She was 11 when they moved to the farm … “Poverty Valley” her Mom called it.
But, they weren’t poor. They were rich. Not rich in the way some count richness, but rich all the same.
Her introduction to the red-tiled farmhouse was tentative, as meeting a stranger always is. She stared. It was the colour of over-ripe cherries.
The door opened into a small square room, “the porch." There was one tiny bare window. In the dim light she scarcely noticed the round tin tub that hung on one wall. It sparked her curiosity.
Her mother flicked the light and she recoiled, backing out hastily. She stood peering in from outside. Moths darted around a bare bulb on the low ceiling.
She soon learned the trick: if you left the outside light on and entered the dark, you could rid the room of the frightful things.
She didn’t like the house … at least, not what she had seen so far.
Her mother smiled at her knowingly.
It’s all right, Dear,” she said.
But it wasn’t.
She passed quickly through the porch to a rectangular room much smaller than she had imagined.
So this was the room that was “too small for the piano.” It was barely big enough for the two-seater sofa and matching chair, the oval oak table and six dining chairs.
She slid her fingers over the table. She liked the smoothness of it. It was the prettiest piece in the room. There was a small television set high on a shelf above the table.
“Your room’s upstairs, Princess,” he said.
Her mother had remarried. John seemed fair and gentle, but she still felt uneasy with him.
She looked through a narrow doorway into the kitchen. It was big enough for one person to work in, not much bigger than her bathroom “back home”.
Home. This wasn’t home, either, but she knew she couldn’t go back.
“Where?” she asked, wondering if the dreadful moths were waiting there, too.
“There’s the stairs,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen.
She walked slowly, looking at everything. There were no cupboard doors … and nothing familiar. Her mother made things feel like home. She longed for that feeling.
“They’re so steep,” she said, noticing how her foot just fit on the first narrow step.
Each step creaked. There would be no sneaking down to the kitchen for snacks.
Going up was easier than she thought.
At the top, she took a few steps and peered into a large room, twice as big as the kitchen. There was a small bed, a wooden chair and a wooden dresser with glass knobs.
This is much bigger than my room at home, she thought hopefully.
Across the hallway was a room barely big enough for its single bed and four-drawer dresser. And a window. She pulled the beige curtain aside and squinted, straining, but it was too dark.
The ceiling sloped low over the bed. She could lay on the bed and touch it. And, it was cracked in places. Chunks were missing.
She didn’t like it. Not one bit.
Under the bed was a shiny white porcelain pot with a lid. Why would anyone put a pot here? she wondered.
The television went on downstairs. The sound of it was oddly comforting.
She stood at the top of the stairs, astonished at how much steeper they had become.
“Mom? I can’t get down.”
“It’s all right, Dear. Turn around and come down.”
“I’ll fall.”
“You won’t fall.”
“Come down, Princess,” he said. “I made cocoa.”
Cocoa? “Hot chocolate?”
“Yep.”
“’K.”
She stepped slowly, placing one foot behind the other, until she stepped into the kitchen.
Steam rose from cups of cocoa on the table. And, there were cookies.
“Which room is mine?”
“The smaller one,” her mom answered gently.
The larger one was “for your brother”. She knew it would be.
The cocoa helped. She felt better somehow and she loved how the cookie tasted when she dunked it. She soon learned the trick: You must dunk it quickly. A stained-glass window … right beside the table.
Maybe she did like this room … a little.
The moths were gone.
There was so much to explore … a farm … with chickens and cows – and horses.
“Can I ride the horses?” she asked, eagerly.
“Yes Dear,” her mom said, smiling at him, “you can ride the horses.”
“Tomorrow,” he said, “after breakfast.”
The cocoa tasted better than hot chocolate and the room seemed cozier, now … almost like home.
She washed in a basin half-filled with water warmed on the stove.
Then her mother followed her upstairs and tucked her into the soft, squeaky bed.
The covers felt good and she liked the way the ceiling sloped over her bed. She liked the red wool blanket. It was her favourite.
And soon she would know what the shiny porcelain pot – with a lid – was for.
She was home.