The city is like a dull novel that stops at your eyes and will go no further. But the country is like a marvelous poem rich with color and possibility. It is there that my heart lies.
There is something about the trees, the crisp, juicy air, the unhindered winds and the scenery which, having no looming soulless buildings in the way, seems to stretch far, far beyond any possible notion of human conception, into the realms of forever. It makes me feel closer to Eden and closer to the ultimate truths of the world somehow. Far away from all that is man made and industrial and polluted and crowded, where the clock eats up the time like nobody cherishes it anymore, far away from the outstretched hands of any city; I have always had the feeling of liberation, what it must be for a gull to be able to fly over the sea into the rusty gold of the setting sun. Nobody demands or expects the impossible of me, people savor their lives instead of darting through it like it was a rather unpleasant obligation, and I can just listen and watch and live calmly being nobody but myself, Hester Murray, relishing in the lovely green purple things the world offers me. But, alas, it is not so. Instead I am known as Miss Murray, shop hand; and I do not know for how much longer I can bear it.
And now I feel very horrible and that I should apologize to life for doubting it so. But I cannot deny that I am so lonesome and homesick and I am starting to miss father more than ever. And maybe if there was a tree or two for company it might not be so very bad. But the only tree here is that leafless London Plane outside my window and it is notvery friendly at all. And Aunt Moira and Uncle Edgar and little Beatrix, although I am eternally grateful to them for allowing me to stay with them, are not a very pleasant bunch either. What it comes down to, I believe, is that in the country you are that much closer to the realms of imagination and anything disagreeable can be evaded, if only for a little while. But in the city, those things are unavoidable. All the things I thought I had been rid of when I left dear old Clearpoint behind, have come back to haunt me in this bland windowless room above Uncle's shop. Oh woe is me.
I suppose I should tell you about my father, although it pains me yet to do so. The best way to do this is probably to list off his strong points and his weak ones, but I am afraid the only one I can think of is inconsistency. You may decide whether that is a strong or weak trait, but it basically rules out any thoughts you had of getting a pinned down image of him. The only thing I am sure of is that is name was Gibson Chet Murray and that he now lies buried in the back fields of our family farm. And that he was a poet. I don't mean somebody he wrote poems really, I just mean that's what he was. I can't explain it. Even when he was not in one of his writing phases, he was a poet, always was and always will be.
On of my last memories of my father was the day when our old cow Dolly lost her calf. We were all a little distraught, especially the little ones, and so he drove us up to Wollaston for a day by the sea. The whole day, my dad just sat there on the dunes, with the sweet grasses blowing all around him. He was just heartbroken. You'd think after so many years on the farm he would have gotten used to that sort of thing. But that's Pa for you. He let things hit him so hard that he would just collapse and stop functioning for a while. It was a cycle I knew all too well by early childhood. Then he would disappear for a while, leave the farm to my Mama to look after and when she got sick, to my brother Travis and me. A few weeks later he would come home, smelly, unshaven and enthused with a zest for life that was incredibly contagious. And it would start all over again. I also learnt early on to treat him like porcelain, whispering and tiptoeing in his presence, remembering he could break any second.
It was Travis who found him, in the barn, two weeks after the shore outing. He came to get me from the kitchen, I saw his tears and I just knew. I gained some utmost respect for my brother that November morning, he did what had to be done in an automatic yet capable manner, and meanwhile I spilt the milk and dropped at least four precious eggs.
Then I knew that we needed help. I formulated a plan in my mind to make some extra money. My sister Cora could take care of the two youngest and as soon as Mama regained her strength she could take over. Travis would be okay with the farm duties if we could scare up enough money to hire somebody to help out. That's where I came in.
And that plan has brought me here. Pining to go back home and dreading it just the same, caught in a limbo like all the naughty children. I just cannot say what tomorrow will bring.