#historical homestead

[quinnallerton]

This is a photo of my house taken in 1922. Notice the two girls on the front steps. I have two daughters.

Finding this picture resonated within me that we made the right decision in moving here.

[alwaysbewoke]

[lochlander]

One of the things I really like about the Homestead Challenge is the rules about how the homesteads/architecture of each lot should be made of the same materials and look similar to each other. Partly because it makes sense--you ain't getting regular shipments of intricately-etched Victorian marble cornices to Kainai, Montana--and partly because one of the things that often keeps me from expanding my hoods is building fatigue. I have to be in the right mood to build and while I've certainly impressed myself before, I also have way less free time than I used to and it's nice to be able to overthink less.

Plus, I've inadvertently created an architectural style in Kainai that revolves entirely around that Swiss Winter siding by Lady Lama and I regret nothing.

[principiumindividuationis777]

[artemistorm]

Angsty story idea I just had:

Wild is feeling homesick for the home he had before the calamity and before he drew the Master Sword. All the other Links have their places of origin and he wants to know his own. He asks Flora but she doesn’t know where his home was. She only knew him at the castle. He prays to Hylia to show him his home.

Later, the Chain's in his Hyrule and they’re riding horses somewhere and Wild sees a ruined house out in the wilderness surrounded by blue nightshade (which is the symbolic flower of BotW/TotK Link). He realizes that this is his home and he ends up having a long memory of some of his life as a child living there.

He then finds something from that old time like a buried chest of valuables his family buried before the Calamity for safekeeping.

[resurrectionist3]

June 6th, 1755 - Happy Birthday Nathan Hale!!!

We are gonna pretend like this isn’t several days late.

And this post is about to be super long…

Disclaimer: for the entirety of the post, I’m recalling information that was told to me by the tour guide from the Nathan Hale Homestead. If anything I wrote here is incorrect or not complete information, feel free to KINDLY correct me in a comment or repost, I would appreciate that☺️

-

Back in May (05/18/24), I visited the Nathan Hale Homestead in Coventry, Connecticut with my sister!!

I always drive by it when I go home from school and I finally got to visit for a tour! They also have a farmers market on grounds in the summertime as well as a couple other events throughout the year. I do hope i get to attend their Halloween ghost stories.

One thing i learned that i guess i didn’t ever realise was that Nathan never actually lived in this house. After his mother passed, Nathan’s father, Deacon Richard Hale and all 9(?) of his children lived together in a very, very small house. It wasnt until after Richard was remarried, that this newer and larger house was built. By this point, i believe Nathan had already moved away to be a teacher in New London.

Here are photos of their medicine cabinet and their fireplace✨

Photos of their piano forte in the sitting room and a drawn family tree.

And this was Deacon Richard Hale’s writing desk. If I remember correctly, he was a deacon in the church and a magistrate. He dealt with small court disputes in their house which I found very silly (and the wax stamp had an H on it idk why that made me die😭)

And here, in one of the upstairs rooms, they displayed artist renditions of what we think Nathan Hale and his brothers looked like. I think Nathan had 9 (?) biological siblings that survived to adulthood, one of which being his sister Johanna. And then i believe he had 3 step siblings after his father remarried (im trying to recall everything the tour guide said).

Johanna isnt depictied in these drawings, its only the brothers, but her room was on display for the tour and it had a lot of windows. The tour guide said it was because she apparently loved to read, so they made sure her room had the most windows for the most light??😭😭🥹🥹

Anyways, all of Nathan’s brothers went to war except for the youngest one. Also, if you look at the years of their deaths, Samuel Hale (the oldest sibling) actually outlived them all?? Which makes me want to scream???? Samuel also didn’t inherit the family farm, it actually went to his brother John.

Joseph Hale- (damn he can get it lowkey..🥵) while in the war was captured by the British and was on a prison ship until he was exchanged and honestly I’ve been thinking about it too much. So glad he didn’t die of dysentery or something. But he did pass of consumption at only 34 which I can’t even handle.

Enoch, went to Yale along with Nathan and they were in the same graduating class which i think is so cutesy. The tour guide also said that one of the pewter steins in one of the sitting rooms (i don’t actually have a photo unfortunately) belonged to Enoch and I wanted to scream, like was it ACTUALLY his???

They had a display of several items they found on the property like coins, buttons, ect. but I didn’t take a photo of that either. It was in the same room as these images of the brothers.

I think we all know Nathan, and quite honestly i didn’t even realise he had so many siblings until this tour. I suppose one could assume given the time period - everyone had like 5+ children. But of all the times i was taught about Nathan Hale (and that was kind of a lot, being a Connecticut resident for my entire life) no one ever mentioned his family or his siblings. There was a portrait of Deacon Richard Hale in the downstairs area- I didn’t realise this in the moment, my sister mentioned it later, but (based on the artist’s rendition) Nathan looked just like his father. I found it really funny when i realised it.

This was Nathan’s hunting rifle as well, another thing that apparently belonged to one of the members of the Hale family that made me want to scream (more on that in my final thoughts).

And last photo (the Turn: Washington’s Spies baddies are gonna LOVE this one)

This is a list of the Yale University (back then, it was just Yale College) honours graduating class of 1773. On it, is Nathan and Enoch Hale of course. But also, Nathan’s friend and “roommate” 👀 (and our favourite spymaster) Benjamin Tallmadge!!!!! I had to keep my mouth shut when the tour guide mentioned that he was on this list, but I was screaming internally and my sister and i made goofy ahh eye contact.

Their names are towards the top, Enoch and Nathan are listed in the third small column while Benjamin is in the sixth one all the way to the right.

Things that i saw/were talked about that i didn’t take a photo of was a shadow drawing of Nathan’s side profile. At some point, Nathan stood in front of a door in the house while someone traced the outline of his shadow onto it. I don’t quite know why that was done..? Perhaps it was for a genuine reason or maybe the Hale siblings were just messing around. But it’s a pretty big deal considering there are actually no true portraits of Nathan or his siblings. Just statues and drawings that are artist renditions based on historical accounts. There was a historian who wrote about Nathan Hale and came in contact with a member of the Hale family (Rebecca Hale, I believe). She told him about the shadow drawing and it was a long and interesting story that I unfortunately don’t remember all the parts to. A piece about the portrait is typed on a paper in the photo of Nathan’s rifle, if you can zoom in, you can read a little more on it.

Their gift shop was also small and cutesy and I spent a lot of money there on books. On display there, they had an old piece of wood from the original house. I got a published copy of Reverend John Hale’s, A Modest Inquiry into the Nature of Witchcraft.

If anyone wasn’t aware, Reverend John Hale (Nathan Hale’s great grandfather) was called to Salem, Massachusetts from Beverly to assist in the Salem Witch Trials in 1692. He was partially responsible for the persecution of several innocent people however, nearing the end of the trials, he began to disagree with the accusations. He published this firsthand account to condemn the actions of those involved with the trials and I’ve always thought it was so interesting. I’ve wanted to read this since I read The Crucible back in high school and i was very excited to see it at the gift shop.

You can also visit the Hale Farm in Beverly, MA where Rev. John Hale used to live and I want to someday. I’ve only ever been outside of it, I’ve never properly visited for a tour. (Cutesy fact as well: Rev. John’s Hale’s birthday is June 3rd, which is only 3 days before Nathan’s).

Final Thoughts:

The Hale Family was absolutely MASSIVE. Our tour guide mentioned being a descendant of the Hale Family and im sure a number of “born and raised” New England residents are as well somewhere in their ancestry. Based on the drawn family tree, most of the members had probably 4 kids minimum and then those kids all had a ton of kids. It’s also very funny to me how there are probably several Hale’s who are decently significant figures in history and it’s just wild that it’s all one family. I know it’s the same for royal families and such but it feels different somehow.

According to our tour guide, one theory about how Nathan Hale was captured was by Robert Rogers. That Rogers invited him to dinner and convinced Nathan that he was also part of the Continental Army. Nathan then confided his mission in Rogers and was lured into a false sense of security that lead to him being captured. Which is another one for the Turn baddies that almost made me die when I heard it. Especially since I don’t believe I’ve heard that theory before.

Something I did really enjoy about this tour was how it didn’t completely focus on Nathan. Of course that would have been fine and equally as interesting, but it was mainly a lesson on his family and some of his descendants. After being taught about Nathan Hale so many times, I had no idea about his entire family and his siblings.

It also never TRULY occurred to me that there aren’t any real portraits of Nathan Hale. They’ve all been artist renditions as paintings or statues based on historical descriptions of him and something about that is extremely wild to me. It makes me somewhat grateful for our easy access to camera and video in our modern world. There are so many faces and stories that have been completely lost to time - even some very significant historical figures have little to no surviving images. Like, we know who they are and that they were here at some point - we have their belongings and things that they used. Thats why seeing Nathan’s rifle in the bedroom or Enoch’s stein in the sitting room cause me to have such visceral reactions. This was theirs once. This was used by someone probably everyday. And now its almost like a ghost or memory of them. The land around the property is heavily wooded as well, lots of trees and stones. My sister and I took a short walk around the property before leaving and it really made me think: how many of these stones did they touch? How many of these large trees did they lean on? It drives me so insane honestly.

One last thing that hadn’t occurred to me before this trip was how the Hale family learned of Nathan’s hanging. According to the tour guide, Enoch and a couple his brothers had heard of a Hale being found guilty of espionage and being hanged. And after looking into it more, Enoch did confirm that it was Nathan and sent word to the rest of the family. It’s said that before being hanged, Nathan only asked for a few things: A priest (which he did not get), parchment, quill and ink for writing. He wrote a letter to his commanding officer and one to his family. According to the guide, i believe neither one was sent. Perhaps the one to the officer was sent, however he never received it because he was killed in battle before he had the chance. And allegedly, the one written to the Hale family was seized by the British and was likely used as a written confession rather than being sent home to Nathan’s family. I honestly can’t imagine how upsetting that must’ve been for all of them. Especially with each of the Hale brothers being in the war and likely all in different places, there wasn’t really any other way for them to find out that their own brother was hanged aside from the way everyone else learned of it - through the newspaper or by word of mouth. No other Hale brother died in the war either, they all survived and had relatively high rankings by the time the war was over.

~~~

So that was my trip, it was fun and informative and I would really love to visit again sometime. I highly recommend anyone who is a fan of history, or Turn: Washington’s Spies to visit if you can! They are only open seasonally though, and only on weekends. They do a tour every hour, so plan accordingly if you want to visit!

[skeletorsims]

Ilse opens the first day of school! In attendance are the Laces and Saanvi Hollowbreast. Donovan helps them with their schoolwork by playing the piano.

[anothersimlishtragedy]

Part 1 - The Ghost and the Stranger

With a bar of soap in one hand and a pair of trousers in the other, Magnolia sank her hands into the hot water and begin to scrub and lather the material against the textured tin of the wash board.

She plunged and scrubbed the thin cotton chemise she'd been given on her wedding day by her mother. Next was a pair of Hollis' wool socks that had so much sweat and dirt on them they could nearly stand on their own. She grimaced and chucked it into the tub.

The whinny of a horse caught her attention from the front of the house. She stood and quickly wiped her hands on the skirts of her dress, then grabbed her pistol and started around the house.

"State your name!" she shouted to the stranger from behind the mesquite tree, her pistol in hand and finger on the trigger.

"Howdy, Ms. Brannon." the stranger called out from on top of his horse. She had to squint against the afternoon sun to make out the face of a man.

She cocked the pistol and a familiar metallic click sounded as the bullet entered the chamber.

"I said state your name or I'll blow your head clean off your shoulders, mister!"

"Woh, I don't mean no harm....I- I was just looking for the man of the house."

Through the leaves of the tree, she saw him shift in the saddle and grimace, like there was something about him that was hurt. She wasn't risking moving closer to him but something made her step aside from the leaves to get a good look at his face.

"He aint' here." Magnolia said through grit teeth.

The stranger shifted again and his horse whinnied, antsy and frustrated that they were standing still.

"I apologize, ma'am. This is the Brannon homestead, ain't it?"

"You sure got a lot of questions for someone who's got a gun pointed at 'em" she snarled. " I'm going to give you to the count of 3..."

"Name's Brannon. Hollis Brannon, ma'am." the stranger sputtered.

It made sense at that moment. The jawline, the vacant hazel eyes.

"You- you're, Jake's brother?" she manage to breathe out, chest tight and squeezing with every second that passed. She felt violently ill in that moment.

"Yep, his kid brother. Ya see, I was coming to ta-." he reached down towards the revolver on his hip and she fired a shot into the bramble to his left in defense.

"Shit!"

The horse bucked at the sound of gunfire and knocked the man onto the dirt with a thud, then took off like lightning down the road that trailed down to the river nearby.

She closed the distance between them fast. And then there he was, hat in the dirt, looking just like her late husband did 10 years ago. He clutched his right side where his shirt was plastered to his skin, wet and shiny with blood.

"I didn't aim for you." Her brow furrowed.

"Got shot on the road to Brindleton Bay." he winced, trying to sit up, then flopped back onto the dust with a thud.

"Aren't you a popular feller?"

She studied him for a moment, a ghost of her past come back to haunt her in the form of her late husband's brother. After a quick assessment, she knew he'd be too weak to try anything stupid, and she looped his arm around her neck to help him stand.

"My horse." he croaked, lips dry from days riding under the sun.

"He'll be aight. There's a river just down there. I'll go find him in a second. We need to get you on the porch."

"I don't want to impose..." he groaned between heavy steps and arms sagging against her shoulders and neck.

"It's a little late for that, now, isn't it?"

[ace-and-ranty]

Petty opinion of the day: Pari's Paloma's Labour bothers me for no end for the way it can't pick a setting.

The clip is very medieval-coded, she sings about fetching water from the well and tending the orchards... so like? Are you meant to be a farmer's wife in a historical past? But then she starts talking about "weaponized incompetence" which is a very modern concept that much more evokes urban living and men pretending they can't use the damn washing machine. She's sitting at his "high table", but singing about his "picket fence dreams"?

PICK A LANE, WOMAN?? Are you talking about historical or modern women?! THEIR OPPRESSION DOESN'T WORK THE SAME.

[fantasiafarm]

[life-spire]

@ anthonyadu_

Enjoy our curated content? You can support us here.

[feralchaton]

First signs of approaching Autumn | feralchaton

[lochlander]

Oh, I love this new permafrost mod.

[thorsenmark]

Buildings from Long Ago of the Bailly Homestead in Indiana Dunes National Park by Mark Stevens Via Flickr: While walking around the historic Bailly Homestead and taking in view of these buildings and living quarters. The view is looking to the east while walking the Bailly Homestead - Chellberg Farm Trail in Indiana Dunes National Park.

[queer-triple-a]

A Homosexual Homestead

Introduction

Hello!

Today I have a story to share with you, which is told through Journals. I really enjoy the story here; however, I do need to preface these with some information.

This story involves a lot of discussions and actions related to the Westward Expansion of white people in the United States. Specifically the Homestead Acts of 1862.

This expansion was done with little to no respect for or acknowledgment of Indigenous Peoples and their cultures or their use of the land. While the people whose stories are chronicled in this journal never encounter indigenous people (or they never wrote it down if they did), they are still using a racist tool of a colonizing government to lay claim to land which their government had no ownership of.

At the end of the story, I’ve linked information and resources if you’d like to learn more about indigenous people, westward expansion, or The Homestead Acts.

I think there is still value in sharing this story, but I wanted to make sure it existed with the proper historical context.

The story below is precious and heartwarming. I hope you enjoy it.

Happy reading

Content Warnings:

Familial expectation to marry

Mentions of family death

Colonization of Indigenous land

Also posted assumptive-anthology.com

Journal

April 29th

I’m suffocating here. There is not enough space to love her. 

Today I told Opal I wished we could leave this town. We fought, and I think we nearly left each other over it. I would not blame her if she left me. I have become irritable and upset as of late. The frustration of this life is binding me so tight that I lash out at her. If we could leave, perhaps it would be easier for me. But she does not want to leave, and I am trying to make peace with this knowledge. 

It would be different if she acknowledged that she felt the same, but it's like she doesn't even care. It’s as though the fact that no one understands what we are is perfectly fine to her. It’s not fine to me, though. I want to love her loudly. I don’t know if I should be hurt or not, that she is okay to love me quietly. Not just quietly, but to love me in secret. I guess maybe I should be happy she doesn't need what we can't have. Maybe I should do what she does and not let it bother me. I could try, at least. 

I don't like hoarding all of this anger within me. Which I suppose is why I told her about this in the first place, though she wanted nothing to do with that anger.

The candlelight is dwindling, and she is coming to bed soon. If only she could sleep beside me. Our separate bunks will once again haunt my dreams. 

April 30th

I deemed it necessary to write in the morning today, for late last night, I spoke with her. I was mistaken. She is not happy either. She merely does not see a solution and has thus pushed her pain aside. I also see no solution, but do not possess the same ability to ignore this. We spoke for quite some time about the pain and strife, and I was reminded of the joy of sharing my life with her. I felt much lighter after having spoken with her. We shared our fears, and we have similar concerns. It felt good to hear that I was not alone. As I have grown to expect, she is walking with me on this journey. 

May 4th

Opal’s ability to hold her pain so close to her chest has broken. When I returned home from dropping off a client’s dress today, I found her inconsolable on the floor of our kitchen. She would not let me touch her for some time. She only handed me a letter from her mother’s sister. Her aunt informed her that Opal’s mother intends to steal Opal away from me. She does not trust my seamstress wage to sustain us both. She doesn’t understand why Opal moved away from home- she never has. Apparently, she is insisting that Opal would do better living at home. She wants to come remove her from my life- from our life. 

I have rarely in my life felt so helpless. I sat with gentle tears rolling down my face as the love of my life sobbed with all of her energy. It is a testament to her strength how long she was able to continue the exhausting act. 

Eventually, her body’s shakes turned to trembles and the sobs to sniffles, and she allowed me to hold her. I carried her to her bed and held her until she fell asleep. I tried to think of something to say, but every word rang hollow in my mind, and I knew it would be meaningless in her pain. I only left her now to use the restroom and write down my experiences of the day. I have forgotten what else of my day I had intended to write here. 

Nothing matters except her. 

Opal is stirring. I shall rejoin her and stay in her bunk tonight.

May 5th

Today was better. I had several dresses for local girls, which I was to finish sewing, and Opal is to hear back soon on her application to the new shoe factory. We are hopeful that if she gets a job, her mother will relent in her insistence that Opal is better off at home. 

It is said this factory will accept female workers there if they are skilled, and I know my love is skilled. Her father taught her much when she was young, and now I suspect she knows more about shoe making than many of the men who are hired. (Sometimes, I have heard her wish aloud that she was a man, that this might help her receive better jobs and higher wages. I remind her that her feminine charm is what attracted me to her, and she often grows quiet. There is a smile on her face in those moments that I yearn to understand.)

With Opal’s permission, I burnt the letter from her aunt in the fire. She was not in the room, but I couldn’t pull my eyes away. The anger at those who have caused her such pain roared within me as the fire turned their words to embers. 

May 7th

Opal did not get the job. 

May 8th

I have been talking a lot about running away. I don’t know exactly where I’d go, but I know I want to leave. The idea of getting out to a world where I can dance with my love without worrying someone will enter without our noticing is intoxicating. I desperately long to be near her in public, outside of the confines of our home, and to live our life together with less interference and opinions. 

I do not think Opal likes these conversations, though she has told me she doesn’t mind. Her expression sours when I bring it up. Yet I cannot help but talk about it. I feel trapped, and I can see the way the cage is holding Opal as well. 

I think the discussion of leaving makes her feel guilty. I think the idea may be more radical than she is comfortable with. She has a family here. She has a life and a history here. 

And I would stay for her. If she is never ready to go somewhere else, then I will never leave. I hope she knows that. Maybe tomorrow I’ll tell her. Right now, she is asleep across the room. 

The moonlight is perfectly angled tonight. It glows upon her pink cheeks and shines off of her brown hair. She always insists she is jealous of the curl of my hair, but the glow of the moon would not bounce off of mine in such a luminous way. 

She sighs a lot in her sleep, as though she is having an exhaustive conversation with me in which I insist eating nothing but bread and butter would be perfectly acceptable for the rest of our lives. I can nearly hear her mutter “flavor” as she sighs. But she does not. I know this. In the 3 years we have been living together, I have never once heard her speak in her sleep. One night when both of us were suffering from a fever, I believe I heard her whistling through her nose, but otherwise, she remains a quiet sleeper. 

Her eyelids are moving gently in dreams. It crinkles her face some, and a selfish part of me hopes that one day she grows wrinkles where sleep folds her face. Wrinkles that only I would understand. 

Part of me hopes I one day will get to kiss those wrinkles with the window’s blinds open without the fear of gossip. 

To write by only the light of the moon has begun to give me a headache. I shall retire to admiring her silently until sleep takes me.

May 12th

Opal’s mother, April, came over today. She has never been a shouter (According to Opal), but the disappointment was clear on her face. She did not take her shoes off as she entered. Upon arriving (without giving us more than a half day’s notice), she began to judge the size of our small home. She asked about money and how much work I got. At one point, she implied that no husband would ever let Opal live in such a terrible place.  

The worst was over dinner. Our friends Austin and James (two gentlemen much like ourselves in their struggles) came over since we did not have time to cancel our plans. She spent much of the night trying to enquire about why none of us were dating. Had we ever dated? Well, why not? Surely it was worth trying? What types of dates would one even go on around here? Oh, to the pond? Well, HER Opal loves the pond. 

It was exhausting. And we did not yet get a chance to apologize because April insisted on walking them out with us. The only thing which would have made the evening more embarrassing is if April had thought it appropriate to comment on the brown color of either man’s skin. Thankfully she held her tongue in this regard. 

We went to bed early, and I didn’t dare even hug Opal before we went to bed. To risk such behavior would have caused Opal nothing but worry. Her mother is staying the night. We hope she will leave in the morning. 

May 13th

Opal spent most of today with tear stains trailing down her face. I did not see her cry, though I suspect she pulled herself together whenever I entered a room. I wish she knew she did not need to do that. I tried to talk to her several times today about what had happened, but all she would say is that we should have Austin and James over soon to apologize. 

We sat together for much of the day. I had sewing work to be done as she looked through the paper and read a book. Since losing the opportunity of employment, she has taken to reading more during the day when chores do not occupy her. 

Austin and James were able to come over tonight. Opal cleaned up well before dinner and seemed less upset throughout. Though once our friends (who were more than understanding about last night) left, the facade fell, and she left me alone to clean up. I found her on her bed. When I attempted to hold her, she asked for space. She apologized and said she hoped her spirits would be raised tomorrow. I hope so too. And I hope April never visits us again. 

May 14th

We are moving next week. For a small fee, we can move to land in the countryside that is uninhabited and claim it as our own. The government will basically give us this land if we help them to cultivate the empty space. They say no one inhabits the entire center of our country. 

It wasn’t even my idea, my Opal, my radiant Opal, the joy of my life and keeper of my heart, read of this opportunity in the newspaper yesterday. She recommended this path for our lives, and I had only to imagine our free future to become convinced it was the best option for us. 

Opal seems better today as well, her spirits are not quite as crushed as they were yesterday, and my optimism about her suggestion seems to be contagious. She suggested we discuss this with Austin. He is more like me and has often talked of “getting out of this town.” Now we have our chance. 

I am going to retire from writing early tonight in hopes that my Opal’s mood is optimistic enough that she will let me lay beside her tonight. Oh, how she makes my heart flutter. 

June 3rd

We have bought a wagon and a mule, and tomorrow morning we will head west. James has been conversing with several more knowledgeable people about the best paths to take. He shall lead our small caravan out to our freedom. We four will share a plot of land to start. Though we hope to each own our own plots eventually. They say single women, such as myself and Opal, and men with brown skin, like James and Austin, can own and farm the land. We will start with a single home to house all four of us, but we plan to eventually build two homes on the land we amass. One for each couple. Though we will eventually separate our living quarters, we will always visit frequently. I have had to promise this to Austin many times in the past week in order to assuage his fears. He may be more nervous than my Opal. 

My Opal has just sent the letter to her mother, and I await her anger and wrath tomorrow morning. I pray we will leave before her fastest carriage can pull her to our home, but I fear she will be determined to have her words heard. Though a part of me worries she will convince my heart to stay here and that, by extension, I will stay here, I also trust Opal. She has said that she will go no matter what her mother says. I shouldn’t doubt her.

I must go. Opal has beckoned me to bed with her one final time in this cottage. It would be unforgivable for me to leave the dazzling lady waiting a moment more.

June 4th

It was her singing which made the travel bearable. When making our plans, we did not prepare for the possibility that my stomach would turn in knots as our mules pulled us forward. The only thing that brought some peace (in the form of distraction) was her singing. She has such a beautiful voice. Like a gentle wind chime playing just for me. 

James and Austin stopped less frequently than we were forced to, but our friends were kind enough to stop before the sun set. We caught up to them just as the darkness overtook the gentle colors of the sky. I am grateful for the solid ground tonight. In our plans, we had discussed driving in shifts and sleeping on our wagons. I do not think I would have slept. The ground does not move and sway beneath me. My stomach has finally settled as my head rests on the ground beside my love. 

She sang me a song I had never heard her sing before. It was mournful and gentle in its tale. It wove beautiful melodies together with the tale of an absent father. I wonder if her mother taught her the song. I wonder again why she has never mentioned a grandfather. 

In her song and the lyrics she chose to share with me on our first day’s journey, I felt her pain. To leave behind my family was simple. We are not close, and my parents are not kind. My only regret is that I am leaving behind the graves of my 3 siblings, who never got to grow up. I do not mourn for the living. I think Opal does. I think she misses her mother, despite the misfortune of their last few encounters. 

April was a kind woman. She was not one to give in to bouts of rage and, until the past year, had loved each of her children equally and loudly. The clearest image of her in my mind is of her face as her eldest son was wed. She wore a face of such ecstasy as tears of joy were patted away with a handkerchief. It was the kind of joy that leaked out of a person and into everyone lucky enough to stand around them. I only wish she could have seen a future for Opal in which she wasn’t dependent on a father or a husband.  

Opal is telling me to stop writing by firelight and go to sleep. She is, of course, quite wise, so I shall listen to her advice. 

[Between the two pages shown, there were many small notes about how the building is going. They seem to eventually have a house that the 4 of them will share for the winter, and they will build a second one on a second plot of land next spring. Homesteading was hard and a lot of effort. The journal passages are short and often just venting frustrations. None of them contain many contexts and seem quickly written. They’ve been omitted here for length and continuity of the story I’m trying to tell.]

September 21st

I have had too much on my mind to write for the past few months. This journal has sat abandoned. Yet tonight, I find I must record the events that have occurred. 

I have never had a better day than today. This morning as the world began to wake up, I had my breath stolen from me by Opal’s easy beauty. I couldn’t help but once again profess my love for her aloud. She giggled and kissed me sweetly, telling me how she felt the same about me. 

I thought both men had been out in the yard working, but as we held each other close, James asked, “Would you be married?”

After we were startled for a moment, Opal said, “We can’t.” 

The magic of the moment had left her quite quickly. Wanting to keep it alive a little longer, I said, “Yes, of course I would.” 

Opal stared at me as if this surprised her, though I don’t understand why it should. 

“Of course, I would marry you,” I repeated, taking her hands in my own. 

“You’ve never said,” Opal told me. 

“I thought you knew,” I told her. Besides, it’s not like we’d been able to be loud about how we felt before. Even now, to have spoken those words makes me nervous. 

She kissed me, and I swear I melted into the floor. Her answer was as clear as day. She’d marry me too. 

We didn’t stop until James coughed from where he stood and got our attention. I tried to pretend to be ashamed of it, but I wasn’t. I moved west, so I didn’t have to be ashamed. 

Then James asked, “Wanna have a ceremony?” 

It took Opal and me about 10 minutes of questioning to understand what he meant, given that there were only four of us and none of us was a pastor, but we did it today. We all put on our best clothes, and Austin married us. 

It’s not official, but it was never going to be. Opal couldn’t stop crying the entire day. She kept looking at me, blushing, and looking away. At first, I was worried this wasn’t what she wanted, but just before we went outside to hold our “ceremony,” she kissed me and told me she’d been spending the whole day trying to figure out how lucky she was to love me and to be loved by me. It took a lot of restraint not to kiss her senseless right then. 

We stood holding hands as Austin spoke of our love and what he’d seen in the time he’d known us. He journals like me, but I think his is more poetry than mine. When I’ve seen him get drunk, he often starts trying to speak in verse. It’s clear to me now that when sober, his words can hold so much weight. He told our story with joy and tenderness. 

I’ll admit that I cried. So did Opal. (So did James, but he denies it even though I absolutely watched it happen).

 I’d sewn some cloth into rings for us. They won’t last long, but they served their purpose today. Maybe eventually, we’ll have the money to buy real rings. I don’t care either way, and I don’t think Opal minds either. 

I didn’t realize just how much this small party would mean to me until later in the evening. Drunk on the excitement of the day (and two mugs of ale), James sat with me, watching Opal and Austin dance like fools.

“You’ve got a beautiful wife,” he told me. 

A wife! I’ve got a wife!

I’m getting so excited by this that I nearly can no longer write. The only thing keeping me from putting down my journal and dragging her to bed is the sound of her voice singing songs with James by the fire. It would be a sin to stop her from singing. And she looks so happy and free. I think I’ll just keep watching her, soaking in her joy and turning it into my own love, until her songs grow quiet for the night.

Outroduction

I hope you enjoyed reading this charming love story! 

I didn’t have enough information to find the record of their official acquisition of the land, so unfortunately, we don’t know how the story ends for these couples. 

We do know that for that moment in time, they were in love, and they were able to exist happily within that love. 

I hope that moment lasted for a very long time. 

Thanks for reading. 

Links

First Nations Knowledge Center

This Land by Crooked Media

Native History Project from Grinnell University lesson on the Homestead Act 

Crash Course US History on Westward Expansion

Link to Purchase An Indigenous People's history of the United States

[shastafirecracker]

for the trope ask thing, what are your thoughts about: fake dating? historical alternate universe settings? hanahaki?

Fake dating - A+ tier, love it, especially if they’re doing it as friends already or if it’s focused on a specific event (be my date to a wedding/holiday/trip). It’s best as high comedy to me, salted with the flavor-enhancer of pining - if it’s all forlorn then I lose interest because maaan what a waste of a great comedy setup

Historical AU - hmm, C tier, really depends on the author and the amount of thought that went into the historical part. I never have cared for the Victoriana aesthetic so if it’s just an Austen style thing I’ll skip it unless it’s been highly recommended. BUT history is a huge sandbox with so much more than 1880-1920 England in it! If someone’s written something in a period that is clearly their special interest and the research is deliciously crunchy then I’ll read a historical au set pretty much anywhere!

(Caveat that if it’s a Vietnam war au I might also nope out bc I have a low tolerance for Oscar bait in fanfic form and I did read Twist and Shout (SPN) and it did not do it for me)

Hanahaki - rating N/A because you know I don’t think I have ever read a single piece of hanahaki? I will say that conceptually it doesn’t sound interesting to me. I have a mid-range tolerance for pining - I need either plot or communication to happen at SOME point to break things up. And hanahaki sounds like it’s the extreme end of the pining spectrum, so. (Also flavored with a little fuck or die, right? Or at least fulfill the relationship or die? Ehh -waves iffy hand-)