Catch the Wind: My Journey with Caroline

After we’ve eaten, Mrs. Abbott settles in with her knitting while Caroline and I clear the table. A kettle still hangs over the fire. I assume it’s just dishwater, until I find it full of thick, dark-gray liquid that smells like metal.

Mrs. Livingston explains she’s melting lead to make bullets. She just pulled out her bullet mold that morning. She asks me to bring the mold to her, and I lift it carefully. It’s a pair of heavy metal rectangles hinged together, with wooden handles on each end.

Caroline mentions that her grandfather fought and died as a Patriot in the War of Independence. Mrs. Livingston admits back in 1776, she wanted to dress as a boy and march off to that same war alongside him, though he refused to let her. Caroline mutters that she wishes she could do something like that, too. Mrs. Livingston brushes past the comment, telling her to fetch the ladle since the lead is ready.

Mrs. Livingston confesses it’s been years since she made bullets, though the process has come right back to her. She says some people swear pewter works just as well as lead, but she insists it’s really not heavy enough for the job. Their storeroom still held a few scraps of lead left from an old roof ridgeline. Turning them into bullets is one more way she can help win the war.

Mom comes to mind, and how set she is on serving her country. She once told me she felt lucky to even have the chance to join the navy. I wonder about the very first women who enlisted, whoever they were, and how much harder they must have had to work just to be taken seriously. That’s a battle Mom never had to fight. If I join the navy myself someday, I won’t have to either.

Mrs. Livingston’s voice cuts into my thoughts. She’s recalling the Revolution, when she stayed home molding bullets and knitting socks while her husband marched off to his death. Mrs. Abbott adds that nobody expected to fight the British again after that war ended thirty years ago. Mrs. Livingston states plainly that they’re back again now, so this time we all need to drive them off for good. She fixes Caroline with a meaningful look, adding that even those of us who can’t march off to war can still find some way to make a difference.

Part of me wants to blurt out that women will serve in the military one day, that Mom herself is in the navy, and that I’m proud of her. But I hold it back. Instead, I look around at Caroline, her mother, and her grandmother, and decide I’m proud of them, too. Whoever my own female ancestors were during this war, they were probably every bit as tough and capable as these three.

We watch as Mrs. Livingston spoons the steaming gray liquid into the mold. She won’t risk letting either of us help, worried a shaky hand might spatter hot lead everywhere. When she’s done pouring, she explains that the bullets will need time to cool before they’ll harden.

Then Mrs. Livingston’s eyes twinkle, hinting at a surprise. Since the oven stayed hot after the bread came out, she’d baked us small cakes while we were off weeding the garden. Caroline bounces on her toes, thanking her grandmother for the treat.

The cakes turn out to be cinnamon cookies. In fact, they’re pretty similar to the snickerdoodles Mom and I bake together. I nibble mine slowly, making it last. Caroline offers one to her mother, who pulls her into a quick hug and kisses her cheek.

By the time the dishes are washed, the sun’s already sinking. Caroline grins hopefully, asking whether I’d want to come back to the shipyard tomorrow. She knows I’ll likely need to start looking for work soon, but she wonders whether we might squeeze in one more fun day together first.