60, Grace

Sixty

Grace

30 July 1824

I am needing to parse out what I write, as I am nearing the end of this journal.  Circuit-riding Methodist ministers are able to obtain books, Bibles, and such from New York, and they bring them to Reverend Terry.  He has requested a journal to be among the books coming.  I have saved up enough money from trading garden vegetables and eggs, and Warner has lent me some as well for it.

Warner is still grieving.  He visits Charlotte's grave at the edge of one of the fields daily.  He goes about doing what he has to, with few words.  It is so sad to see him.  He suffered the loss of several babies before, but this loss of Charlotte goes beyond anything that I can fathom.  He blames himself, as one is wont to do. 

But one good thing has come from all of this.  He has started to go to class meetings and services, and the Terrys have become good friends to us all.  Warner is just one year my senior, and he, John, Joseph, and I are within one year of each other, the Terrys being just a few years older.  It is a nice group, and we have found solace and sometimes even joy in gathering together.  A few other neighbors join us, too.

I was up at Reverend Terry's yesterday, witnessing with John the sight of the natives gleaning the fields.  The wheat harvest is complete, and the natives come in and take whatever is left that they can use.  This is the first time that John has witnessed them doing this, and his wonderment at something that I have taken for granted gives me new perspective.

There are very few natives left in the region.  Most have moved on.  I believe that they see that the land rush from white people inevitably will encroach on their hunting and living spaces, and I think that they lack the will to fight it anymore.  Most of the Creeks that I have seen are peace-loving people who are trying to eke out an existence.  Many are adapting the white ways, but most are moving on.

John came over this morning with a surprise.  It was a sweet little kitten.  He thought that perhaps she will be a nice distraction for Warner, but of course, I shall be the one caring for her.  I have called her Grace.  She gets the best table scraps for now as she eats very little besides the cow milk that she gets fresh each day.  Soon I hope she will be able to hunt the mice in the barn and such.  Warner does dote on her, though.  He likes to put her on his shoulders as he walks about.  She is just learning how to stay up there without digging her claws into him, although he does not seem to mind.

I wonder about Susie.  I have assumed that she went off with the native in the red calico shirt, since he has not been seen again.  The Creek Territory that remains in Alabama is confined to the northeastern part of the state.  I do not suspect that they have remained there, and have found a way to migrate much further away.  The Creek have been known to take slaves, too, so even though Susie could pass for white, she remains in danger.  I am, of course, assuming also that she is alive.  Father did not want to send a slave-catcher after her, but I understand that slave-catchers do not always just go after one; they pick up others along the way, hoping for ransoms being paid for their trouble. 

I find myself quite sorrowful that I did not pay closer attention to Susie when I could have.  She was such a part of our life, and I hardly ever noticed her.  Even after I knew that she was my half-sister, I was not able to grasp what that meant.  I did not want to think about it.

My despise of Father remains.  He seems to go in and out of being very sick, and Mother seems to have settled in with caring for him.  At least he no longer drinks, I will say that for him.  And he is quiet most of the time, keeping to himself.

My brother Daniel, on the other hand, is no stranger to the bottle.  I sometimes feel sorry for him, and sometimes I do not.  He sided with Father during those divorce proceedings, or at least he was called to testify by Father.  I do not know what went on, but Father and Daniel remained friendly, as did Josiah, Junior.  The rest of us could not follow suit, although Nan and Patsy mostly stayed out of it--they were so young--and they still do remain aloof.  Their minds are on other things, such as their beaux.

Three pages are now left in this journal.  I shall write on pieces of paper, sparingly, until September.