Goods were shipped out in barrels, as gifts from the queen, nothing reached land prepackaged and ready to eat. The contents were flour and some contained rice; from a split open orange you got just a slice.
There wasn’t this place food was sold on a shelf; where selection was made by no more than yourself. You harvested food and preserved it in salt, and the meat it lay flat, on a plank, in the dark.
The toilet a hole in a hut out behind; pray to not get an urge in the middle of night. With no running water, while needing to bathe, you scrubbed with a yarn cloth your mother had made.
The water it flowed from the creek in the woods; had to carry the bucket the best way you could. After finally arriving at home, or your shack, a few drops to drink meant you had to go back.
All drank from the pail, with a ladle they shared, which was not often washed but none of them cared. A sickness was cured, with herbs and some rest, for there was no existence of products and meds.
The mothers gave birth in the comfort of home, and the babies who died they were buried alone. The doctor and nurse lived hours away, and to see them you walked for most of the day.
The fathers they left, to sign up for war, and were granted a parcel of land off the shore. A few were released, in bad and bent shape, and others were sent to an easier place.
They didn’t have then all the things we have now, and to get something done you figured out how. Now we whine and complain about all we don’t own, but back then they had nothing unless it was grown.