Historical

JULY 7, 1947 It was early morning when Barry Whitestone rode out to check on his cattle. He noticed right away that something was wrong. The herd was spooked. They moved restlessly about, bunching together, shivering and bellowing, their eyes rolling in panic. Sweat colored their flanks. As Barry rode slowly through the herd, he saw something glint on the ground in front of him. He stopped, dismounted, and bent over to pick it up. It appeared to be some sort of metal. It looked a little like aluminum, finely polished, very strong yet extremely flexible… an odd thing to find in a dusty pasture. As he slipped it into his pocket, he suddenly realized that similar pieces were everywhere. Looking towards the south, he spotted a larger object, which appeared to be made of the same material. As he hurried in that direction, the sun reflecting off the object made it glow so brightly that it almost blinded him. Squinting in the sudden brightness, he saw what appeared to be two human-like forms, slumped against the object. Barry backed away and ran towards his horse. He scrambled aboard, and raced back towards the ranch… now every bit as terrified as his cattle. *          *          * I had a job at the feed store that summer, quite a feat for a boy of eleven. In the middle of the morning, when the men I worked with took their break, I’d scoot next door to Sally’s Diner for a quick cup of coffee. My parents never let me drink the stuff, afraid that it would stunt my growth. But I was a working man now, and Sally understood that. I’d sit at the counter and she’d wink at me as she poured me half a cup, never more, and made sure that I had a full pitcher of milk to mix it with. Anyways, there I was, drinking my cuppa joe, when old Barry from out at the Whitestones’ place came running in. He was terribly pale, sweat poured from his brow, and he trembled all over as he took the reviving cup of coffee that Sally offered him. The sun reflecting off the object made it glow so brightly that it almost blinded him He sat down at the counter, a few stools away from me. He wasn’t drinking his coffee, just holding it, and his hands were shaking so badly that it was sloshing all over. Several ranchers began calling out to him, but Barry didn’t respond. In fact, he never even looked up. His eyes seemed to be focusing hard on the countertop, or on some place deep inside the counter, like he was looking through it into another world that none of us could see. When he did look up, the diner went silent. His eyes were wide and his pupils were huge, his face was tinged a sickly gray. Suddenly, Barry wasn’t the only one trembling. My chest felt hot and I started to sweat, but my limbs were cold and shaky. I could hear my pulse pounding hard in my ears. Finally Barry said, “Fellas, you’re never gonna believe what I got in my pasture.” “Whatcha got?” someone called out. “Cows?” Laughter rang out. A few of the men began to moo. Sally hushed them with a look. There weren’t many men brave enough to stand up to Sally, especially when she had a hot pot of coffee in her hands. “What I got,” said Barry, “is a flyin’ saucer.” The entire diner went quiet. “… and I got a piece of it right here,” he continued, slipping his hand inside his pocket. Just then, the door banged open, and everybody jumped. A man in a black suit entered the diner—his dress was pretty unusual attire for these parts. He strolled over to stand behind Barry. Six other men, dressed the same way, followed him in the door. They were all big, and calm and quiet, and they all wore dark sunglasses, which made it impossible to see their eyes. Then, the first man spoke. “Mr. Whitestone? Mr. Barry Whitestone?” “Who’s askin’?” said Barry. “Come on now, Mr. Whitestone, no one wants any trouble. Who we are is not really important,” said the man. “We’re from Washington. That’s all you need to know. Now please, stand up. You’re coming with us.” You could tell that Barry wasn’t really too keen on the idea. He stood slowly, looking around the diner like he was waiting for one of us to save him. But we didn’t. We couldn’t. It was all kind of like a dream. I watched as the men loaded Barry into a long black car, which then pulled away up the dusty street. I wanted to follow them. I needed to follow them. I ran outside and hopped on my bike. The car already had a good head start, but I was determined to catch it. I pedaled faster and faster, until the wind began to sting my face, and my feet kept slipping off the pedals. But the car just kept pulling away. By the time I lost sight of it and stopped my bike, my legs ached and my lungs were on fire. I looked around and realized that I was near the turnoff for the Whitestone place. I decided that if I couldn’t catch the car, I might as well ride on out to Barry’s and see what really was in his pasture. As I approached the turnoff, I could see quite a commotion going on up ahead. There was a roadblock and lots of army vehicles. I recognized our sheriff, who was arguing with yet another man in a black suit. “Listen here,” I heard him say, “this is a county matter and I’ve got jurisdiction.” The man replied, “You don’t argue with Washington, mister, we’ve got direct authority from the president to be here.” Soldiers paced nervously back and forth, their rifles at the ready. As I pulled

I lived a beautiful life free of worry or sorrow until the age of fourteen, when both my mother and father died. Then, I had nowhere to go except my Aunt Helga’s. Her name explains her perfectly. Aunty was strict and old-fashioned. She was an old maid and her rigid lifestyle made me a prisoner to her. I am not a weak character, but there are some people whom you cannot contradict, no matter who you are. That was the way it was with Aunt Helga. She was not unkind to me; she was just very stern. I lived with my aunt for four years. In all of those years nothing marked one day from another: Saturday housework, Sunday church, and the few weekly engagements and visits. Otherwise I was at home with Aunt. In those years, I could see no way to escape from where I was. I probably would have lived with my Aunt Helga forever, sheltered and ignorant of the world, my aunt constantly nagging me. “Clara child, why put your hair like that? How I do hate these new fashions! And, for heaven’s sake, do not sign your name Aster.” “Clara! Never let me catch you wearing red again!” “Clara. When you dust the dining room, make quite sure you remove the runner before you dust the table. And do put on an apron.” And it went on and on. Indeed nothing would have changed had it not been for Martha Hayward and her brother, Thomas. Martha and I were naturally drawn to each other even though we were completely different. Martha was not particularly beautiful. Her blond hair clashed with her deep brown eyes, just as my bright blue shadowy eyes and dark hair made my face look pale and thin. Martha was large. I was small. She was buoyant and happy. I was rather mysterious. Perhaps that was what was so appealing to Martha, but also to Tom, her brother. Asters are my favorite flowers, and I often wear them in my hair I liked Tom as much as Martha. Luckily I could see both of them often. Aunt Helga, upon their arrival, found gossipy, fretful Mrs. Hayward almost as interesting as I found Tom and Martha. Their visits improved my spirits a good deal. It was evident to me that Aunt liked all of them, for at breakfast one morning she said to me, “Do you like the Haywards, Clara?” “Why, yes, I do. I like them very much,” I said. “Do you?” “Yes, I have to say I do. Even though they are only Haywards. One must give allowances for name, Clara. Go change the flowers in the tea room. Then go to the post office for me, and on the way back pick up half a yard of blue silk and one foot of green ribbon. I cannot bear to think Mrs. Hayward has the new ribbon and I do not!” Of course this was not very much praise for the Haywards. But that my Aunt would think of anybody but herself was remarkable for her, or that anybody other than herself was worth talking about. *          *          * One blustery fall morning found me sitting in front of the parlor window, absently watching the asters swaying in their bed. Asters are my favorite flowers, and I often wear them in my hair. Also, when my father was alive and we lived in the country, he used to call me Aster when I wore purple. So I love them dearly. The parlor door opened behind me. I took no notice of this. Probably it was Aunt Helga. A hand gently touched my shoulder. I looked up. It was Tom. “Clara,” he said, “I have brought you some flowers,” revealing a purple cluster. “Oh! Tom, how did you know I love asters so much? I never told you. Did you know I was thinking about them?” “I have ways of finding out,” said he, loftily looking at the ceiling. “Don’t joke, Tom. How did you know?” “Are they your favorite?” he asked, looking well pleased. “I really didn’t know that; I just thought you would like them.” “I do, very much,” I said. “Well, hope you think the same about their giver.” He was not teasing, I saw. And he added, “You will think so by and by, won’t you, Clara?” And perhaps I will. Gertrude Suokko, 13Woodstock, Vermont

I was startled. I really didn’t know what to think. I was so sure that I would get the job. The idea of not getting it had never even crossed my mind. I could hear the baby crying outside and Molly was singing to it. Hush my dear, The galloping men ride through the bracken, and ride o’er the ben, Mummy will watch her sleeping hen, So close your e’en my dearie She had a beautiful voice. It was clear and pure. The fact that she was so skinny and pale that you could almost see her skeleton didn’t affect her voice at all, it made it all the more beautiful. Ever since it began nothing has been the same. I remember it well. The awful smell, the black veil covering everything, oh yes, the potato famine is absolutely terrible. I walked outside. I had let my whole family down. I couldn’t even get a job to save my own family. If only we could get enough money to go on a boat. Then we could escape to America. America. That word fills me with a sort of hope. The land which has streets paved with gold. “The land of opportunity,” people say. I would have traded my right ear just to put one foot into the country. All the people in Ireland would. Not just me. Molly looked at me and I shook my head. She let out a moan and we started walking home. She stopped and laughed as some birds flew by inches away from her bonnet. They called to each other, flying from place to place. If only we had wings. We could fly to America. I looked down, the baby was screaming. Problem is, I thought, we don’t have wings. If only we had wings. We could fly to America It was a dismal journey, and we were very glad when we saw home at last. Mama was at her knitting. She is a magician with those needles of hers, I tell you. She was making a beautiful shawl for Molly, with reds and whites and blues. It was fit for a king. Or a president. “Any luck, Tom?” she looked up at me, but she could tell from our faces. None of us slept. We were all too hungry. Next morning, Molly came skipping in, humming a tune and holding a large fish. “You naughty child! Whose river did you steal it from this time?” Mama chuckled. Molly laughed, her hair blowing behind her. She looked lovely with a flower tucked behind her ear. “Never you mind, Mama,” she said, and she set herself by the stove. Minutes later wonderful smells filled the house. We couldn’t survive without Molly. It was January fifteenth and I finally got a job. We broke up stone and made roads that go from nowhere to nowhere. Absolutely pointless. It was just a way for the government to make more jobs. You’d think they would think of something better than that. Something that would help make the famine go away. At least it would pay the rent of the house for a while. In the night Molly fell on the floor, coughing. Mama lit a candle and the orange glow filled the small room. I could just make out Molly on the floor, bright red in the face. We helped her back into bed, but she was still coughing. For the next few weeks it went on. “It’s TB,” said the doctor as he examined her. He was a very good doctor, we knew that, and we believed him. Molly was so weak, if she put even a foot out of bed she would topple over coughing. But we did all we could to help her get better. We gave her three-quarters of the food, and Mama never left her side. We all thought that she was going to get better. My job was awful. It wasn’t so much the work as the children there. They were starving. Their once young, happy faces as they paddled in the river or laughed with their friends were gone, replaced with a sad, worried expression more fit for an old man bowed down with worries than the young children they were. All they had were memories, which they would swap for a single crumb of bread if they could. Even when we had the small amount of money that we earned, there wasn’t any food to buy. St. Patrick’s day came again. We went to church and then joined in with the parades. Mama bought some beer and dyed it green and more fish was stolen from the rivers than ever before. We chopped wood for the fire, and I helped Josie, next door, to look for leprechauns. We had Josie and her family around for a dinner of fish, beer and even one or two potatoes that we managed to find. It was a wonderful day. The landlord has to feed us. It makes him very angry, but it’s a fact. He is going to shove us all out of our own Ireland. Hopefully soon, though I feel sad to leave this country, famine or not. Molly was up all night coughing. When morning finally came and the birds called to each other, Molly was coughing so hard you couldn’t hear yourself talk. Then, all of a sudden, she stopped. The birds outside flew away. Mama rushed over. Then quietly, Mama began to sob. *          *          * I looked back over Ireland. The boat was rocking softly. I would really miss Ireland, even with the famine. Mama and the baby were playing with a piece of string. Everything would be all right. We were going to America. Eleanor Holton, 10Cambridge, Massachusetts Daria Lugina, 12Northboro, Massachusetts