Week Three: A Close Knit Family
Jul. 28th, 2006 09:43 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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tamingthemuseTitle: A Close Knit Family
Author: Sunnyd_lite
Fandom: Firefly, prior to "The Message"
Rating: G
Words: 691
Prompt: Woolly
A/N: My thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
spiralleds for her betaing. All errors are my own. Do you remember Jayne Cobb's hat? *Points to icon* It, and Jayne's reaction to it, started me thinking. Thanks to my flist who helped me hunt down an appropriate icon. This one is by iconseeyou. E.T.A. small amendment to tie more closely with prompt.
She loved all her children, even the ones that went away.
The next project was for her little wanderer. Each year wool seemed scarcer, what with more farmers selling out and working steady-like for the Company. Steady-like until the lay-offs and by then the fields were overgrown and the stock slaughtered.
But she was able to barter for a few odd lot skeins. It would have to do.
She was one of the lucky ones. The foreman respected her husband's and son's welding skills. More like he respected the fact they'd weld in any position, be it hanging from a beam or upside down in the mines. A Cobb was afeared of nothing. She'd heard that often enough.
Each skein had come from a different source, a different dyed color. Settling down in the fireside chair, she started by casting on the yellow. Needs must and what starts as an accident can be a-purposed, if the mind is willing. You just had to see the pattern that could be, not just what was there.
She was good at that, as was her Jayne. Jayne had gone done years in the school house. Could read and write on his own. One of the few lads who stuck it out; most had been ‛prenticed out to farmers or, when the Company came calling, to jobs needing little fingers, little hands.
All four of her needles were clacking away as she wondered when things had turned. Settlers sure didn't expect ease, no denying that. And the terra-forming hadn't stuck much, leaving the world more red dust than a greenness. But folk here, well, making do was awful near the planet's motto.
Jayne wouldn't make do.
He weren't all space-eyed like the Higgins boy. Nope. He'd barely begun sprouting his first beard when he told her, "Soon as I can, I'm for shipping out, Mother. Got good aim. Can't make this better for you here; figuring I can eat someone else outta house 'n home for a spell."
It was time for a change, she could see that. She cut the yellow yarn and square-knotted the rust color to it.
He hadn't been wrong. That'd been the shame of it. Big lad like him was hard to keep in vittles, even when he brung home game near daily.
The game'd gotten scrawnier, tasting all metal bitter. More farmers had sold up and her boy needed space to wander. He had no love of routines or orders.
He did love his guns; treated them with well past the respect Father had taught. And they loved him back. He'd brought home the marksmanship prize money each year he entered the local fair. She glanced at the row of award cups on the mantel. There would have been more, but rules said no one under twelve.
She could still see his ten-year old self's face as he watched old man Dobson get the prize after only hitting the target seven of ten times. Her boy never shot less than perfect. Not a Company skill there.
His face as he glared at Dobson had been the color of the maroon yarn she had left over from making his brother's sweater. There was just enough for some ear-flaps. It could be cold in the Black. Weren't much, but this'n woolly warmth she could do for her boy.
He was doing all he could for them. It was irregular like, but every few months there'd be a letter. While news of his adventures was good, the credits was what gave them a cushion. Could afford medicine when the Damplung hit. Could have meat more oft then not. Could live, not just scrape by.
Her Jayne loved them, did well by them. Didn't matter how he earned those credits. He was a good boy.
The hat was almost done, just one finishing touch. Something to remind him, adventures or not, he was still her dear boy.
It was time to go to the preacher and tell him her letter. He'd write it all down and Jayne could read it hisself.
She loved all her children -- especially those who loved enough to get free.
Author: Sunnyd_lite
Fandom: Firefly, prior to "The Message"
Rating: G
Words: 691
Prompt: Woolly
A/N: My thanks to
spiralleds for her betaing. All errors are my own. Do you remember Jayne Cobb's hat? *Points to icon* It, and Jayne's reaction to it, started me thinking. Thanks to my flist who helped me hunt down an appropriate icon. This one is by iconseeyou. E.T.A. small amendment to tie more closely with prompt. She loved all her children, even the ones that went away.
The next project was for her little wanderer. Each year wool seemed scarcer, what with more farmers selling out and working steady-like for the Company. Steady-like until the lay-offs and by then the fields were overgrown and the stock slaughtered.
But she was able to barter for a few odd lot skeins. It would have to do.
She was one of the lucky ones. The foreman respected her husband's and son's welding skills. More like he respected the fact they'd weld in any position, be it hanging from a beam or upside down in the mines. A Cobb was afeared of nothing. She'd heard that often enough.
Each skein had come from a different source, a different dyed color. Settling down in the fireside chair, she started by casting on the yellow. Needs must and what starts as an accident can be a-purposed, if the mind is willing. You just had to see the pattern that could be, not just what was there.
She was good at that, as was her Jayne. Jayne had gone done years in the school house. Could read and write on his own. One of the few lads who stuck it out; most had been ‛prenticed out to farmers or, when the Company came calling, to jobs needing little fingers, little hands.
All four of her needles were clacking away as she wondered when things had turned. Settlers sure didn't expect ease, no denying that. And the terra-forming hadn't stuck much, leaving the world more red dust than a greenness. But folk here, well, making do was awful near the planet's motto.
Jayne wouldn't make do.
He weren't all space-eyed like the Higgins boy. Nope. He'd barely begun sprouting his first beard when he told her, "Soon as I can, I'm for shipping out, Mother. Got good aim. Can't make this better for you here; figuring I can eat someone else outta house 'n home for a spell."
It was time for a change, she could see that. She cut the yellow yarn and square-knotted the rust color to it.
He hadn't been wrong. That'd been the shame of it. Big lad like him was hard to keep in vittles, even when he brung home game near daily.
The game'd gotten scrawnier, tasting all metal bitter. More farmers had sold up and her boy needed space to wander. He had no love of routines or orders.
He did love his guns; treated them with well past the respect Father had taught. And they loved him back. He'd brought home the marksmanship prize money each year he entered the local fair. She glanced at the row of award cups on the mantel. There would have been more, but rules said no one under twelve.
She could still see his ten-year old self's face as he watched old man Dobson get the prize after only hitting the target seven of ten times. Her boy never shot less than perfect. Not a Company skill there.
His face as he glared at Dobson had been the color of the maroon yarn she had left over from making his brother's sweater. There was just enough for some ear-flaps. It could be cold in the Black. Weren't much, but this'n woolly warmth she could do for her boy.
He was doing all he could for them. It was irregular like, but every few months there'd be a letter. While news of his adventures was good, the credits was what gave them a cushion. Could afford medicine when the Damplung hit. Could have meat more oft then not. Could live, not just scrape by.
Her Jayne loved them, did well by them. Didn't matter how he earned those credits. He was a good boy.
The hat was almost done, just one finishing touch. Something to remind him, adventures or not, he was still her dear boy.
It was time to go to the preacher and tell him her letter. He'd write it all down and Jayne could read it hisself.
She loved all her children -- especially those who loved enough to get free.
