Violet gathered the things she would need for the day, and with eighteen-month-old baby on one hip and her bundle on the other, she set out walking to her mother’s house half a mile away. The morning was cold but clear, and the fresh air cleansed her lungs of the soot and smoke of the fireplace. She and the baby shared a quilt that had been used just enough to attain that softness that felt like skin. She walked quickly for a woman heavy with a child on her hip and another one growing inside her, watching the feather clouds expanding against the faded blue of January’s sky. These weekly quilting bees were her rescue, her one chance for social interaction and communication. At least ten women would be there, willing to battle the elements for a chance to share joy and pain with a group of peers. Everyone in her group were struggling, each from a farm family that had depleted last year’s crop money by Christmas, with months of winter, planting, and working the fields before there would b...
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