The Art of Moving a House

Her house was moving.

Anne watched it go from the back of her parents wagon, entranced by the magic of the moment. It didn't seem like it should be possible for a house to move with only the aid of men and logs but it was. They were doing just that right before her eyes.

It was a little sad too watching it go. The land had been theirs since before she had been born, when her father and grandmother had moved down from New York. Their family had come over when an Gorta Mór had crippled Ireland and her father had been fifteen, thrust across the ocean with his little sister. Her aunt had died on the passage but her father had - obviously - survived and went on to wait until his mother was sent over.

His father, her grandfather, and the rest of their family had died before they could make the passage across the North Atlantic. So it had been her father alone, seventeen by the time they had reached Mississippi, who had secured the land, built the house, and taken care of their family at the time.

Now Anne was seven years old and watching the house that had been built on that land over a decade-and-a-half before move like a bug scuttling away. Turning around, she looked over at her mother seated at the front of the wagon with the reins for their horse held loosely in one hand.

"Mama?"

Her mother blinked, dragging her attention away from the dark-haired Irishman who was putting his all into moving their home. She smiled at their daughter and asked, "What is it, Anne?"

Anne smiled and stood up, climbing over the belongings in the wagon to the front where she threw her arms around her mother's waist. Warm arms enfolded her and as a kiss pressed onto the top of her head, she asked, "What's going to happen to Granma? She's going to be all alone when we leave."

Her mother let out a sigh and brushed back her hair, causing Anne to tilt her head back to look up at her. "Now," said her mother kindly, "your Granma will be just fine. You remember how she used to yell at Mr. Samuels dog."

"Y'mean old soith!" barked Anne, freeing one arm from her mother's waist to shake a finger at an invisible dog. "Y'leave my granchil' alone!"

"Now don't you use that word," hissed her mother, though she was smiling slightly as she said it. "So, you see? Your Granma will take care of herself fine. She'd want us to look after ourselves before her now, wouldn't she?"

Anne nodded solemnly then looked over her shoulder. Her eyes widened as she realized she could only see the top of their house and cried, "Mama, the house is getting away!"

With a bright burst of laughter, her mother hugged her tightly then, saying, "Well, we can't have that, can we?" Swinging her up next to her on the wooden seat, she picked up the reins and snapped them sharply across the horse's back. "C'mon now, Jack! We've got a house to catch!"

The big chestnut horse snorted then started to move and Anne clapped her hands together as her mother swung the wagon around. Leaning against her side, she couldn't help but feel the magic of the moment again as she watched the slowly trundling along house come looming up close again as they chased after it.