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Loss

It was raining when Pa left for the factory this morning. It rained harder as the day grew later. Anna, at thirteen, the oldest of the five Abbott children, sat working at the family loom, which Pa had made. He was good with his hands. Ma had helped him recall the treadles, lay, harnesses, and shuttles. Ma sat at the spinning wheel. Around the fire were Nell, seven, watching baby Joanna in her cradle, while working with the abacus. Mark, ten, was carding wool; Jerome, four, practiced making letters on the slate.

Pa was a hard-working man, tall, sturdily built, blond with a twinkle in his brown eyes. He was very intelligent, but had had little chance for schooling, so he was eager for his children to learn all they could, just as he tried learning as he went. Most of all he wanted his family to grow in the love of God.

Pa worked at the Boston Manufacturing Company right here in Waltham Massachusetts. Last year, 1814, Mr. Francis Cabot Lowell had patented and established this textile mill ― the first mill in America to combine in one plant all the processes in the manufacture of finished cloth.

Ma was a petite Irish colleen, with nearly black hair and dark blue eyes. She also had a sharp mind. She had received instruction in the basics, enough to help Pa cope and continue to grow. She believed education was one’s most valuable asset, so she taught her family to speak and act properly, like the best of folks. She was convinced that by teaching and helping her husband to follow these policies, he was able to become one of the supervisors at the factory.

As the storm raged on Anna got up from the loom to lift baby Joanna from her cradle so Ma could feed her. Anna had swept the hearth after breakfast, now she added another piece of wood to the fire, and set the table for their noon meal. The rain continued its steady descent throughout the afternoon. The wind blew like a howling coy-dog. After their noon meal, Anna tucked the youngest children, Jerome and the baby, in for their naps. “Ma”, Anna said. “I think it would be easier to call Jerome ‘Romey’ and Joanna ‘Joan’, don’t you think so?” Ma merely nodded her head as she watched the storm and the water rising to the banks of the little creek. Anna persisted.

“I’ve already been using Romey, and he calls the baby Joan because it’s easier.” Anna stood watching beside Ma. “That’s fine,” Ma said as she returned to her spinning. As they all continued working, they spoke little. It was hard to hear over the loud sounds of the frenzy outdoors. Matthew especially felt imprisoned in the small confines of their home. He got up to look outdoors. A short time later, he got up to check the wood on the fire. He went to see the baby. He went again to look outside. The afternoon, with its restriction, was endless. Anna, too, was restless. She also listened, and unaccustomed to so much inactivity, continued to seek excuses to get up and move around. She wondered what Pa was doing now. It was difficult to know just how late it was getting, since the dark sky made the passing time seem far later than it ought to be.

Today, as the storm built, Anna, Ma, and Mark took turns checking the rising creek. The sky turned darker and darker. Ma lit a lantern. Still their little cottage was dark. There was a small fire on the hearth, not only for warmth on this chilly day, but above the fire hung a large black kettle. Ma was cooking haricot. Anna got up to stir the stew containing mutton, potatoes, turnips, and the last of the carrots. Whatever herbs Ma had added made the stew smell so delicious, the children could hardly wait until it was time to eat. That was a good reason, Mark thought to check again on how high the creek was rising.

The turbulent water clawed with debris at the bank of the small creek and the moorings of the little bridge, not far from their front door. The wind howled louder. Mark reseated himself at his work. The howling wind sounded eerie, and made him feel uneasy. Suddenly above the raging storm, Anna thought she heard a yell.

“What was that?” Ma said.

Simultaneously Ma and Anna grabbed their shawls and ran to the door. On the far side of the bridge Pa was yelling something to Ma. It looked like he was hurt. Anna saw Ma’s face blanch. Then she carefully stepped onto the weakened bridge, while Anna brought the lantern out into the howling darkness to watch. Mark lit a second lantern, holding it high next to his sister, as Ma turned to Anna.

“Take care of the children.” Ma yelled over the violent sound of the storm. Ma diffidently crossed the seemingly shaky span across the roiling water, and put her arm around Pa’s waist. Pa’s arm was across Ma’s shoulders as he allowed her to help him on to the trembling bridge. The couple took a tentative step as the murky water began to flow over the wooden crossway. Anna tried to hold the lantern higher. Mark, huddled at his sister’s shoulder, also held his lantern higher. They watched their parents attempt a second quavering step against the forceful wind.

Suddenly, before their terrified eyes, a large tree torn from its tether hurtled down the frenzied torrent, it’s branches, roots, and trunk disposing of the weakened bridge, the two clinging figures, and all else in a mighty sweeping furor.