Sucking the tip.
Gripping it's feathery length. So hard to hold with any dexterity in your hand. A hand so chapped and worn from the lye soap and boiling water. Be damned!
Katie threw down the quill and wrung her tired hands in anguish! "What shall I say?"
What on this heaven's earth could she write to an American man she had never yet met?
A Mr Werbowski.
Ma had told her that he was Polish from Poland, but he was in America? Would she be able to have a conversation with him? Would he understand her lilting Irish speech?
"Sure and 'tis enough o' that!" She drew her dainty feet firmly beneath her chair, set her teeth and again clenched the fragile quill in her right hand. She started:
And how on earth would she find his farm if he didn't come to meet her? Katie whispered a prayer as her hand continued this letter of new life... "Please god! Let him be a man who would meet his new wife!" Her fingers swung the sign of the cross on her chest.)
Her normal spunk surfaced for just one moment and raised itself above the terror of her enterprise. "He'd better no mind!"
She gazed toward the eternally grit soaked window, clenched her teeth in determination and finished her letter. )
Very deliberately, the fine boned Irish lass her parents had named Katie, lifted the stub of tallow candle and gently dripped a splash of wax upon the folds of her letter to seal.
Katie flung the pen across the floor with a clatter and sobbed...