The Wool Spinner

When she was tall enough to spin, she had to spin twenty knots before she could play. Twenty knots made a run.

When she was older, she had to spin three runs before she could play. Three runs earned an hour of carefree happiness.

One day, she met a handsome, upright, young man. They fell in love and were married. He took her from her family to the Frontier. Her mother gave her a spinning wheel as a wedding present.

At first, she spun to make clothes for her family. Then she spun to help make ends meet. Then she spun to earn pin money with which to add a touch of something special to her own plain dresses. Then she spun because weavers appreciated the fine wool yarn produced by her supple fingers. Then she spun because the art of hand spinning was dying out and she kept it alive. Then she spun from force of habit like the groove worn by the strand of yarn in her calloused hands.

Then one day, she stopped spinning. Her hands had become gnarled and crippled with arthritis. She was growing old.

She started having little accidents so her children moved her from the family homestead that had been her home for seventy-one years to a small house in town. She spent her days sitting in a rocking chair. Her four daughters took turns looking after her.

On her one-hundredth birthday, a big party was held in her honor. Most of her large, multi-generational family was there. She had outlived all her old friends.

Her picture was taken for the newspaper and a reporter asked her how it felt to be one hundred years old.

"Sonny," she said, rising to the occasion, "life begins at a hundred!"

The reporter liked the answer. It would make good copy. Then he asked her for the secret of her longevity.

"Clean, upright living," she said, "hard work and clean, upright living." Then she looked around at the five generations of her family that surrounded her with love and affection. "And a loving family," she added happily.

The reporter liked that answer too. It was a family newspaper.

Tired out from all the excitement of the birthday party, she went to bed early. That night she had a dream. She dreamed she was at her spinning wheel and she was trying to spin only her crippled hands couldn't hold the strand of yarn and it came unraveled and broke. She awoke frightened and out of breath and called out for her husband. He had been dead for thirty years. When he didn't come, she called out for her daughter, her first child who had died young.

"You called me, granny?" asked a granddaughter, who was the dead child's namesake.

For a moment, she stared at her granddaughter in wonder and puzzlement. Then she realized she had been dreaming. "I thought you were my daughter, Sarah, all grown up!" she said and began to cry. For the first time in her life, she wanted to die.

But she didn't die. Her body refused to give up the ghost.

On her one-hundred-and-first birthday, her family gathered once again to honor her. The gathering was smaller this time. Her oldest son had died, and her favorite daughter had become too frail to travel. It was a sad birthday party for everyone knew it would probably be her last.

The reporter came again, hoping to get another good quote. But when he asked her how it felt to be one-hundred-and-one years old, she replied, "Am I really—one—hundred—and—one—years old? Oh, dear!" Not a good quote.

Then he tried asking her for the secret of her longevity. She thought back to when she was a young girl. She remembered spinning and then playing. Again, she remembered spinning and then playing. And the two things—spinning and playing—became intertwined in her mind like the strands of a yarn, a yarn wound onto the spool of her long life. She decided that was the answer. She had forgotten about all the hard work. She had forgotten about the clean, upright living. She had forgotten about her 8 children, 28 grandchildren, 55 great-grand- children, 96 great-great-grandchildren, and 11 great-great-great-grandchildren. All were forgotten.

She could only remember one thing. She was certain it must be the answer to the question about life—her life and life in general. She said, "Twenty knots make a run, three runs an hour's play. Twenty knots make a run, three runs an hour's play. Twenty knots make a run, three runs . . ." She realized she was repeating herself and stopped. She had said all she wanted to say about life.

That night, she died in her sleep while dreaming she was at her spinning wheel, the thread of life in her supple, young hands again.