Fruitlands by Gloria Whelan

Author:Gloria Whelan
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780061975813
Publisher: HarperCollins

AUGUST 8, 1843

A woman, Ann Page, came to Fruitlands today to see what we are doing here. She is rather old and a little fat and had too much to say. Mother and the men were busy showing her about, so Anna, Lizzie, and I were given leave to do as we pleased until she left. I wrote a story about a fairy kingdom, and we went out into the woods and acted it.

When we came back, Mother told us Miss Page might come and stay with us. She would help Mother and would give us piano lessons.

AUGUST 8, 1843

In my play Anna was the queen of the fairies, Lizzie was the good fairy, and I was the bad fairy. I got to cast evil spells and turned everyone into toads and lizards. Lizzie turned them back. We made dresses from Mother’s old petticoats and wings from paper. We pinned the wings onto our dresses and flew by jumping off a tree stump.

Today Lizzie asked me why I’m always the villain and the bad person when we act out our plays. I think it’s because that’s how I feel. Anna is Father’s favorite. First of all she takes her problems to Father and asks for his advice. The trouble is her problems are all such little ones because she is so good. I have lots of faults and some of them are not so small. Anyhow, Father points out my faults without my ever mentioning them to him. Anna doesn’t mind being punished for her faults. When I am punished I only become angrier, and that makes Father sad.

There is something else as well. Anna is blond and light-complected like Father. But I have dark hair and also I am dark-complected like Mother. Father believes that the lighter-complected you are, the higher up you are on the spiritual ladder. I think that is a cruel idea and wrong, for no one could be better than Mother. She thinks of everyone but herself, whereas Father hardly thinks of anyone but Father.

After supper I went out and watched the hills turn purple and the nighthawks drop. When other birds are on their nests, the nighthawks are still flying about. They fly up into the twilight sky and then plunge down as if they had been dropped from the heavens. Just before they reach the ground, they swoop upward. I think I am like the nighthawks. I have moods and a bad temper and I’m selfish, but I never quite fall onto the ground. I catch myself, or Mother catches me, and I rise.

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