mine.
Addie
“DEAREST MOTHER AND DADDY…”
Addie yawned and then gave herself a good shake, trying to chase away the tiredness that gripped her as tightly as nettles held to the cuffs of her britches. Of all the difficult tasks she’d encountered over the past four days, removing the little hairs from the coarse fabric had proved the least enjoyable. Even holding the pen now stung her fingers, but she had to write this letter. Almost a full week had passed since she’d spent the afternoon and evening with her parents.
A few feet away, Nanny Fay stirred something on the stove. The concoction smelled horrible, but the woman hummed as she stirred, seemingly unbothered by the pungent aroma. The time Addie had actually spent in the elderly woman’s presence had taught Addie that Nanny Fay let very little upset her.
Rabbits nibbled down her cabbage starts—“They gotta eat, too.”
The jar of dried black snakeroot fell from the shelf when she moved another jar, scattering the precious herb all over the floor—“Reckon the Good Lord decided I could use another traipsin’ trip to the upper reaches o’ Black Mountain.”
People moved to the opposite side of Belcher’s when she and Addie met there to buy flour and sugar after Addie had gotten done at the library—“They ain’t bein’ hateful. They just don’t know no better.”
The past days of riding—or leading—Russet through narrow mountain passes and over steep rises and shallow streams had taxed Addie’s physical stamina. But Nanny Fay’s comment about people’s lack of knowledge, coupled with Miss West’s fervent declaration about the power of reading to change people, strengthened Addie’s resolve. She would put books into these people’s hands, and they would learn to know better!
Ignoring the sting in her fingertips, Addie filled two pages with descriptions of her new town and home and humorous or touching anecdotes about the people she’d encountered. She focused on the positive, seeking the blessings, as her mother had taught her. She shared about how Miss West sent her out on routes with the other girls her whole first week so she could become familiar with the area before setting out alone and about her eagerness to discover the people’s interests and meet them with appropriate reading materials.
Then she penned a request.
There are very few books on the shelves of the little library, and the magazines are so tattered they aren’t even fully intact. I had the idea of pasting magazine pages into scrapbooks, and Miss West fully supported the idea, but of course we don’t have blank scrapbooks available here. Mother, your church ladies’ group is always searching for a charitable project. Might they consider sending several scrapbooks for our use? I promise the materials would be very appreciated and used for the benefit of people who desperately need connections to and information from the world outside this tiny glen.
She bit the inside of her lip, gathering courage. After they’d lost so many belongings, she resisted asking her parents to make yet another sacrifice. But she couldn’t seem to set aside the thought. Didn’t a persistent nudge usually mean God was trying to gain one’s attention? Daddy had told her so years ago, and she’d answered a nudge when deciding to become an author. Both Mother and Daddy would tell her to obey a nudge from God.
Drawing in a deep breath, she placed the pen nib against the page and continued.
I appreciate your saving the books from the shelf in my bedroom and all of Daddy’s collection. I love you so much for knowing how important the books are to me. But I wonder if they might serve a better purpose by being shared with the folks in Boone’s Hollow and Tuckett’s Pass? As I mentioned, the selection in our little library is woefully inadequate—not even a hundred books! I won’t fuss if you choose to keep them, but I haven’t been able to set aside the idea that these people need them more than I do, so I decided to ask.
Miss West said the books we have now arrived in crates on the railroad, so I am sure the same means could be used to transport the scrapbooks and, if you decide to let them go, the books from our house.
“Adelaide, you about done?”
Addie jolted and looked up. For reasons Addie didn’t understand, Nanny Fay preferred to call her by her given name instead of her familiar nickname. Nanny Fay waited next to the table, a cup cradled between her palms and her