She had taken the red, white, and blue cotton and silk from several dresses, now long out of style, to create a new dress for the occasion, complete to a sash of blue with white stars. There was a time in her life when such was not necessary; when a mere charming smile to her indulgent father would have sent her packing for the latest style to the seamstress down on Market Street, the same one who allegedly had made the first national colors, but that was before the war. Half trusted by some, despised by many, and not fully trusted by anyone, it had been a lonely life. She had sealed off most of their once-vibrant home, except for her bedroom, the parlor, and the kitchen where she made her own meals. It was existence on the edge, not a life. Like so many, she never would have believed this war would have dragged on for six long years. Though the patriotic parade of this afternoon had created a new surge of morale—it was the first time since the summer of ’78 that thousands of troops of the Revolution had paraded through the city—she was savvy enough to know that they were all bound on a desperate bid to end this conflict before winter.
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