Friday, March 25, 2011

Having a bad moment at work... and to get my mind off of it I have come here and will write.

A little free write....
It is the beginning of spring everyone hoped that soon flowers would be blooming and they would be able to put away the winter coats that had burdened them for so long. But it was only the beginning of spring and everyone in New England knew that meant that they still might have one large snow storm ahead of them. The word snow had now become a curse word for Emmy Gregg and she rather live in a delusional world of daffodils and picnics in the gardens then having to deal with the still cold weather that gave her shivers when she walked home from Miss. Cole's millinery. She buttoned her last button cutting off air to her throat, wrapped her paisley scarf around her neck and wished her goodbyes to Betsy and Madeline. She was happy that she got to go home early today and still got the last few rays of sun but she dreaded what waited for her at home.

Mother was waiting for her at home with Mr. Simpson and Emmy knew tonight was the night he was going to prepose. Everyone in the neighborhood whispered as she walked by, a few young girls were brave enough to say "congradulations" as passed them but no one saw the sad heart that beat inside Emmy as she dreaded the idea of marrying Mr. Simpson, a man nearly twice her age, stout in figure and boring in looks. But she would have to say yes, mother would make sure of it. She would have to say yes and soon they would marry and she would be Mrs. Simpson of Commonwealth Avenue the young bride of Mr. Simpson. She would be expected to have three strapping boys and maybe a girl she could spoil and she would attend fine tea parties and maybe a Christmas ball but her life would be fairly routine and posivitely dreadful. But she was the only one who saw the negativity of it all, everyone else of Porter street saw this as a fine match.

Mr. Edward Simpson, born on Porter Street with eight brothers and sisters in an apartment no larger than a hat box. He was the only one to make it out of the dwellings. His parents and three sisters died of a terrible fever that had plagued the city one summer. His youngest sister, was taken away by his aunt to the country and he never saw her again. His eldest brother took off to be a ship hand with a penny to his name and died in the Boer War on the side of the British. The two others died in a drunken brawl. Though Mr. Simpson hardly acknowledged his roots he did give his money to the charitable causes that tried to help the poor of his old neighborhood and gave his membership to the Porter Street Methodist Church. He came every sunday in his fancy automobile and caught all the eyes of the mothers who wished their daughters to marry a fine off man such as Mr. Simpson.

It was on an ordinary Sunday that Emmy met Mr. Simpson. She had known who he was most of her life, he had the best pew in the church that he had paid a pretty penny for. Her father had thought it wasn't right for people to have pay for pews in church and therefore their family had sat up in the balcony. Also Mr. Simpson was the golden statue for the Porter Street neighborhood, every one hoped one day that they too would be able to make something of themselves and get out of the neighborhood and live in a house in the Back Bay. Mr. Simpson owned the most successful mercantile in the South End and soon he had a little chains of merchantiles through out Boston and one in Cambridge. Also Mr. Simpson could not be mistaken in his fine tailored suits and customed trimmed hats. So though Emmy had known Mr. Simpson most of her life it wasn't until the fateful Sunday that that the church held a little social for the newest missionary coming back from Asia and Emmy spilled punch on Mr. Simpson. At first Mr. Simpson was mad and mother apologized profusely for her daughter's horrible behavior. But then Mr. Simpson caught the glimpse of her soft blue eyes, amber golden hair, and fine looks that he calmed himself down and said to her mother's relief everything was all right.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

My sister called me out

My sister who has now become a blogger, chatting about the daily works of her family (that I love to read) called me out for not writing much.
" I know," I said with a sigh. "I don't have time to write besides school papers."
Believe me they would not be fun to read. But I read blogs. Sometimes I get to work earlier than I would like and before I am ready to answer all my emails, I sit with my travel mug of coffee and read blogs. But my sister is right I don't blog much... but as my blog is titled "A journey through writing" this would be the low period of my writing.

I do imagine characters all the time though.

I have a wonderful little dialogues in my head of a librarian, no surprise, since that's what I am going to school for, digging through the of her library vaults and discovering letters from the 19th century (my passion in history). These letters might be from some one famous that everyone has heard of but no one knows her true history because these letters or maybe a diary has been hidden for 100s of years. Or maybe its a no one just a woman who seems to have a simple life (but there always has to be a secret). I don't have it all figured out yet.

What I have been doing with my time is....
It is a path finder or resource finder as project for my reference library class. In it I am suppose to be helping a student/ information seeker that is looking for information on a certain topic. I have done my path finder on the Women's Rights movement of the 19th century (something that has always intrigued me).

Also for my history research paper I am doing my paper on a mostly unknown woman who was an abolitionist and a women's rights leader, Abigail Kelley Foster AKA Abby Kelley. I am finding her life quite fascinating.

What I am also loving about both my path finder and Abby Kelley is that these are women that pushed the mold of what a woman should be. Back in the 19th century the ideal woman was expected to stay completely in the "home sphere" and the women that pushed these boundaries I have loved to explore into their lives. Though I do often explain to people I am 19th century feminist not a 20th century feminist (for many reasons). But what I have loved doing about these projects is they have inspired my story ideas.

So Hunter, I will try to write more.