No. 42
The Elders: in 1836 & The Sick Room
Dear Stewart,
Ellen Brother was born in October 1836 and her aunt, also Ellen Brother, died two months later. At Christmas they sang her favorites.
The older Ellen, also called “Ellie”, was only 29 years old when she died. She was help to her nieces and nephews on the old farm, teaching them and attending to their clothing and care since their parents died during that ugly season of contagion and test of faith.
The young children fell under Ellen’s influence easily, for she was plain and ready, there before anyone else.
The death of their parents gave Ellie a career, but she climbed higher, taking it as a vow, and put away all ornamentals.
Henry insisted that this is how she would be remembered, not how she took to the sick room.
The Brother Family, living at 22 West Morris Street in Bath, New York, made frequent use of their own sick room, located at the end of the hall.
But over time, their confidence grew in how to take care of the sick and when to not bother the doctor.
The trick, they thought, was to keep the victim's spirits up.
For example, to name a new baby after the sick one. Or, to deliver plenty of sunlight. To open windows on both walls. To make the room drafty. To remind the patient of the outdoors and the benefits of nature. To avoid dark until it was indeed time to rest or treat the migraine.
The adventurous visitors even climbed up to that second-floor window from the porch. Some, in an effort to bring in laughter, treated that platform as a stage for puppets, treats, or for serenade practicing.
When Mary Ann rested in the sick room after she gave birth to Ellen, that October, their servant set up a fort to block well-wishers. The youngest ached for their mother and threw fits. To distract them, their older siblings took turns climbing and peering into the window to see the new recruit.
One day, when your grandfather Henry Brother was in the room, he heard the tap at the window, caused by the top of the ladder. Next, he saw Val’s head, bobbing there with little Cornelia, who was too close and ripe for the plucking off with a half inch misstep.
Henry quickly opened the window and caught Cornelia’s jumper. To his horror the others were climbing behind them. By the time his wife opened her eyes for Cornelia, their father was at the bottom of the ladder, ready to catch the wiggly delinquents, defiant of all his remaining wits, but at least all of them heading in the same direction.
All the Brother children had dark hair and hazel eyes, and so did Ellen, and this was reported by Henry to Mrs. Metcalf through the window.
Mrs. Metcalf reported to all who would listen to her that it wasn't normal. To spend time with a member of the Brother Family, she said, was to be frustrated for the color of their eyes changed with the weather and moons. Something about when they looked at their smiles or faces in knots, their eyes seemed to hold deeper tunnels, as if giving only a preview to the main event, inviting some to linger more, wondering what else was coming. Chores? Sprints? A Chase? She said those eyes could be gray, blue, brown, or green as they pleased. Why be shifty? They were never just out right plain with color like normal people.
— Miss Minnie
2025 Copyright Christine Friesel
