A Day In The Life: Rose Baker
“Mother! Mother! I’m terribly hungry!” Felicity impatiently tugs on my skirt while Peter stands on his tiptoes in the vain hope of snatching a breakfast treat. “Breakfast is almost ready. Patience, my loves.” Properly chided, they sit down at the scratched wooden table. Outside, the city of Williamsburg is bustling with morning activity. Horses briskly trot down the cobblestone streets and merchants begin to open their shops. Rays of a new sun stream into our kitchen, adding a gentle morning glow to the room. My husband John rushes out the door, breakfast in hand. He works as a blacksmith, a humble yet satisfying position.
As I watch the grits sizzle on the stove, the fire drifts my thoughts to elsewhere, to a time in my childhood. I was raised on a farm by two hardworking parents, but when I turned 18 our house burned to the ground. One day, I met John and 2 years later we moved to our home here in Williamsburg. That was 10 years ago. Since then I have spent my days raising Peter and Felicity, and making baskets, candles, and fruit preserves to sell to merchants. I am brought back to earth as the smell of smoke fills my nostrils. I look down in alarm and remove the burnt grits from the pan. I prepare another batch as quickly so as not to upset Peter and Felicity any further. We sit down and eat in comfortable silence, our tin forks scraping across the fading china plates.
The birds begin to trill their evening song as the sun sets behind the softly glowing trees. Sometimes, I wonder what it’s like to be someone else, perhaps a femme sol, an unmarried woman. I could open my own shop, support myself. I have always wanted to be a Milner. But I wouldn’t dream of it of course; after all, unmarried woman are pitied across the land. As I finish my daily gardening I absentmindedly watch the loose soil roll off my worn fingers and and onto the thriving tomato plant I had just been tending. I pick up my basket, filled to the brim with fresh produce, and set off to make a hearty dinner stew for my family.
“Peter! Felicity! John! Dinner is ready!” My family eagerly answers my call to supper. My husband is determined to educate Peter about the upcoming political election. “Who’s views do you support peter? Which candidate will best influence our nation? Peter! Are you listening to me? When you are a Man, these matters will be very important, do you understand?!”
“Yes father,” Peter replies with obvious indifference. John has a strong interest in politics, an interest that I do not share in the slightest. Of course, even if I was invested in politics, I could not have any influence whatsoever because as a woman, I cannot vote or hold public office.
Felicity spiritedly pipes in, “Father! I support General Washington beca-“
John sternly cuts her off, “Now thats enough Felicity, don’t trouble your pretty little head about these matters.” I worry about Felicity sometimes. She seems to have a sincere passion for her father’s political lectures in a way that other girls her age do not. If she continues this way, she’s bound to get herself into trouble.