I was born here after my father’s arrival from England. I live in a small 2 level house with my father. Unfortunately, weeks before my apprenticeship began, my mother passed away with a case of malaria. Soon after, my brother Walter Greene, was drafted into the army. I miss my brother and fear for his life. There has been much sickness within the military. Almost ninety percent of deaths in the military are due to illness. All I can do is pray he comes back healthy, in one piece.

With his absence, I was forced to begin my training and provide for my family. After 6 long years, I finally was able to follow the craft of my father. My father and I own a workshop in town. At this time of war, the repair of our frontline firearms, are in high demand. Every day I am busied with damaged muskets from the military and the militias. We work everyday, all day. Our hammers can be heard banging out metal late into the night. Our only breaks are for sleep and church. We attend church despite the amount of work, we cant afford to be fined. My workshop is littered with gunpowder and broken parts of guns. Every few months we receive new shipments of standardized firearm parts, from England. These are applied to the miltary muskets.

           When there is peace and times are slow, men of the gentry class often bring in their personal fire arms for specialized engraving and designing. When I have free time I craft beautiful, and carefully engraved muskets. These are not for military use of course, but I put them in my shop to create a delightful display. Also in peacetime, I apply my crafting skills elsewhere. Just the other day I built a chair to furnish my father’s home. But as of lately, peace is very rare. This is why I must keep providing for the military and the militias. I owe it to my friends, family, and fellow citizens to provide the tools it takes to keep our homes protected.

           Today is an average day in my gunsmith shop. I look out my window and see the sun rising. The local militia is running drills for the new soldiers. Ever since those barbaric natives massacred our people, there has been an increase in protection forces. I push that dreaded memory to the back of my mind. We all lost friends that day. I exhale deeply and sit down by the fire. I can hear the taps of a light rain on my ceiling. It is in the early hours of the day and business is slow. I sit by the large fireplace and browse my collection of persimmon woods. The calm, rhythmic crackle of the fire helps me focus on the tasks at hand. I hear the door swing open and I instinctively turn around. My father comes in cradling five damaged military muskets.

My uneventful morning has suddenly become very busy. “Straight from the war front,” my father says, looking at the muskets. I examine the damaged muskets and search for their problems. “Three damaged flintlocks, and two bent barrels,” I say to my father who has already started working. I quickly unscrew the damaged flintlocks and replace them with new ones. This is a quick process because the parts of military firearms were standardized. I hand the three muskets back to my father. I glance at the remaining broken muskets and grab my hammer. There is a large dent in the barrel of both muskets. I hammer out each dent in both muskets by sundown. I take all five repaired muskets and step outside my shop. I walk down the street to the magazine. I greet the soldiers at the entrance and they let me in, as they know my face from the many repairs I have completed for their firearms. I walk up the spiral staircase and I step onto the second floor. Muskets, swords, armor, and pistols all line the walls. I find an empty spot on the wall and place the repaired muskets. I take a second to think about the service I am doing for our safety, and how I am indirectly helping my brother. I then go home and crawl into my bed, leaving my father to complete the rest of the work. I have had a long enough day.

I am a 13 year old pirate. Now before you try to hunt me down, I just want to say that I didn’t want this to happen. I am an orphan boy from England. I really hated the dirty streets there in London, so I snuck aboard a merchant ship heading to Virginia when I was 10. Well things went downward from there. A wild storm threw us off course, or so I thought. I could only hear the yells of the sailors above me. I was stuck in a barrel for at least 2 days. I remember hearing gunshots and screaming aboard. My heart beat faster and my mind wandered and started thinking about different tales of sea monsters.

Suddenly, my barrel was picked up. I heard the grunt of a man. “What in King James is in here,” A man said in a croaky English accent. The lid came off the barrel and I saw a man looking down on me, his hair hidden with a bandanna. Some blood was on his face, and he smiled a toothy grin, give or take a few teeth. After they got me out of the barrel and gave me some water and some bread they started. “What be yer name boyo?” One pirate had asked. I shrugged. Back in England, I didn’t have a name. “I don’t have a name sir.” I said. “Let’s give the boy a name. Make him one of us. He is so young,” one pirate said to another, who looked like their leader. He had fire in his eyes – or eye. He wore a black eye patch and his beard was as big as a crow’s nest. He nodded to the man. “We will call the boy Thomas,” He said in a bellowing voice. “AYAY!” they all yelled in return – a good 20 of them.

I have been a pirate for 3 years now. The cap’ has taken me under his wing and is like a father to me. We plunder the ocean, looking for merchant boats that give us the most loot. Only a year ago did the captain start to let me help on the raids. He gave me my own pistol. He gave me a dagger when I first was found. We are neither rich nor poor. Every day when I wake up I hear the groans and grunts of men working aboard deck.  I smell rotting meat and other foul smells that don’t bother me after years aboard. I stumble around my cabin, banging my foot on a barrel while trying to get out of the dark room. I curse to myself under my breath. It is always dark down hear and it is so cramped too. Small puddles of water are everywhere making it almost impossible to stay dry. I make my way toward the upper deck. As soon as I come up the stairs the sun blinds me and the sound of birds fills my ears. I feel the cool wind against my face and hair. The smell of the fresh sea excites me and I grin with the thought of stealing gold. I look around the Atlantic Ocean with a smirk on my face. It’s the year 1655 and the English are trying to colonize in America. That means more merchants will come into these waters bringing goods, which means we will get lots more riches.

        I remember my first battle. It was my thirteenth birthday. I still remember the Cap’n’s voice. “PREPARE FOR BATTLE!”. He turned to me and gave me a toothy grin. I always wondered how he kept those intact after all he had been through. He hands me a pistol. I look up to him and smile. He looks at me. “Don’t get yer self-killed. That would be a bad birthday now wouldn’t it?” He gives me a wink and turns to the rest of his crew. “PREPARE THE CANNONS!” He bellows. The men scramble and fill the cannons quickly. I catch a quick glimpse of a man stuffing two cannon balls into one canon connected by a chain. “WE DON’T WANT THIS GIRL RUNNING AWAY NOW DO WE?” The Cap’ yells. “NO SIR!” The crew yells back. I watch as the captain surveys all of the groups of men stuffing cannon balls into cannons. “STEADY. AIM. FIRE!” The captain roars as loud as he can. The sound of the numbingly loud cannons firing hurts my ears, but I don’t want to cover them and show my weakness. I wince from the ringing in my ears but I get used to it. I peer on to the other ship. One of the cannons balls that had been attached by a chain to another one hit the main mast of the merchant ship. I hear a crack and the screams of merchants as their mast come falling down on them.

Suddenly, chaos broke out, or so it seemed. The crew started using tactics that I had never seen before. They threw small balls shaped like pomegranates at the ship and they blew up, causing chaos among the enemy ship. I later discovered that these were called Grenada’s. Then some men grab some boarding axes and chop through sails. They clamor aboard and start a blood bath. My eyes widen at the horrific sight folding before me. Then I remind myself: Its for the gold. I watch the captain as he grabs one of the ropes on our ship and swings aboard the merchant vessel, landing on a man and shooting him. I grab my knife and stick it in my mouth. I can’t carry a knife and a pistol can I?

I grab one of the ropes and I swing aboard. My heart leaps into my stomach when I look down and sea the raging sea, but suddenly I’m on wood again. I look around me and see a battle folding before my eyes. I take aim at a merchant and pull the trigger. Unfortunately the boat rocked to the side and by shot missed. I reloaded my pistol as fast as possible – taking about 3 minutes. I take aim at another enemy. I fire. There is a flash in my gun, but nothing happens. I growl in frustration and flip my gun over so that I am holding it by the chamber.

I run up to a enemy and smack a merchant in the head with the but of my gun, making him fall to the ground, either knocked out or dead with a cracked skull. I grin, a dark smile, and look around. I see crimson blood everywhere, splinters flying around, puffs of smoke from artillery, and the grins of my successful colleagues. The remaining merchants had surrendered and were now strapped to the mast with rope. The Cap’ looks at me as the other pirates transfer the loot and cargo from the merchant vessel to ours. He grins down at me, once again with that toothy grin. I smile back, proud of myself. “Good job Boyo. You didn’t die.” We both laugh. From then on, I loved being a pirate.

A Day in the Life Of Charles Madison, Colonial Surgeon

My name is Charles Madison and I am 27 years old. I live in a beautiful upper class house with my wife, Rebecca Madison, who is 25 years old. I live in the richest part of Jamestown because of my surgeon duties. I was recently drafted into war because they need the best surgeon. It has been treacherous. Each day, I must get up at the crack of dawn, eat my gruel, and adjourn to my station. I stay there, in case anyone comes over, and, I have my surgery kit ready in case I need to go into the battlefield. “GET THE SURGEON! My brother was shot!” I grab my kit and run through the crowd. Everyone steps aside because I am wearing all black which indicates that I am a surgeon. I also have the same privileges as an officer in war. I hear a gunshot whistle pass my ear. I look up at the the blazing sun and stumble over the sandy grass. My heart is racing as I look at the blood running out of my patient’s shoulder then, I vomit next to him.

“There is no time to take him back to my tent!” I yell. I get down on the grass ground and take a probe out of my surgical kit. I stick my thumb inside the wound to see if I can get it out, but all I feel is the gooey muscle and wet tissue. His screams are agonizing but I have to do this. I stick the probe inside his wound and move it around until I feel the musket ball.

“Hold this right here!” I shout to no one in particular. His brother holds it as I get my retractors and split the lips of the wound. Even more blood pools out and dampens the sandy surface, I yell for someone to start a fire. I run my tongs down the probe and I pull out some tissue and the musket ball. I take a cauterizer and heat it up over the fire. Once the cauterizer is burning I squeeze his wound together and I run the long metal stick down the wound, fusing the skin back together.

A cannon blasts in the air and a couple men and I pick him up and run to my tent. I set him down on the table. I walk out of my coffee stained tent and go back to the blood red grass and blackish sand to acquire my surgical kit once again. My head is thumping and I pick up the slimy tools. I walk back to my tent and I watch the man sleep as I finish my warm, watery, stinking gruel. I go over to my fire and heat the long metal stick up once again to ensure that his arm stays together. I run the cauterizer slowly over his pale skin and bind the skin together as he screams in agony. I hand him a sling.

“Put it on and don’t move your arm until dawn,” I say with a strict tone.

“Yes sir!” he says in a responsive voice. I sit down at my desk and hear a slight creek and moan out of the chair. I take out a piece of paper, ink and a quill.

Dear my beloved,

Hello Rebecca, how are you? It has been ages since I have seen your elegantly toned face. I quiver when I think of you. Hopefully this war will be over soon and we shall be united again. I hope you are wearing your red dress with the golden designs. I may be at war and not home, but you may not talk to Reginald, for I fear he may be trying to ruin our relationship. I am sorry you are lonely, but your devilish sins and urges may not be acted upon.

Love,

 Charles

I walk over to the messenger, for it is Monday and he only comes around once a week. I hand him the letter.

“Is there anything for me?” I ask.

“Sorry sir. You know she only writes every other week.”

“Very well than. Good bye!” “Good bye sir.”

I walk back to my tent and out of the corner of my eye I see a bullet skin a mans right leg and I run over. I duck down to where he is and as the sand brushes over my knees I put his arm over my shoulder and I help him over to my tent as the sweltering heat boils my back alive. I lay him down and I realize that a small amount of his bone was hit but it wasn’t broken. I extend his leg and massage the right thigh I put a bandage on it to stop the bleeding and then I give him a three piece splint with leather bindings.

“Hello sir, your dinner is here.”

“Gruel again?” I ask with fear.

“Yes sir.” He says as he leaves. I tell him to sleep there and not to move his leg then I finish my gruel and go to bed.

My neighbors suspect I had something to do with the deaths, as you would think.  I was trying to make do by selling furniture from my father’s house, he would be very ashamed of me.  When I walked down the streets people give me odd looks, I hear them whisper, “Witch.”  The younger girls in this town are starting to behave quite oddly.  They are all daughters of the wealthy men, some even more than my father.  Last month a horrid young girl started flinching and screaming and accused me of causing her to be that way.  The lawmakers came, searched my house, found one of my father’s old liquor smuggling bottles and said that it was a potion bottle.  They searched the attic and found my old dollies, one of them has blond hair and they say that it is a “voo-doo” doll of one of the inflicted girls.   

None of the people in this town can be trusted.  They think I am a depressed, widowed, witch.  Now, they cuff my hands and bring me to the courthouse and tell me to wait outside.  They carry my dolls and my father’s liquor bottle into the courthouse.  In the breif moment that they opening the door I hear screaming and argueing.  I see another woman not very different than me; not very good looking, in her twenties, a mole on her neck, and tears on her face.  I consider resisting these soldiers tight grasp, but I rethink my plan upon seeing their large, muscular arms.  I know what has happened to the others before me, they all go to the town square, or to the county jail.  I look around frantically searching for someone, anyone to rescue me from my impending death.  The state has their evidence, but I can assure you I am being framed.  

I stay quiet while waiting now. It has been a full twenty-four hours since the brought me here to wait, the case is running long and I haven’t eaten for a day.  Even the soldiers who hold my arms are starting to tire, this would be the perfect time for a getaway, but I too am too weak.   The reality of my situation is finally reaching me.  My life is over, even if I do get out of this trial with no punishment, I will be constantly mocked and humiliated.  My life is in the hands of rich men from near and far who volunteer to be part of the jury.  I know not to speak if not addressed in a trial, but that is practically all.  

Before I was put on trial, I saw people calling me a witch behind my back, than, a whole jury of people are called me one.  I know that I didn’t cast any spells on that the girl.   

Done. My life is over. It’s off to town square for me, next Saturday they say.  The trial was quick, like a snake on it’s way to attack.  Slow and prowling, jumps up to bite you, then the bite.  The people who sat in the courthouse stared at me with the utmost disgust.  I am now tied up in front of the courthouse.  People come at me and yell at me.  I can’t understand most of what they’re saying, choose to drone them out, once, just once though, I yell back.  A lady dressed in a white and pink dress came up to me with her little boy dressed in a navy suit.  They were an odd looking bunch with quite a lot to say.  “Witch!” she yelled.  The boy repeated her words like an echo.  Words kept flowing out of her mouth, so I decided, if she wanted to think that I was a witch, I’d be a witch.  “I conjure you, daemon, whoever you may be, to torture and kill, from this hour, this day, this moment,” I chanted these words rolling my eyes and swaying my head.  She ran away tugging her boy along and my name was called, it was time.

I am Jane Franklin Mecom, you may know me as Benjamin Franklin’s sister. It saddens me that this is all I am known for, living in the shadows of my brilliant brother. I sit at my wooden desk as I write this letter. This desk is much like my life, bland, common, and unsteady. Against poverty and ignorance, Benjamin prevailed and I did not. I try not to let the jealousy overwhelm me, but it is harder than it seems. At 15 years old I married, I was pregnant. My brother and I are very close, we write letters to each other still. His letters are warm, funny, and delightful to read. While mine are nothing but trouble. It is surprising that I can even write, because I am a woman. Is that fair? I’m not quite sure. I had one child after another, as my husband, a saddler named Edward Mecom, is nearly losing his mind. My two sons already have, I do not get a moments rest. I feel as if my life is slipping through my boney fingers. Still, I have a thirst for knowledge. I read as much as I dare to. I do not mean to sound selfish, but I could be just as smart as Benjamin, if I was given the opportunity. If I was respected like he was. But sadly, none of these things are true, and I do not know if they ever will be.

I am looking around my dimly lit house. It is run down, not a desirable place to live, especially with as many kids as I have.  My kitchen is small, as every other room in my house. Do not pity me though, it is partly my fault. I was the one who married this foolish man, watching him as he makes quick decisions, causing our family to fall farther and farther into debt. People say I am a beauty, with a moon face, dark hair, delicate brows, and round eyes. Usually I would be flattered, to women, their appearance is a very important factor of life. But when I look in the mirror all I can see is failure, hope drained from my complexion. I sometimes wonder if others see it too. Am I part of the town’s gossip? Most likely, everyone is in this small town. I am the usual outlet for people’s gossip, I hear what is said about people, from both sides. This is scary to me, I beat myself up enough about how desperately I have failed in this lifetime. The last thing I need is others doing the same.  

I sit and breathe, the musky air of my dirty house filling my lungs. I hold my breathe and close my eyes, letting my imagination wander. I see myself in a brilliant mansion, cleanly decorated having many shades of white in it’s palette. I look up feeling the warm fire from the stove. There, I see myself. This is not just a picture and I am almost positive it is not a mirror. It is a portrait of me. I was surrounded by riches, and sketches. One was odd in particular, a familiar drawing. It was a plan, my invention.

          My eyes shoot open, heaving in the air I have lost. I feel something underneath my hand, it was the sketch. It was ripped and had sprinkles of dirt all over the delicate paper. A single tear slips out of my eye, I am not part of that life. I look around, just making sure I wasn’t still encountering a daydream. My lip was trembling, sadness was overcoming the rest of my emotions. I was back in the reality of my life, and had the worst of all feelings, disappointment.

My youngest daughter creeps through the doors, she has been watching me.

        “What’s that mommy?” her small finger innocently pointed towards my drawing.

        “Nothing sweetie.” I said quickly and cold. I tuck away the paper in the first drawer.

         “Why are you crying?”

         “I just,” I stutter, “Miss my brother, that’s all.”

          “Me too,” she says looking down at the ground. She was referring to my oldest son, what a wise man. So much potential, but struck by the harshness of reality. He drove himself insane. Later, dying as many of my children did.

“I know,” I pull her into a tight hug. She has so many questions, so many wonders. Will anything come out of her seeking for answers? No. Only sadness. That is the story of me, not much really. I doubt I will even be remembered. I hope whomever is reading the letter shall not experience the pain I did. But then again, pain comes with wisdom. Remember that.

A Day in the Life of a Farmer

In my community, I am a middling farmer in 1622.  I am a widow, for my husband died when the Natives attacked, and scalped the English in Jamestown. I shall never marry again. I also used to have two children, James and Rebecca. James left me to go to Virginia. James was just like his father. The other child is Rebecca, a grown woman. Devestated, all I feel is loneliness, and bitterly mad. I did not quite understand why I was being left from, abandonded, rejected in some way.. I haven’t been to church in the ever longest time, and I know I musn’t go. My life wasn’t always this bad, though. On the plantation, I have a couple of slaves, like around five or six. The main crop that I grow is mainly tobacco, but I also grow wheat, barley, and corn. I promptly get up at six a.m. Usually the first thing I do, is to take a shower, then go down to cook, then consume my porridge. I usually wear a light pale blue dress, and for shoes, I usually wear cheap, brown, wore down shoes. On the top of my head, I put my hair into a bun, and put a light blue cap on top. On the plantation, the slaves and indentured servants remind me of flies. You know, the pesky, annoying little things. Creatures maybe. They usually obey my loud commands, but I usually straight one of them out sometimes. I would cackle harshly as their sweaty backs bloody from the crack of my brown, leather whip. I usually don’t whip them however. They know the drill ; get up promptly at three A.M., feed the animals, and head to the fields with the animals, farming tools such as hoes. I remember one day, I had a slave that would not listen at all! He winced when whipped, but still would be out of control.

“William! Cut your foolishness before I whip you!” Was he trying to take control? To show me that he wanted to be in charge? William never replied to my questions, statements, or comments. He just glared at me, like an angry animal.

After enough was enough, I decided to sell him. My heart, swelling with both relief and pure happiness from selling the animal, as I called him, but to also purchase another slave. All I thought about was the money, cotton and tobacco. Not thinking twice when we got to the slave stand, I just grabbed William by the arm, and never looked at him again. All I remember is buying another slave, and continuing on with my life.