They say you can never go home again.  After a torturous journey over land and water, Priscilla has Waterwood in sight…and her sister, Abigail is waiting with open arms.

Dear Diary,

    This morning, we sailed into Eastern Bay.  It felt so good to linger on deck by the rail, listening to the gentle waves lapping against the wooden hull.  There is something both soothing and restorative about the sounds of water when it is not whipped up by a torrent of angry winds.  After a rest on Kent Island and now a leisurely sail, I am feeling quite myself again and eager to complete our voyage.

    My eagerness grew as we entered the river leading us to Waterwood.  Abigail had written to me that there was once a disagreement about calling it the Miles River.  Originally, it was known as the St. Michaels River, named for the town on its shore.  The people of a thriving Quaker community along the river were uncomfortable using the name saint because they do not have saints in their religion.  

    At first, an accommodation was reached by calling it the Michaels River.  Considering the way people slur their words, especially when they speak too fast, the river was soon known as the Miles.  

    I do not know or care what other people call it.  To me, it feels like home.  

    With the colonies agitated about taxes and tea, this disagreement seems trivial to me.  Perhaps I need to learn to be more thoughtful and broadminded, especially in this time of upset and growing tumult.  It would not hurt me to show patience and listen to the concerns of others.  

    Listening does not mean I agree or support their views.  I would only give the appearance of politeness and tolerance.  As Nathaniel is fond of saying, the role of a woman is to run the household, tend to the children, and support her husband, always.  Even the law supports that view.  When we married, it bothered me a bit that all of the things I brought into the marriage became the property of my husband, from the silver-backed hairbrush and tortoiseshell combs to the pillowcases and undergarments I embroidered in anticipation of my wedding.  

    It was a little unsettling to see the land my father had been holding in trust for me, signed over to Nathaniel along with the gold coins given to him.  The only name on the land deeds and the accounts is his.

    But I am being silly.  What do I know about managing landholdings?  I would be completely lost about guarding or investing money.  Though I must admit, I am very good at spending it.  One could say that makes a good balance to have a man and woman together.  

    Oh, I am making such lighthearted comments.  It must be the fresh, clean scent of the air, the taste of ocean salt on my lips, and the sight of geese flying in their Vee formation, honking loudly without the intrusion of tall buildings.  

    I was eager to feel my sister’s arms around me again.  I was coming to her home, not as a little sister, but as a married woman expecting a child.  

    Mr. Mercer fired off a volley that echoed across the land to announce our imminent landing.  Seeing my sister running down to the dock, her auburn hair flying out of its pins, calling out my name, “Sissy!  Sissy!” brought tears of happiness to my eyes.  When she put her arms around me, my knees went weak, and I almost tumbled to the ground.  As always, my big sister protected me and saved me.  “Do not worry,” she said, “I have you, Sissy.”

    It felt strange being called by that name again.  Sissy.  

   I was named Priscilla when I was born, but, like so many families do, I was given a nickname almost at once.  Sissy.

    It was easier for the young children in the family to say.  Forming the name ‘Priscilla’ has so many different sounds, one’s mouth does not know which direction to go first.  It is the manifestation of being tongue-tied.  When I was growing up, I thought it was cute.  It is difficult to be mad at a pretty little girl named Sissy.

    Of course, in Philadelphia, I am called Priscilla.  Even Nathaniel started calling me Priscilla after the wedding.  He said Sissy was a childhood name that should be put away with toys.  He was right, of course.  Now, I am a woman. 

    Still, there is a sense of well-being and security I feel being called by that name again. 

    Sissy.