My little bedroom was my retreat when I was sick or feeling bad. But most of the time it was my happy place and just the right size for me at five years old. All of my favorite things were there, including my grown up doll and my storybooks. A chair and a small table sat by my
bed. The table was covered with one of Mom’s crocheted doilies. An oil lamp and my bedtime storybook set on top. The lamp was always left burning until I went to sleep. If Mom or my sister Pearl did not have time to read a story to me, I looked at the pictures in my book
until I got sleepy. Or I played a game of matching pieces on the quilt that covered me to clothes my family had worn. Most of our clothing was homemade and every extra scrap of cloth was used to make quilts. Snuggled down in the feather tick mattress on my little bed and propped up with pillows, I searched for special quilt pieces by the soft light of the oil lamp. The tan material with small blue squares was from my Grandma Sturgill’s aprons. The pink was from my sister Orba’s dress. There were yellow, blue, green, pink and red scraps sewn into the quilt. Some of them had checks or stripes, and others had flowers. The matching game was fun to play and soon I was fast asleep, surrounded by my family in my dreams.
When I awoke the next morning, the first thing I did was look out my bedroom window. Summer, Fall, Winter and Spring – there was always an interesting view. A little stream came down from the steep hill and flowed through the deep hollow past our house. It was a wonderful place to play when the weather was warm enough. I loved walking along the stream looking for tiny white rocks, frogs or salamanders. Some of those little lizards were bright orange. Dad’s mallard ducks liked the brook, too. They always seemed to be smiling and quacking softly as they puddled along, poking their bills into the mud and grass along the water’s edge looking for food. Mom’s flower garden was also in the deep hollow. There were yellow and blue iris, rose bushes, forsythia and other plants and shrubs. In the spring time, Dad’s mallard ducks laid their eggs among the green foliage.
My sister Pearl woke me early one morning. It was just getting daylight. She said, “Put your coat and boots on. Let’s go gather the duck eggs for Dad.” A man who lived up in Virginia worked for the Wildlife Services and he bought every mallard duck egg Dad found. We kept the eggs warm and turned them every day. A heavy dew had fallen and it was very chilly out there in the deep hollow. My sister and I carried little baskets with soft warm cloths in them to gather the eggs. Things were going good. I had two large green duck eggs in my basket. Then I pulled back the tall spikes of a clump of yellow iris and leaned forward to look inside. Mamma duck, sitting there on her nest, was very startled. She flew straight up over my head, quacking loudly as she went. I was surprised, too. My feet took two steps backward and then I heard a big splash. That was me! There I sat in the cold water of the little stream I loved. The duck eggs in my basket were broken and I was a wet mess.
My sister, Pearl, helped me up and into the house. Mom had a hot fire in the kitchen wood stove where she was making breakfast. When she saw me she said, “My Goodness, What has happened?” They helped me get into dry clothes. Wrapped in a warm blanket, with my teeth still chattering, I went to my little room and climbed into my little bed. I pulled the covers up over my head and thought I might just stay there forever, but I didn’t. Soon breakfast was ready and there were more adventures to be had. Thinking back on that morning, at first it was fun, like finding Easter eggs that nobody hid. Well, maybe Mamma Duck tried.
“Everyone needs a place to retreat. A spot where the world grows quiet enough for the soul to speak.” – A Weiland-Crosby
