RHRam
Member
I'm not sure where to begin with my memories of this life, because they're few and far between. I was the only daughter, and the only living child, of Swedish immigrants passing through the Oregon Territory in the mid-1800s. I was eleven or twelve years old during what I remember of this life. My parents and I had reached the shores of America a few years before; I had had two younger brothers who died of some illness on the ship that brought us to New York. They were buried at sea. I remember traveling in a covered wagon during a heavy rain. I remember seeing tall mountains with snowy peaks, a big freezing-cold lake, and inpenetrable forests with lots of tall fir trees. I don't remember almost anything else from this life. I only know that it was a very hard life. Every day was a struggle.
The weather was often bad, it rained a lot, and thunderstorms were common. I often felt chilled to the bone, especially when jolting along in the covered wagon for long hours at a time, sad, confused, and, afraid. My mother and father must have felt the same, because they were always nervous and quick to anger. My parents almost never spoke to one another, and I was afraid to say a word to either of them, knowing I'd get a slap if I said the wrong thing. We had very little food while we lived out of the covered wagon. Sometimes I was so hungry that I could do nothing but lay with my mother in the back of the wagon while my father drove. I always felt cold and terribly dirty. The wagon and our clothes were always damp and caked with mud. Needless to say, things were really bad, and the sensation of pure discomfort is what I remember most of this life.
The weather was often bad, it rained a lot, and thunderstorms were common. I often felt chilled to the bone, especially when jolting along in the covered wagon for long hours at a time, sad, confused, and, afraid. My mother and father must have felt the same, because they were always nervous and quick to anger. My parents almost never spoke to one another, and I was afraid to say a word to either of them, knowing I'd get a slap if I said the wrong thing. We had very little food while we lived out of the covered wagon. Sometimes I was so hungry that I could do nothing but lay with my mother in the back of the wagon while my father drove. I always felt cold and terribly dirty. The wagon and our clothes were always damp and caked with mud. Needless to say, things were really bad, and the sensation of pure discomfort is what I remember most of this life.
