The Red Flannel Rag

life she had provided for her son to continue in his marriage. She patiently taught Hilda

how to cook the way she did using her methods and recipes.

When I wasn’t being jealous of her relationship with Mo m, I felt sorry for Hilda.

Many times I watched her walk out the back porch door and head for the pasture. She

would find a cow lying down chewing her cud. Hilda would sit down beside the cow, lay

her head over on the cow’s belly, and cry for long perio ds of time. I assumed she was

crying for her lost youth and because she was afraid of her new role as a mountain man’s

wife.

One day, I followed Hilda to the pasture and waited until she settled her head on

the cow’s belly. I tiptoed up to where I coul d hear her sobbing. The old cow, named

Betsy, turned her head and looked at Hilda. Even the cow had a big wet blob below her

eyes, as if she were crying too. I walked up and touched Hilda’s shoulder and asked her,

“What’s wrong, Hilda?” She looked up and smiled through her tears and said, “Oh, I am

just a little homesick today.” She promptly got up and went into the garden to hoe the

cabbage.

Over the years, Mom and Hilda shared their roles as mountain wives. Hilda had

her first baby when she was sixteen and the second when she was seventeen. Larry

continued to live in my parents’ home. I eventually got over my jealousy of Mom and

Hilda after I left home. Hilda became a sister to me. I am not sure my sister ever

became comfortable with their relationship, even after her own marriage, possibly

because she never lived more than a quarter of a mile from the house where we grew up.

Hilda was Mom’s constant companion because she had dropped out of school

and was too young, even if Larry had allowed it, to get a job. After the babies started

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