At the age of sixty, I can’t say I remember many things vividly. Eight years has certainly felt like a long time. Eight years since I saw the slave being sold down by Mississippi. He was young and strong, a handsome man. I still see his face in my mind’s eye. “Sold!” cried the auctioneer. The young man turned around and was led off in shackles. I could see the scars where he had been whipped all over his back. As he was led away, he turned around and caught my eye. His eyes were full of pain and wisdom, sadness, and deep, deep anger. They weren’t the eyes of a nineteen-year-old boy, but an eighty-year-old man who has had more than his share of trials in life. These eyes challenged me. “Do something! Help me!” But I just stared at him, my breath catching in my throat. After a minute he closed his eyes, as if he was tired of the world. I walked away with my handkerchief over my mouth. I felt like I had witnessed something horrible. That was the first time I had seen a colored person as more than a slave. Unlike most people, I identified that man as more than the first part of the name, colored, but by the second part, a person. When I looked into his eyes, I had seen myself. I could have been that man. If his soul was in my white body and mine in his black one, would he have felt the same way I do? Would he feel the same strange connection—we were both living together on this earth? It was after that encounter that I started helping slaves to safety. By now, I’d chance to guess I’ve helped about eighty-five men, women and children to freedom. There have been close calls, certainly Once, my nephew, Sheriff Paterson, dropped in on a late night visit. He leaned right against my closet door, which held the passage to the secret room. I swear I could feel the tension coming from two rooms over, where a mother and her three children sat quietly, holding their breath. But I am proud to say all of the slaves who have come to me have launched safely on their way to freedom. It is not until I usher them in that I see the girl is hurt Sometimes I wonder why I keep doing this. But every time a man or woman or family shows up on my doorstep, hope in their eyes and the word “freedom” melting off their lips, I feel a calling, an obligation to help these people live their lives. Who knows? Maybe someday the world will change and I will not have to hide these people in my closet. Maybe their grandchildren will go to college and have futures, like mine did. That is what I wish upon these people who cower behind a door in the closet this very second, clutching the sparse quilts and single candle I have provided them. I’d love to give them more, but if the room were to be searched, it would look suspicious to have more than that in there. At four-thirty in the morning, I hear a rap on the back door. Jack is here. I hurry the man and his wife out the door; watch Jack help them into a compartment underneath the false bottom of the wagon. Jack carefully rearranges the potato sacks. Hopping up into his seat, he urges the horses away and they ride away slowly. * * * FIVE DAYS LATER A black is prowling around my house. Now, I am not a superstitious woman, but this cat is by no doubt unsettling me. It just circles the house again and again, flicking its tail. I’ll try to get it out of my mind by baking some soda bread. That usually helps. At nine o’clock it’s storming badly Rain is splattering on my windows hard, and lightning lights up the rooms of my house often. I hear a knock at my door. There stand a woman and a girl, a mother and a daughter. It is not until I usher them in that I see the girl is hurt. Her mother is holding her up on her feet, but the girl cannot support herself whatsoever. Her knees sag and she sinks to the floor. The gash running down the side of her head is still spurting blood. “She tripped and fell,” cried her mother. She is going to say more, but I stop her. I give her a damp cloth and ice. “Try to numb it,” I command. “I am going to fetch a doctor.” The woman gasps. “But, Missus, we’ll get caught!” I have already made up my mind. The little girl lying on my floor needs help. I wrap my shawl around my thin shoulders and go out in the pouring rain. Thunder rumbles and lightning cracks, scaring the horses, but I urge them for-ward. The lightning strikes again and I catch a glimpse of the black cat. Its eyes glint in the sudden light. “Curse you!” I mutter. “You brought this misfortune!” I am soaked when I reach Doctor Shepherd’s house. Joseph Shepherd is an honest, good man who I value in the highest respect. If he turns me in I will not blame him. That is why, with my withered, arthritic hand shaking, I knock three times on his oak door. Mrs. Shepherd opens the door. She is in her bedclothes and looks quite surprised to see me. I croak out that it is an emergency, and I need Doctor Shepherd. Soon Doctor is rushing down the stairs, pulling on a coat and boots. I admire he is taking me seriously even when he doesn’t know what’s going on. Doctor Shepherd takes his own wagon to my home. I lead him in the front door, past the black cat that is sitting on my front steps. “Mrs. Pietas?”
Historical
Parachute Prom
I twirl around and around in front of my mirror. I quickly smooth out the crinkles beginning to form on the beautiful silk dress. Glancing at my face I notice a stray hair and quickly pin it back into place. Reapplying a coat of lipstick, I nervously look at my dress one last time. It is beautiful. I am filled with pride I cannot explain. Just three weeks ago it was an old dirty silk parachute, filled with memories of a war that we thought would never happen. Filled with memories of the terror my brothers experienced when they dropped behind enemy lines. Filled with memories of the dread they experienced if the Germans found them. However, even these feelings of worry cannot overwhelm my feeling of eagerness to wear the dress. I savor the way the silk slips through my hands like warm butter against my skin. The top hugs me tightly then carefully flows into a billowing skirt. It has been gathered in at places to give it a ruffled look. The dove-white silk carefully accents my tan skin. Just like this happiness accents the hardness that I have gone through in my life. Behind me in the mirror I see my room. It is a mess from all my getting ready. I see shoes strewn about, towels flung on the floor, and a whole slew of makeup, bobby pins, and the little jewelry I have. Behind that I glimpse my childhood pictures of chocolate cakes with pink icing and fairy-tale cities that existed only in my wildest dreams. Old birthday cards and letters from close friends fill me with nostalgia. My eyes fill with tears as I think of how happy I feel. I remember the times that led up to this moment. This is the moment I have been waiting for and now it has finally come I remember that it was a Saturday afternoon and I was in the living room getting fitted for the dress. I watched my mother carefully to be sure she wouldn’t stick me with her pins. I watched those graceful hands gather the silk tight across my front to show off a slim figure. The dress was starting to look like a dress and less like the parachute that it was. The dove-white silk hugged my body carefully as I imagined the prom. I looked out the window and saw our yard in full bloom. The flowers were bright colors and the grass green. Shifting my gaze to inside the house I saw my sister carefully doing her homework. A little beyond that I saw my youngest brother reading intently a book called The Odyssey. It was about his tenth time reading it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my grandmother washing the dishes. I can still hear her humming an old tune her mother had sung to her on their farm in Greece when she was a little girl. However, even through all that happiness on that day, I still remembered the fit I had when I heard I was to be wearing a silk parachute to the senior prom. I was crying. I was crying and I could not stop. I had made sacrifices my whole life but for once I was hoping to have something for me. I ran to my room and I slammed the door. All I was thinking of was the dirty parachute in a box with all of the other things that my brother had brought back from the war. It was festering away in a dark corner of the hall closet in all of its gory glory. The bullet holes from where it had been shot at showed proudly. The smell was unbearable; it was a mixture of dirty muddy grass, and sweat. I had thought, Father, don’t think of me as selfish, but why did you leave us with nobody to bring in money? Why couldn’t you have held on for the good of your family? I had thought that before but never as fiercely as then. If he had not died so suddenly, I remember thinking, Mother would have enough money to buy me a new dress and she wouldn’t have to work. I realize now that those initial reactions were silly, but at the time it seemed so important. Now, I wonder, do I deserve this dress? Our family is poor and it was so even before Father died. He lost his restaurant job and he went to work in the shipyards, which didn’t exactly make him want to go to work each day. And then Alex and Perry went to war and we didn’t hear from them. Three months after they came home, Father died. And here I was thinking that my mother’s best effort wasn’t good enough for me to wear. I don’t think that now. This is the moment I have been waiting for and now it has finally come. I survey myself with a critical eye. I can’t help but feel happy with the young woman I see staring back at me. With one last glance at myself, I open the door. * * * AUTHOR’S FOOTNOTE This story was inspired by a real person and a real dress! Helen Phillips wore this prom dress in January of 1946. She still has the dress that was made from her brother Alex’s silk parachute. Alex Phillips was in the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) during World War II when he parachuted into Greece to help the resistance fighters. Helen’s granddaughter Emily first heard this story in the fall of 2005 when she was ten years old and her grandmother was seventy-five. Emily Waxman,10Los Angeles, California Adele Hall,11Simi Valley, California
Shepherd of Stonehenge
Harsh, cold wind rippled across the snow that blanketed the farm’s fields. Sighing, Sam led the shivering sheep across the wide plain. Cauliflower, the farm’s sheepdog, ran with Sam, keeping the milk-white sheep in line as best as she could. “Snow Sheep,” muttered Sam, kicking at a withered plant poking its way through the snow. “How stupid can you get?” He had never asked to be herding sheep. He hadn’t even asked to be on Edenary Farm. Edenary Farm. Those words marked a turning point in Sam’s life. Ever since he was born, Sam lived with his father and mother in Salisbury His father, a rich merchant, had made sure the family led a luxurious life. That had all changed two months ago. In the middle of October, 1796, both of Sam’s parents had died from influenza. They had been on a trip in Vienna, which was still getting over an epidemic, and caught the deadly disease. Sam, eleven years old, was put in the care of his uncle, Daniel Edenary, his mother’s brother and the owner of a poor family farm. Sam’s parents had offered Daniel part of their fortune many times in the past, but he had refused out of pride. So Sam’s father’s riches would stay in a local bank until Sam was eighteen and could inherit them. It was now the end of December of the same year, almost Christmas, a time Sam used to look forward to. This year, though, there would be no Christmas tree, no fancy food, no presents. The Edenary family didn’t have any money to spare on things like that. Shocked, Sam called above the blizzard’s roar; ‘Are you all right, sir?” Sam looked all around him. To his right, the way he had come, the wooden buildings of the farm stood out against the cloudy sky. They marked the road to Salisbury, the nearest town. It was the only road out of the white eternity that was Edenary Farm. Everywhere else, there was only snow and the occasional tree. Sam hated it. But not too far away there stood a famous stone structure. Stonehenge. It was one of Sam’s favorite places and one he had visited frequently in the past with his father. These days, Sam would sneak off to Stonehenge whenever he could, to escape the dreary farm life and see again the magnificent blocks of stone. He couldn’t get away very often because he had his uncle to help. Sighing again, Sam called to Cauliflower to help him lead the sheep back home. * * * “Potatoes again?” groaned Jasper, Sam’s eight-year-old cousin. He crossed his arms and sulked, glaring fiercely at his plate. “You know I hate potatoes!” “It’s all we have, dear,” replied Sam’s aunt, Elizabeth. “Last year Daddy’s sheep didn’t make enough wool for us to buy better food.” “Don’t worry, though,” grinned Uncle Daniel cheerfully. “My new Snow Sheep technique will make us the best wool for miles around.” Supposedly, if his uncle’s sheep spent enough time out in the cold, they would make higher quality wool, which would bring in more money. Daniel Edenary was tall and stocky. He had a loud laugh, and even in hard times tried to keep a smile on his face. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was small and anxious. She had a nervous smile, and hated loud noises. Jasper was unlike either of them. In Sam’s eyes, he was incredibly selfish, and liked to complain. “That is,” added Edenary, glancing at Sam, “they’ll make enough wool to last until Sam’s eighteen, and he can inherit his parents’ fortune.” These days, Edenary often talked about the money He had become desperate and decided it was worth more than his pride. Sam sometimes felt his aunt and uncle blamed him for not being old enough to inherit the money right away. In truth, they were probably worried he wouldn’t share it with them. Suddenly, Sam became angry with his uncle. “You and your Snow Sheep,” Sam shouted. “What nonsense! And if it weren’t for the money, you’d probably throw me out. You love my parents’ fortune more than you love me.” Sam’s anger left him as fast as it had come. His aunt and uncle had been nice to him since he had come to stay at the farm. Looking at Jasper, who had become frightened at Sam’s shouting, Sam felt ashamed. “I-I’m sorry,” he mumbled, standing up. “I-I didn’t mean it.” As the family’s eyes followed him, Sam pulled himself up the stairs to his room (the room his aunt and uncle had given him, he reminded himself). “Potatoes again?” groaned Jasper, Sam’s eight-year-old cousin Sam flopped onto his soft bed, thinking about what he had said. He knew his uncle loved him. Of course he planned to share his money with the family. What had made him say such a cruel thing? But Sam also knew that some of his words had been true. Edenary Farm could barely support the family, and might go out of business if his uncle couldn’t make more money from his sheep. Sam also feared that if his uncle kept using his Snow Sheep plan, some of the sheep could even die. There had to be some way to get money for the farm, Sam mused. He decided to go to sleep and think about it again in the morning. * * * For the next few days, Sam did his daily chores without really concentrating. He was distracted by the problem of saving Edenary Farm. Meanwhile, Uncle Daniel didn’t have much to say to Sam. He was still angry with Sam because of his outburst. Christmas and New Year’s Day came and went, like all the holidays at the farm. There was almost nothing to distinguish them from the other days of the year. But two days after New Year’s Day was different. January third was very different. It was early in the morning when Sam went out to
