December 1, 1760

Dear Diary, 

Today my life started as it does allways.  I woke up with the sun.  The smell of the food made for me by my servant brought me out of bed.  My husband is away, like always.  I certainly do not miss him.  I sent the maid to bring my friend Anna over.  Anna does not work.  She brought her newborn over and sat in the corner while I made some medicine with my mortar and pestle and sold it.  Anna is nineteen, only a year older than I.  We have been friends since we were little girls and played with dolls.  Today, we talked about dresses and gossiped.  I did not wish to leave the shop today in the freezing rain, so sent my husband’s apprentice to do the chores.  The fifteen year old is all but useful.  He will not be as good an apothecary as my husband.  Anyway, there was little business today until the door was pushed open by someone I knew well.

“My goodness William, you’ve almost broke my door!” I laughed, but as soon as I saw his face I stopped smiling.  He had a couple little pink dots on his pale neck and face.  His blonde hair was dark brown.  My little brother was not laughing and had on a hard face.

“Charlotte Moore, I think I’m sick,” he said  in a voice much lower than own. He forced a smile, but I could tell he was in pain.

“Does your throat hurt?  What about your stomach?  And your head?” I felt his forehead, it was covered in sweat.  He responded, “Deeply, no and less so.”

“Scarlet fever I suppose,” I offered, but I wasn’t sure.  I ran over to the cabinet with the already made medicine.  I began reading the handwritten labels.  Some are new, but others have been used for years and are peeling at the edges. Most of the bottles are small and made of clear glass, but there are some large ones and some colored ones.  I can smell the huge aroma lifting from the different medicines trapped in the cabinet.  Unfortunately, the medicine I needed was not there.  The door opened again and a old man came in and asked for some lavender.  I mostly ignored him until he asked again and I sent him away.  He deserved it though.  Lavender heals the soul.  This man is not innocent he had done something and is being punished by God.  I finally gave up my search in the cabinet.

“Tell me everything!” I said to William while running over to the small garden right outside my window.  I picked the herbs he needed and began grinding them in the smaller, less used, mortar and pestle.  Unlike the bigger stone mortar and pestle, this one has not been used in days and does not have as much leftover medicine on the sides and bottom.

“I helped Mr. Smith tend to his animals for the past few weeks.  Though, I think I became ill two days ago.”  I wanted to laugh at the normalness of his story, but I couldn’t because of the worry eating in my stomach.  My brother had always been the most outgoing and wild child in his school so the story came as a shock.  I remember Anna saying that he would get himself killed when he was seven and we were ten.  I remember laughing, but not thinking it was funny.  I finished making the medicine, put in in a small pouch of cloth and sent William on his way for free.  For no sick family of mine should have to pay.

I am Charlotte Caldwell, the widow of Harrison Caldwell and the mother of Harry, Temperance, Mercy, Rufus, and Hazel. My husband Harrison was the town of Williamsburg’s shoemaker. He passed away two years ago, the day after my daughter Hazel was born, from an unknown illness. His shop was left to me after he died. Thankfully he had previously taught me the basics of his trade so after he passed, I could keep the business open.

On this particular day, I rise to an early morning sun shining through my window. I stretch before I pull myself out of bed and tread toward the kitchen down the hall. The stone floors are cold as my feet brush over them. I reach the large wooden door to the kitchen and gently push it open, being careful of the cook working inside. I look toward her rolling dough on the island in the middle of the room.

“Good morning Mrs. Caldwell,” Eliza says with a large smile on her face. She is wearing a linen dress and smock that is covered in flour. She picks up a tea cup, giving it to me. “Your morning tea.” I nod and say “Thank you.” I turn to leave but then remember, “When the children wake, be sure they dress before breakfast. Last time they came down in their nightwear and were late to school.” I then walk back to my room with tea in hand and get dressed for my day as the shoemaker.

Before I leave the house, I make sure the children are still asleep and leave them a note telling them that I am off to work. The dirt is wet from a heavy rain last night and my shoes are getting soaked. No matter, I have no work today, I will make myself a new pair of shoes. First I must stop by the tanner and purchase some more leather.

* * *

A cool breeze comes in through the open door of the shop. I pull my hair back into a bun before cutting into the black leather. I paid a hefty price for this dark leather and intend to make a new pair of riding boots for myself.

A Day in the Life of Mildred Withers

I am a lower class woman who cooks for the Smith family. I have two slaves that work for me in the kitchen. These slaves don’t belong to me, sadly. I have to wake up early in the morning just to get to the Smith’s house and cook them a small breakfast because they usually don’t eat. I finish making meals for the Smith family very late at night. Even though I get home late, my family is still up and waiting for me to make them a small meal.  I don’t know how many times I hurt myself yesterday. My husband, John had to help me clean up my cuts and burns. I never understood how painful cooking can be.

        Today I woke up and everything seemed different. Mr. Smith told me to get to work extra early today, and so I did. I have never been out this early in the morning. There is almost no one on the street. As I got to work I saw that the house seemed more decorated. The slaves were outside cleaning the house and putting decorations up. The slaves who work for my in the kitchen were sitting in the kitchen waiting for me. I made breakfast as I usually do for the family.

When it was about 8:30 am, the Smith family woke up and came down for the breakfast, though they didn’t eat it. Mr. Smith came up to me and said “Mildred, as you can tell the slaves are outside and getting the house ready,” I politely answered back in a timid tone saying “Yes I do see that. Why are they getting the house ready? It looks outstanding!” Replying in a very cocky tone, he says “Well, tonight we are having the biggest party we have ever thrown. Everyone of the gentry class will be here. Now that means today you will be cooking non stop. I want you to make the best food you have ever made. I do not want my guests to say that the food was horrible. This party is really going to show how our family represents ourselves. Do not ruin this up for us. The slaves are waiting for you, and I don’t smell anything cooking.” I was frightened by his task but I took it, because I couldn’t risk losing my job. “Yes of course sir. I will get right to cooking. Anything you would like in particular?” I asked, showing as much politeness as I can. “No, just make your best dishes. Now get in the kitchen and start cooking!” he said in an aggressive tone.

Thinking to myself as I walking to the kitchen, I weigh the importance of this task. “I can’t mess any of these meals up .I can’t lose my job working for the Smith family.” I wonder out loud. This was how I got my money to feed my family the minuscule, unsatisfying meals. My family always wants me to cook for them.When I get home, the setting in which I work in is so different. When I get back to my house I do not know where half of my cooking supplies are. Matter of fact, I don’t even have any cooking supplies at home. The smells are very different. The scents in my own home are never as wonderful and the ones at the Smith house.

My house usually never has a smell because the foods I use to cook meals are very bland and don’t have a lot of flavor. At the Smith’s house, I smell so many different scents. The ingredients I use to cook at the Smith’s house bring so much flavor and a multitude of scents to the kitchen and table. The product from of food compared to my home cooking and the cooking for the Smith’s is disparate. Everything for the Smith’s had more flavor and colors. All my dishes were much better and more sophisticated for the Smith’s. My meal for my family did not ever leave even a faint smell in the house. The meals I make for my family are never very tasty. I love cooking, even if it means cooking in a kitchen that has no cooking materials and a limited amount of ingredients.

General day for a colonial student

My name is May White. I am a upper class girl going to common school. I feel lucky that I am a upper class girl. I am 13 and will soon have to learn at home and I will not be able to go to college or boarding school. My mother will have to teach me skills at home. I can’t wait to go for school. I have a brother and a sister, and of course my parents. My sister goes to dame school and my brother is in England at a boarding school. Common schools are just schools for more older children. My sister is younger than me, so she goes to dame school. Dame school is for younger children and little children. When I go to school I wake up at 7 in the morning,  I don’t think school is hard, but I don’t like the teacher. He is very mean and there is never fun. I wish we would learn about different subjects in school, but we don’t. I worry about my brother, he has not written in some time and he is not a very good student. The school is very dim lit and dark. I don’t like school, because of the teacher. I like learning, but it is not fun when someone gets beaten every hour or so. The school is very dark and there’s basically no light. It is very dusty and not very nice.

         In the morning I wake up at 5:00. School starts at 7:00 and it takes me about one and a half hours to get there. My mother packs me a breakfast every night. I eat it on the way to school. My father wakes me up, because he also has a long way to go before he can get to his shop. The school takes a long time to get to. Sometimes I can’t go to school in the winter because it is so cold and icy. The snow is everywhere and I would march through the thick snow to collect wood. The school room is always cold, I don’t know why. I think it is because the school room is dark and gloomy and no light peeks through the window, that is layered in dust. I remember dame school. I was very small and I loved to learn there. It was always so sweet and cozy. Everything was warm, and it was in a townhouse and so it only took me 10 minutes to get there. I remember that she was a kind lady, she made food for us and she was the best teacher that anyone could wish for.

         Right now it is raining, It is 5 in the morning and I just woke up. I love the rain, but not on a school day. I quickly wash my face and hands. I put on my everyday dress and bonnet. I put on my shoes, knowing that they would dripping wet by the time I got to school. I loved my room. It had a very big window right by my bed, and two shelves above it. They are a fine wood and I had many of my favorite positions on it. my dresser was at the end of my bed. I got my bag out. I took my bag and I quickly ran out of my room and into our kitchen. I grab the breakfast bag and run out the door. I quickly look on the church clock and……… no! I say to myself I better run fast. I ran to school and quickly entered the door.

“You are almost late.” said a harsh voice

“Sorry sir,” I say

I quickly take my seat and look around. Everyone is sitting down and class begins. I sit in my seat, looking at the teacher, but my thoughts are far away. I think about the rain pounding in every corner. After school I went back home. At home I learned from my hornbook. This is a general day for me.

The Life of Elijah Ndongo: A Slave Fighting For His Freedom

I’ve been up for a very long time now, since before the break of dawn, and I am the first and only slave on the Tobacco fields at this moment. To the horizon, I see the almost transparent sun rising over the Big House. Smoke begins to funnel out of the chimney, contrasting against  the bleak, dry sky. All this time alone has given me time think about my life. Before I was captured, I was a warrior, fighting for my proud homeland. I had a wife and two children, and the white men came and ruined my life. As I look down at my hands, I see the blood of my people. Those devils in fancy clothing shot my wife in my own arms. They pulled me away from her breathing corpse and put me on a boat. I have no knowledge of what has happened to children, or my village. I look down at the plow I am using. Back in Angola, my wife had one just like this. A tear drops from my eye but I quickly clean it up, for my master must not know of my pain.

“Elijah,” a soft voice behind me says. I turn my head around and see the Master’s wife, Mrs. Bridgely. “Yes?” I ask back to her, looking down at the ground. “As you know, David is very sick. We are afraid that we will lose him in the war, so we have decided to put you in his place. December is just around the corner, and the cold temperatures won’t be very good for him. You have until noon to make your departure.” The wind spins around me, as if provoking me to make a response. Looking up at her cold, unforgiving eyes and know I have no choice. I nod and turn back towards the Slave house, where I will make the announcement of my leaving.

As I turn my head around, I see the now closed gate behind my head. I can’t turn back, as the punishment will definitely be severe. I have nothing but the clothes on my back and the letter of service my master signed. My instructions were clear. Go into the city and sign up for the war. I walk down the Cobblestone path, and with each step I take, I lose a bit more confidence in the outcome of this so called trip to the city.

             Wagons congest the street. With each step I take, suspicious looks are thrown my way. I make my way to the town square. “Where do I go now?” I mutter, feeling completely lost. As I look around, the lack of diversity in this city makes me feel disgusted. I haven’t seen another African like me since the plantation. I look for the nearest Blue jacket soldier. As I hand him my paper, he reads with a sneer. “A negro, eh?” He says out loud. “Your kind hasn’t been very useful to us so far. But it’s not my choice.” He continues, fully aware of my presence. He points in the direction of the magazine and tells me to show the note, which is now severely crumpled. “They shall let you in, provide you with everything you need.” I take my paper and walk through the town square, trying to be as quick but as respectful to others as possible.

              I run my hand on the smooth blue jacket, feeling the buttons as I make my way down. I tap my feet, looking down at my brand-new shoes with amazement. This may not be as bad as I thought. “Look up Ndongo!”‘a stern voice yells at me. As I become more aware, a large musket comes flying at me. I was able to sidestep it and catch with my hands extended. I lift in the air and scan around the field. All the other soldiers are loading their muskets, preparing to shoot a volley at a tree. A white man begins to laugh, his eyes locked on me. “You might wanna turn that musket around.” He bursts out in complete laughter now, and I fumble over the musket as I begin to load it. “Not the same as a sword,” I think to myself. “Ready! Aim! Fire!” I let go of trigger and almost fall of my feet. A fellow African soldier helps me up. “This is going to be a long drill,” I wonder to myself.

               I open the flap and step into the tent. I feel a foot with my hand, and I stick my head inside. “What a small tent!” I exclaim, completely dissatisfied.  I crawl to my corner of the tent. I lay my head on the cold dirt, head looking up at the stained sheets that make our tent. To my right, a voice says something which I don’t understand at all. “What?” I ask in response. My back to his location. I try and turn facing him, but my shoulder is on his collarbone, and I feel like I’m being suffocated. I close my eyes and attempt to sleep, hoping things will change for the better.

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.

I am a colonial architect. I design houses, manage construction and employ different tradesmen. Workers like carpenters, joiners, brickmakers and layers all help me build the structures I create. I am the architect who has designed the Great House on Shirley’s Plantation. There were not many female architects in Colonial America but some decided to take up the trade with influence from their parents and siblings. I am an English midling women who came to America in 1720 building my first major structure structure in 1723. My family and friends were not willing to take the voyage to America with me, they were to old, weary and were pleased with their homes in England. I wanted to come to America because of the chance to build new styles of architecture and experience the new worlds wonders.

I live in a farmhouse with a small kitchen, dining room and a second floor that only covers half of the bottom level. I built this house myself in about two days, of course, I know how to make a massive Gorgian house with numerous floors and millions of bricks, but someone with my social standing would never be able to have these great materials. I usually wear a long brown skirt to work with a black shirt. My other gramments consist of a tool belt, and a apron. My clothes are usually not rippend nor tattered for I do more designing and managing instead of building the structures. I make around fifty to seventy pounds depending on the structures that have been finished during that year.

I build houses for the upper class but I have heard about the Indians and Angolan housing that the word “architect” unknown. The only materials they used were sticks and mud! I’ve also heard about the English houses bwhen the Settlers first came, indeed, very similar to wigwams. I have many tools that were made for me based on my working ability. I own small compasses, caliper, saws, hammers all of which I use almost every day. My designs usually take place in the Joiners shop. I often have young apprentices with a dream of becoming an architect and building wonders. I want to teach as much as possible in the four years they have. I remeber coming over to America as just a young girl hoping I could some day build house I have experienced. I sometimes question the way I live here.

I am Elanor Everest, a middling class architect living in Virginia. I came to America in 1720 hoping for new oppertunities for building, not many architects in England were women and those who were, were not treated fariley. My transportation to the “new world” sadly consited of six months in the belly of the ship with scents of bile and urine. I invited my mother and father along with me but they were to old and weary to commit to such a voyage. My first years in America were difficult, I had to build a shop, hire tradesmen, find tools. Life here was so different, so interesting. I started building a small farmhouse with the wooden planks and my neighboor gave me. I had to pay a small amount of money for building on his plantation but he said he would be kind enough to share some of his crops. I was knew I had the skills to work in America, but it was all so overwhelming.

Soon I met my fellow carpenters who let me design in their work space. In 1723 when the carter family settled on Shirley’s plantation I was honered with the oppertunity to build a two story, symetrical Gorgeain home. I knew the process would be complex, I had built many structures before but never for such a royal. In fact, the process took ten years of building and designing. Working through the hot weather watching the rays of sunlight slowly drain the energy out my hands. I would always watch the progress, waiting until one day that hard work would pay off. I often questioned my way of living I had only two blacks shirts, one long brown skirts and a tool belt. My income included sixty pounds per year for such had and important labor. Should I have come this long journey for such torture?

I Had finished the Great House during the year of 1733. King Carters and his son were pleased with my work and asked me to also build the kithen quarters seperated from the Great House. I aggred but this process only took two years. My work was now known for, more people wanted me to build there dwellings. “Everst, what do we have on the list for days work?” My friendly carpenters would say. “Well, I must show my apprentice the use of a caliper and then head off to the blacksmithing for a new bevel. This one has become very un-useful.” “Everst you have twenty other bevels hanging on the rack by the compasses!” This was my delight what I had always hoped for and dreamed of, walking into the shop seeing wood shaving on the dark brown floor and listening to the saws gently moving back and fourth.

In 1764 I headed back to England wanting to spend my last years in my home. I did not need to stay in America for anymore I had fulfilled my dream, I know my structures and designing will be remeber in the colonies. My working business has been handed over to Hillis Mandel a hard working young boy. I have faith in him hoping he will live the enjoyable, satisfying life I had in America.

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