Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated August 5

August 5
Katrina,



This morning, I searched through the books in Father’s office and found a book about alchemy, the art of turning lesser metals into gold. Father used to say that it was physically impossible to turn something into gold, adding that he thought it was symbolic for the ability of the human condition to improve. I’ve begun to understand what he meant as I’ve aged.



It’s about self-discovery, a magic that can only come to be known when one stands in the darkness and opens the door to the light; being greeted by the true self; no longer thinking of one’s self as others see you or as one hopes to be seen but in truth. Be the reflection pleasant or not, true self-knowledge is the seed of inner peace.



But, we can’t be fooled into thinking that the reflection is who we have always been or will be in time to come. Self-knowledge is a never-ending process because to be human, to be alive, means to grow, learn, and change; life makes it impossible to remain the same forever. Tomorrow, a different reflection than today may exist because of the decisions we’ve made today and yesterday.



Of all the facets of self-knowledge, of shaking hands with the reflection within, self-respect may be the hardest lesson to master. To respect one’s self, one has to be willing to take care of one’s self emotionally, physically, and spiritually; to speak and act respectfully to the self as well as to others because the circle of life, the cycle of interdependence, applies to the human race as well. To respect the self, one must first learn who they are, be accepting of their self, and be willing to respect the dignity of the choices, the beliefs, and the thoughts of others because what we give to others we will receive in kind.



Discontent is birthed by Negativity, returning to its parent the harshness of their own reality like a demon rising again and again from the Well of Sorrow to torment the Devil. Hope is born from the womb of Faith and, in return, gives birth to Tomorrow and brings Love back home to live forever with Peace.



What do you think, Sister?



I’ve faced my own reflection in the past few years and was frightened by the truth, Katrina. But each day I try to learn and each day I try to improve. I believe what Father said was true about their being alchemy for the human condition. And, I try each day to remember to walk with Faith. But, for the cycle to work, others must allow one to change. True?



Love always,
Christina




This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated August 4

August 4,
Katrina,


It’s a wonderful quiet time when the world slows to a pace where one can hear the birds singing their good morning song as they skip with joy from one tree branch to another, gently waking the other woodland animals. Deeply inhaled fresh air tingles the sensations and allows one to hear the stories of the trees carried on the air, stories of growth, lessons of peace, moments of truth.



The Earth understands how to care for itself and others, balancing the two beautifully and without failure of either. If one listens with the heart, then it is in the outdoors where one can realize that nature cares for itself, interference completely unnecessary. Limbs which have grown old are dropped to the ground only to become a winter home for small woodland animals until years later when it crumbles into pieces and works its way down back into the Earth as natural fertilizer to assist with the nourishment of new growth. Small creatures will give birth beside slow running streams; teaching their young to survive by playing games of hide and seek in the tall, uncut grass; smiling and laughing in their own unique way; the young growing and later returning to their home in the grass to give birth to their own young. Water, with its cool, quiet power, will always manage to find its way across the rocky and uneven creek bed until its path reaches the river which reaches the ocean which reaches the sea which discharges itself into smaller locks of water which gently make their way into tiny creek beds.



The trees shade the water and the creatures, offering protection and supplies. The creatures feed the trees and remove unwanted material from the path of the water. Or they can help create or block a path instead. The water nourishes the trees and the creatures and acts as a road-map, directing them here and there. They all work together as one, understanding the give and take that results in survival, in success.



Life is a circle, natural and complete. We are all connected in some manner. And, only through respect can we come to understand and protect this precious cycle of life. For, when the cycle is nurtured, all arcs are uplifted. But, if one part of the circle is destroyed, then the cycle is broken and the remaining arcs shall suffer from the destruction of the one.



As I listen to the birds talking to each other and hear the stream running for home, I listen for the trees telling their story of creation. As the rustling leaves whisper the words, sounds carried on the wind, the branches reach out in dramatic form to aid in the telling of the story, of the secrets of survival. The tree survives because the roots grow deep, intertwining with other trees as if holding hands and teaming up against the storms of life. The tree survives because its foundation is strong but it allows its branches to bend; because it gives to others shade, comfort, and nourishment; and because it allows itself to receive nourishment from others. The forest and the water and the animals work together, helping each other, respecting and protecting their cycle of life.



If only humans would do the same. Power hungry, we would rather shed blood than shed ignorance, more willing to share fists than hope. Have we done our part, Katrina, to enlighten the world? Has anyone?



The Earth has no secrets, the trees tell no lies. And, although at times the wind may become angered and rage or the water to flood, the elements always return to harmony, somehow making the negative into a positive. Have I done my part to protect the cycle or have the secrets I’ve kept and the anger I’ve harbored disturbed the flow of truth and prevented the return of harmony? Do you despise me, my Sister, could you ever forgive me, for the decisions I’ve made?



As years have passed, Katrina, I have learned.



I remember two children running through the fields, laughing because it felt good, laughing because we could. Could we ever return to those carefree days and reclaim childhood innocence?



I miss you.



Forever sisters,
Christina



This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section1, Letter dated August 3

August 3, 1999
Katrina,



Betsy’s granddaughter found Betsy’s old sourdough bread recipe in an old forgotten box hidden away in the back of a cabinet in the kitchen and decided to try it. Oh, Sister, it was wonderful. The house filled up with that delicious aroma like it did when we were children.



Do you remember the scents drifting from the kitchen when Betsy or Mother would bake? The air would develop the taste of bread or apples with cinnamon or chocolate cake that would seek us out wherever we were. Then, there were the meals that would be prepared, such as ham with an orange glaze when it was time to slaughter the hogs, and fresh vegetables from the house garden. There were soups and stews that would warm the winter with their delicate flavors and luscious turkey on Thanksgiving.



I remember the two of us sneaking around the outside of the house at times to sneak a cookie from the pie safe and eating a spoonful of cake batter, or two or three, when a cake was to be baked. But, then, we would also eat strawberries right off the vine or a peach just picked from the tree.



You and I never shared Mother’s formality of food. Although we would have been satisfied to sit in the kitchen and eat at the prep table, Mother always taught us that we were to dine at the table and have proper table manners and proper table attire and proper behavior at the table. And, we did because she was our Mother, because we knew it was good information to learn and good behaviors to exhibit, and because we thought it was funny to act as though we were dining with the Kings and Queens of Europe. Mother, having been reared in a prosperous family, put more emphasis on appearances than did Father. Although Father, too, expected proper behavior of his girls, he seemed to also be willing to let us run free through the fields, learn of the work that kept this property running, and enjoy the countryside. Perhaps this was because Father’s family was not always as prosperous in early years as in later years.



I sorted through that old box of recipes and, hopefully, additional delights will be tried. My taste buds water at the thought of those aromas drifting through the house again, leading a heart down the hall, down the stairs, and through the corridor until reaching the kitchen.



Forever,
Christina



This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated August 1, 1999

August 1, 1999

Katrina,

Last night, I sat at Father’s desk as a cool rain fell outside, looking through old family photograph albums. Within those pages are stories never told, stories that shall remain lost to the world forever until they are saved from being lost, told, given away.

A special album was dedicated solely to your wedding, and I spent much time remembering that day. Surely, that is a day you would be unable to forget.

You and Robert had suggested waiting to have the wedding until after the war but Father, in a letter, explained that you should not put your life on hold for any reason, that under all circumstances life must move forward. The letter was pressed between the pages of the album, and I read it several times last night. I wish I had truly understood its meaning then as I understand it now.

The album contained photographs of the wedding, the guests, the reception; with the album were copies of cards, notes, and letters wishing well the happy couple. And, as I looked through photographs, that day replayed in my mind as if it were just yesterday.

Robert was handsome, as always, in his black tails when he arrived at the house that fall morning. He was Father’s age and had earned a small fortune in the banking industry, owning his own bank, a path he chose to follow after he lost a hand, an injury from a prior war. Robert approached life with a healthy respect for fear, but was never ruled by it. He was a lot like father in that sense, loving life but willing to take some risks. Robert was mature and calm, educated, with a hearty laugh and eyes made only for you. And, it showed that day in the expression on his face when you walked toward him.

The day was crisp with excitement, colorful leaves of gold and red blanketing the ground but cleared away from the drive leading to the house. Sunny, but comfortably cool, it was as though the weather knew that this was to be a special day for you.

Mother stood behind you at the dresser in our room as she brushed your hair up, hiding pins beneath twists of curls and attaching the veil of lace. And, as she brushed, she reminded you of how proud Father would have been to see you on that day. You and I had stayed awake throughout the prior night talking of the changes to come for you, but your face showed not one hint of fatigue as they were filled with excitement for your new life. Betsy and I removed the dress from the mannequin carefully so as to prevent any tears to the lace and to keep the bright white color clean, and Mother helped you dress as Betsy and I busied ourselves with other tasks.

Betsy and the house staff had prepared a meal unlike any other and a beautiful cake of white decorated with white and red roses to match your bouquet; flowers that you chose and insisted on and, considering the time of year, had to be ordered special. Tables and chairs had been set up outside under a tent for the reception and the food, covered with large silver bowls with handles atop, was simply waiting for the ceremony to be over. The cake sat on a table by itself in the center of the tables and each table had a centerpiece of red and white roses. It was beautiful, elegant, much like you were that day.

I guess, in retrospect, it was symbolic to have a fall wedding with spring colors, although I thought it a bit odd at the time. But, roses were your favorite and you had always dreamed of a wedding with red and white roses. But, there you were, newly married around springtime colors, yet surrounded by experienced marriages and hopeful well-wishers in a sea of fall colors to help guide you into the autumn of your life. Almost, it was, as if the fall leaves were applauding your marriage and telling you that they would see you through to the end of time.

The wedding was in the grand room, just inside the front door. The photographs remembered details I had forgotten, such as the white chairs for the guests organized in lines facing the front door and draped with white linen, the large vases of red and white roses that sat on each side of the front door. The preacher and Robert stood atop the two platform steps just inside the front door, there amongst the flowers and lit by the sunlight coming in through the windows. It seemed so fitting, a gift from the house to you, to marry in the shadow of the strength of those doors. In the absence of Father, Mother waited at the bottom of the grand staircase for you and walked you down the aisle toward Robert.

Oh, that staircase. I remember it glistening from the rays of the morning sun, like it was proudly smiling for the honor of leading you to your marriage. Arched on each side and seven shoulders across in the middle with sturdy handrails following the angles, that staircase was the perfect entrance for you, its handrails outstretched as if offering you to Robert.

And, then, there you were, standing at the top of the staircase as the twelve-piece at the back of the room began to play. In a flowing gown of white covered in lace, with a bouquet of red and white roses and a veil that trailed behind, you were beautiful. The sleeves were long, the neck was high, and a fitted bodice sat above a flowing long skirt. You looked like an angel lit by the sun as you walked down those stairs, taking Mother’s hand at the bottom of the staircase and walking up to Robert.

I remember thinking that it was the first day of our lives that we had not dressed alike.

And, you never stopped smiling that day.

Guests ate and danced, gifts were opened, and toasts were made. The reception went on for the rest of the day until you and Robert drove away and into your new life. I was happy for you, Sister, I really was. But, never before that moment had I felt more lonely or lost, never had I been without you prior to that last moment that I was able to see you waving goodbye, fading into the distance.

Mother wrote a letter to Father that night, telling him all of the details of the event, of what a perfect day it was for all. At moments, Mother seemed lost between happiness for you and missing you, as any parent would. And, me, well, I walked about for a while, happy for you yet feeling uncertain about what to do without you. I watched George and some other workers disassemble the tent and, as they disconnected beams one from another, I felt as though they were disconnecting you from me.

By the time we had received word of Father’s death, you were with child. I was glad that you were able to return for the funeral but wished we had reunited for some other reason. Though letters had passed between us, it was never the same as having you here. I needed to talk to my sister, wiser with experience yet no older than I. But, time can’t be turned back. Father was correct, however, when he wrote that life should not be put on hold. I wish I had understood that then. Much time have I wasted. Much time.

I am so glad that Robert was good to you, keeping you happy, keeping you safe, the two of you blessed with children and grandchildren. I am glad that you knew love. And, I am comforted at knowing that he arranged for you to be financially secure when he was gone. The world lost a good man when Robert died, a good man indeed.

I hope to visit you soon, and I will bring you red and white roses... and this letter so I can read it to you.

Love always,
Christina

This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated July 29, 1999

July 29, 1999

Katrina,

It is a beautiful morning, blue skies above green fields, flowers stretching up to say hello to the angel sitting in the attic and then waving in the breeze to say hello to the other angels. It’s still cool outside, the night air not yet having evaporated into the sunlight, and a nice breeze is blowing through the window.

I had the most wonderful sleep last night, childhood memories returning disguised as dreams. Visions of croquet in the front of the house when company was present, visions of us running through fields of wild flowers, and a vision of mother lifting her eyes from a book and smiling at me in a way that seemed so real that I felt as though I had been transported back in time and allowed to see her again. I dreamed of the expression on your face when your oldest was born, though I was not there; and Father’s intelligent appearance; and, yes, I remembered George, the way his hair looked in the sun, his smile, the light in his eyes as he proudly boarded the train going to basic training. Sigh. Well-rested I am this morning.

It reminds me of the fragility of life. People should respect every moment we’re given. None of us ever knows how long we have to live. With each sunset, we close our eyes expecting to greet the new sunrise with our usual routine. People shouldn’t spend their lives waiting on opportunities or avoiding the direction our instincts tell us to follow.

If someone were to learn today that they had only one day left to live, would they be full of regret over lost possibilities and dreams never followed? Or would they find within their heart peace? No one knows how long we are to live, so we should cherish those little moments that mean so much, the smiles, the laughter, the love.

Dreams are paths to follow and the journey toward those dreams are tests, challenges of our heart, our perseverance, and our passion for life. When a dream takes hold of someone’s attention, when a soul feels a bit lighter because the dream has entered the mind, we can’t be afraid to fly. Intelligence can empower the imagination and guide someone down the avenue toward the dream; and the reward is avoiding the obstacle of regret.

Sisters forever,
Christina

This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated July 28, 1999

July 28, 1999

Katrina,

Is it beautiful where you are, Katrina? Do the hummingbirds flutter their wings, darting back and forth between flowers, lowering their beaks to taste the nectar? Do the lions protecting the gates of your abode slowly turn their stone heads, opening their eyes and smiling as they lift their noses to the scent of lilies drifting on the breeze with the honeysuckle? Is it peaceful? Is it quiet? From where you are, can your memory recall the quiet trickle of the water flowing through the creek that runs across the home-place, the creek where we once played as children? Can your mind reach back and feel summer Earth beneath bare feet? Can you see us in our youth carving our initials in the old oak tree down by the creek, splashing in the water, and having picnic lunches of apples and sandwiches made with Betsy’s sourdough bread? Can you recall helping with household chores and Mother helping us with our lessons and listening to the field workers brag or worry about the crop that existed on any given year? Can you, Kat?

You would still recognize the old home-place if you saw it, Sister. The Oak, like us, has grown older but, although some of the grandeur of yesteryear is gone, this old house still maintains its glory. The mountains still stand to the east, elegantly keeping watch over the property and counting time with the seasons. The lake at the edge of the fields still sparkles in blue, and the field of clover leading to it, I’m sure, still has a lucky petal or two. The fields are seeded and harvested now by machines much more than people, the care of the fields now entrusted to the son of the son of the man who worked those fields with Father. The house now has only a minimal staff, Betsy’s granddaughter and her two children. Then, of course, there is Monica, the young lady who helps take care of me; the one who helps me with things I can sadly no longer do myself. She is a kind soul and often takes me about the property in a wheelchair so that I can feel the sun and smell the honeysuckle and be reminded of the beautiful Oak that Father built for Mother as a wedding gift, this house where we were born, this house where my life has been spent. Mostly, though, I spend my days in this room, Father’s old office on the second floor, at his oak desk, looking out the window, writing, remembering, wondering.

In the spring, I saw the barn where we used to sit on bales of hay in the loft; talking and checking about our heads for spiders coming down from the roof; laying on our stomachs so that we could peer over the edge of the loft to watch the newborn calves sleep next to their mothers; or watching Whiskers hiss at the chickens only to see the chickens flap their wings and frighten that old cat.

The barn seemed like a holy place, protected by a sense of purpose with a resemblance to its immediate family, the trees on the property, and built with compassion for the creatures that called it home. For years, the barn was patched and repaired, but never painted. And, for decades, it proudly stood on the property like a monument to time.

That old barn still stands, its stalls still serving like small apartments for the animals within, the loft still seeming like a place of mystery and wonder. Repairs continue from time to time and care has been taken to shelter the planks from the seasons, but it still stands against the storms, against the rain, against the sun. Of course, it’s not exactly the same as it was in our youth, power lights, some additional windows, and some additional rooms having been added. The field workers now make their office in one of the new additions.

And this property, well, it has its own tale to tell. The road leading up to The Oak is now paved and, like a concrete hand, it continues to curve a finger, inviting people to continue up the road toward the house. The drive, still dotted on either side with the old oak trees, circles in front of the front door so that when someone leaves they are led back again as if the house is letting everyone know that they are welcome. In the middle of the circle, a garden of flowers has been planted, colors and sizes and plants arranged like a painting and, in the center, a water fountain made of stone with engravings of an oak tree all around it. In front of the fountain, Sister-- you would be so proud-- is a concrete plaque dedicated to Father explaining how he built this house for Mother, how he built this house with electricity and indoor plumbing, how he worked the land, how he earned his own way and didn’t rely solely on his father’s railroad inheritance, how he invested, how he served his country, and how he died. He and Mother’s stones are kept polished where they’ve rested for decades, there under the great oak tree at the foot of the mountain. Now, their stones, their graves, are enclosed in a small circular fence made of iron and painted white, surrounded by flowers and a circular concrete walkway. And, in the front of a small entrance to the circular fence is another plaque discussing more of Father and Mother’s triumphs and their life together.

Though these small rooms in which I usually remain still feel like home, so many changes have occurred to The Oak. I hope Father would approve. I suspect Mother would be proud.

Do you remember how we would grasp the knob of each front door, opening them simultaneously and walking through as if we were entering a great ball or walking on to a stage, giggling the entire time at our games? Those doors are still as opulent as ever, standing guard at the front of the house with the strength of aged oak and the inviting manner of a shade tree, the tops of the doors far above the heads of those who enter.

The house still appears massive when one comes up the drive, two stories with tall ceilings. The attic is still situated evenly over the front doors, comprising a partial third story with a roof that seems to spread out its arms toward the lower two stories in a protective stance. I used to lay in the grass and trace the outline of the house, up one side, sideways across the top floor, over the triangular roof of the attic, then across the other side of the house, and down again.<>

The stone angels, some draped in vines, still sit in their homes of wood above every window, beside the doors, and on an inserted platform in the attic overlooking the drive. Mother loved those angels, thinking that they protected the house and the family inside. Did they?

The house has grown older, its bones creaking from time to time as if stretching to relieve a cramp. The oak walls, still smooth and grand, still hug the light, reaching for it like a favorite doll and cuddling it until the light fades away. In the cooler months, the walls reflect the light of the flames of the fireplace as they flicker, teasing the walls with playful conversation. Sometimes, on an easy day, the walls seem to smile, offering a comforting and contented expression, almost as if they were whispering, “Good day,” to passers by.

Our family portraits still hang in the parlor. Mother’s favorite paintings and statues decorate the house, a reflection of her personality here and there. Father’s favorite sketch of The Oak has been moved from his office, where I usually stay, down to the sitting room. The grandfather clocks that tick away time sit positioned in their locations of royalty while smaller clocks, some of which belonged to our grandfathers, sit on shelves and mantles. And pottery, well, it seems that some of Mother’s favorite pieces, some from lands far away, are in every room.

It is so easy to determine which rooms were decorated by Father, with darker, masculine colors, leather fabrics, and his hunting trophies on the wall, and which rooms were decorated by Mother, with tapestries of rich colors, soft fabrics, mirrors, comfort, and a feminine quality. Mother’s formal dining room still houses her china with pretty flowers around the edges, silverware, and crystal; all sat upon Father’s oak table and surrounded by enormous high-back chairs covered in soft cushions with pretty patterns of flowers and vines.

Visitors still marvel at the house, a simple loveliness blended with privilege that created a home that was regal but livable, grand but comfortable and welcoming, warm and gracious.

But, mostly, I stay in our old bedroom and Father’s old office, up here on the second floor. There are memories of us all in these two rooms, memories of how Mother and Father would talk and laugh in his old office as Mother would sit on the sofa to sew and Father would sit at his desk to work on his books. There are memories of you and I laying on the floor or sitting in the chairs while we would read books from Father’s collection and then discuss what we had learned with him and Mother. It was in this office where Robert asked Father for permission to marry you. I know because I overheard. It was in this office where Father’s will was read and, later, Mother’s will. Decisions that have changed our lives forever have been made in Father’s office, some of which I remember with a sense of satisfaction and gratitude and some of which I would forget if I could. Sometimes, in life, we do what we want, sometimes we do what we can, and sometimes we simply do what we have to do.

Night is falling, like a blanket wrapping the Earth protectively, soothing the Earth into a restful sleep until daybreak. Through the window, I see the sun set, with blazing reds and yellows and blues streaking the sky; the day is not yet prepared to surrender to the night, still wanting to play outside like a young child not yet ready to sleep.

But unlike the day, I am prepared to rest for the night.

Good night, my Sister.

Always,
Christina

This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section1, Letter dated July 26, 1999

July 26, 1999
Katrina,

Good morning, Sister. It is a beautiful morning with cooler temperatures and a slight breeze coming through the window.


Last night, I watched the sunset. Were you able to see it? I love to watch the sun set over the mountains. The mountains seem so tall, so dignified, that one feels as though a person could sit on the top of the ridge and put their chin on the shoulder of the sun, wrap arms around golden rays, exhale tension, and drift into a peaceful daylight slumber. It is in those moments that I realize the true grandeur of the Earth, the power of creation.


The mountains remind me of all that is truly free, naturally beautiful, simple, true, and at peace. Souls can be restored as they walk through the valley toward the steeps of dignity, taking note of the evidence of years that have gracefully passed, leaving their mark on nature forevermore. When I’ve walked through the valley, when the breeze gently brushed the hair off of the back of my neck and the sun warmed my face, I’ve lifted my eyes to the sky and witnessed the eagle’s quiet expression of freedom as it glided upon the wind. When I have walked toward the mountains, I could notice the brilliance of color as it rises up to the tree line of evergreens that bordered snowcapped peaks early into the summer season. The mountains have been my truest example of strength, the closest thing I’ve ever known to perfection and harmony, hope, God.


If one is quiet and still, between the rustling leaves, the calls of the eagle, and the occasional crackling of leaves beneath the feet, one can hear the stillness. But, silent the stillness is not. For, when a person becomes comfortable with the stillness, it will speak. In the heart, one can hear the mountain’s song sung by all of nature, teaching lessons learned from the generations, teaching how to care for the planet, teaching how to care for one’s self. The mountain’s song contains the wisdom beyond the human condition, the stories of the ages, the brilliance of Heaven, and a compassion for life that exceeds the total of all humankind combined. The mountain knows the answers to all of our questions about life and God and eternity, about healing broken hearts and repairing broken souls.


To the mountains is where I was guided when Father went to war. Do you remember that day, Katrina? I do. I shall never forget.


It was August. The day was overcast at times, but the fieldworkers said not to expect rain. I had no reason to doubt them, their sense of the weather being much more keen than my own. And, they were right for not a drop fell that day. The workers always seemed to be able to predict the weather, the rain and the droughts, a skill that came in handy for farming.


Father and Mother had gone to town earlier in the morning to obtain groceries, necessary supplies for housekeeping and, I suspect, to determine from the post master if Father’s birthday gift, his new pocket watch, had arrived. That watch was to be a surprise, Mother having told Father that she had ordered a new dress, but I think Father, in his infinite wisdom and skills of strategy, figured it out. Whether he did or whether he didn’t, no one ever really knew.


The housekeeping staff was fluttering with activity, food being readied and decorations arranged in preparation for Father’s birthday party on the evening of the next day. When the 22^nd arrived, Father was to turn 40 years old. Mother was determined that the party would outdo any other party that year, including the fall festival.


You and I, at seventeen, were quite adept at social events, Mother having schooled us in etiquette and proper ladylike behavior. Well, at least, proper ladylike behavior when in the company of strangers, neighbors, or anyone not associated with the property. That may never have been so clear to Mother as when she arrived home from town that afternoon.


White cake with chocolate frosting was always Father’s favorite, therefore becoming the cake of choice for his party. Betsy, the housekeeper, had made certain that everything needed to bake the cake was in the house and set aside for this special event. How we ever talked her into allowing us to bake the cake in her stead, I’ll never know.


We did well, mixing the batter, being certain to add just enough flour so that it was of the proper consistency. Like an assembly line, we worked together, mixing, test-tasting, dividing batter into pans, and baking. Hustling about the kitchen, six layers we made for a cake that would defy a wedding cake, building layers like steps leading up to a porch. The kitchen grew hotter as they day went on; the heat from the stove adding to the heat from the weather, creating a sensation that my stomach was somehow melting from the temperature; making my head spin at times like a top that you wind up and let go. I remember the sweat dripping down the back of my dress as I repeatedly went to the window for fresh air.


Betsy came in periodically to check on us, admiring our baking and complimenting us on our efforts, our teamwork. And, as soon as she would check on us, she would be gone to deal with decorations or that extra special cleaning that people do when guests are coming.


When the layers of cake had cooled in the pie safes that we had placed strategically on the window ledge, they were retrieved and brought to the table for frosting and stacking and decorating. Again, we sorted ingredients and mixed until we made frosting with just the right amount of chocolate, tasting spoonfuls of sugar along the way just because it tasted good and because no one was watching. The first layer was put into place on a serving platter and frosted to perfection; dowels were added, and the second layer gently put into place. We frosted and tasted and frosted, added layers, then frosted some more. The smell of cake and chocolate and sugar drifted on the air throughout the kitchen and, sometimes, found the way out the window and floated out to pasture. When the cake was covered in frosting, we decorated it as much as we could with flowers that Betsy had made of sugar, adding vines and leaves of green frosting. Although quite pretty, the cake kind of looked like a flower garden, blasts of color on top of a dark background. But, it was what Father wanted.


We praised ourselves, and deservedly so. Our reward for baking in the August heat was the remainder of the chocolate frosting. As Betsy took the cake to the cellar to prevent it from melting, we put spoons to the frosting left in the bowl. The kitchen was a mess; dirty dishes from our cake baking and frosting making littered the sink, the counter, and the table. Cleaning the mess would be our next task, you mentioned right before you giggled. That’s the last thing I remember before frosting hit me in the face. So, as any sister would, I returned the favor in kind, managing to get frosting on your face and dress. Together, we giggled and threw frosting, running about the kitchen, ducking here and there, as if it would save one of us from the chocolate throws. Frosting hit the walls and the table, some of it landed on the floor, and quite a bit of landed on our dresses, on our faces, and in our hair. (Frankly, dear, what were we thinking? It’s never a good idea to waste good chocolate.)


The giggling continued until Mother walked in and was splattered on the cheek with some frosting intended for you. The giggling stopped immediately. Mother wasn’t laughing either. Betsy walked in soon after Mother, sighing as she talked about how proper ladies didn’t behave like this. Father came in next, muffling a chuckle as he saw us covered in frosting. We muffled a few chuckles ourselves when we saw him.


Then, George walked in. I don’t think I’ve ever swallowed so hard as I did when I realized that he, of all people, had seen me covered in chocolate frosting like a child. And, me seventeen! My heart sank, thinking he’d never notice me after seeing me like that. And what I wanted more than anything in the world at that time was for George to notice me, to think of me fondly, to ask me to the fall festival. After all, we were at the age to marry; you had been promised to Robert with the fall wedding already planned and George had held my heart since the first time I met him.


No one moved momentarily, until Father told everyone to clean up because news was to be shared. His expression had turned more serious.


It was August 21^st when Mother stood bravely beside Father and the two of us were instructed to sit on the sofa in the sitting room. It was impossible to mistake that the house, which earlier had been busied with party preparations, had grown still and silent. A restless seriousness had settled on the air, permeating the walls that now seemed to hang their heads with worry, pushing away the sunlight that they usually embraced.


I remember Father’s derby hanging on one arm of the coat rack while his overcoat hung on another. I remember listening to the silence of the house, a heavy silence that seemed to know the past and future. I remember Father standing there, his sleeves rolled up above his wrists, the stains beneath the arms of his vest, an attempt at a comforting expression on his face. I remember Mother standing beside him, her hands placed around his arm, just above his elbow, proper, strong.


“We’ve encouraged you girls to learn of events in the world. We’ve encouraged you to be able to think for yourselves, to educate yourselves,” he began. “So, it is no surprise to you that attempts to end the war have failed.”


I remember him pausing as if he were trying to find the right words. President Wilson, he explained, had tried every opportunity to keep us from the war, but no successful manner was found. The world had chosen a goal of power and control over peace, and the cost was human life. Father tried to comfort us, to reassure us that he would find his way back to us safely, but Mother’s tears exposed her true fear of another possibility.


Father had been a career military man, sometimes keeping the farm afloat from afar with instructions in telegrams and letters. He had taught Mother all he knew and she had become as efficient at running the farm as he. But, it wasn’t the same.


Father showed us the telegram he had received, instructing him to meet with the troops to travel overseas. He was scheduled to leave at nine o’clock in the morning on August 22^nd .


There was no party, a part of this old house dying on that day as if it knew a secret and refused to tell us. We said goodbyes on the morning of his departure in that same sitting room, with a few Happy Birthdays thrown in for good measure until Father, appearing distinguished in his officer dress, left us that day. As we watched him leave, how could we have known the future.


A week later, Father’s birthday gift, the watch, arrived in the mail. Mother kept it in her dresser, in her drawer filled with special trinkets, as she awaited Father’s return. Then, on December 31^st, the day before our birthday, he was returned to us in a box with a telegram that said that he had been shot, killed in battle, and had served his country well. He was buried with that watch.


And, we were never quite the same. Mother seemed strong and capable when Father was away, but when she realized he was gone from this Earth her strength seemed to turn into madness, her intellect into fear. Father had always been wonderful at making Mother laugh, but after his death her laughter ceased as if it had been buried with him. By the time the treaty was signed, ending the war, Mother had grown ill and died. The doctor called it pneumonia, but I think she really died of a broken heart, of a need to be with Father.


Sometimes, in the silence of the evening hours, I still hear their laughter echoing softly through the halls and I wonder if, sometimes, they come back home to visit, coming home to their precious Oak.


During those months of Father's absence and following the news of his death, I walked up the mountain daily, sitting at the top and viewing the world below, allowing the tree limbs to guide me upward on my walk, allowing the breeze to sing a song of peace, listening to the Earth whisper to the world of the value of life. It kept me calm, it kept me going, it provided me serenity in a time of chaos.


If, when we die, we can choose where our spirit goes, you’ll find me at the mountaintop with my arms outstretched and breathing in the hope of creation. Surely, Heaven must exist on the top of a mountain, originating the winds of peace and change that blow throughout the world and whisper into the souls of every heart.

Well, the day is getting on and my eyes have grown tired. I shall stop writing for now. I miss you, Kat. And, suddenly, I yearn for chocolate frosting. And, down the hall, I hear the faint sound of laughter.

Sisters forever,
Christina

This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated July 25, 1999

July 25, 1999

Katrina,

The sun is beaming down beneath a picture perfect sky of blue and white and, as always, you are on my mind. As I sit here, staring out the window, dazed and confused by the earlier rhythm of the porch swing, the hum of the air conditioner, and the sparkling glare of a ninety degree sun bouncing on and off the water of the lake as if jumping in and out for a cool swim, I feel the desire to contribute to someone’s life, as I told you about when I visited. It is with these thoughts that I write this letter, hoping that these words will leave behind a legacy for some soul I may never know, possibly creating some ease where pain had been by sharing some of the lessons I’ve learned; thinking that on some cold winter night, when the wind blows through a soul, ignoring their existence, and the quiet desperation of loneliness is felt deep within, that these letters will be read and the comfort of a friend will be felt.


There is so much that has happened within these walls. If only walls could talk, what would they say about the lives that have passed within?


So much of our life is spent focusing on trying to achieve something in our future or worrying about something from our past that we forget that this moment we currently hold in our hands is passing away as smoothly and as predictably as a mountain stream. When we use all of our energy fretting over what we don’t have, what we want, or what we’ve already missed, we lose our opportunity for joy.


Life is a journey, and our time here is passive. Our only guarantee at birth is that we will someday die. The only question is how much time we will spend here on Earth. So, why waste a moment and exchange an opportunity to laugh or to smile for that of something more negative, something that will drain us of hope instead of inspiring us to move on, to learn.


There are many moments of joy that we overlook; not so much because we are blind to the beauty, but because we see with our eyes instead of our hearts. Open a heart and you will discover all of these wondrous opportunities to smile. It’s been said to “stop and smell the roses,” but life is so much more than roses. People need to take time to notice the happy tears of the dew upon the flowers as they open their petals to the light of a new day, waving their leaves to their old friend, the Sun, with a cheerful, “Good morning.” We need to notice the patient smile on a dog as he rests with crossed paws, observing his territory as he waits for children to come out and play. We need to notice that the trees seem to stretch their limbs upward, stretching up tall with a deep inhale and a quiet yawn as they greet the day.


Taking the time to watch a sunrise or a sunset, watching the water flow, or listening to the stories of the wind, an appreciation is grown for the wonders of the world, an appreciation that will assist in slowing down the pace of life so that every moment can be experienced. And, when every moment is experienced, one can truly feel blessed for the few moments we have on this Earth, those moments when we truly feel alive.


I’m always questioning, wondering why we’re all here, what is life all about, what is the meaning of life. And, after all of these years, I’ve finally come to learn a possible answer. When people laugh -- really laugh -- and weightlessness is felt about the body and the stomach feels light; in that incredible moment is the answer because in that moment we experience true honesty and happiness, humanity. The secret of life is to experience those moments as often as possible.


Did we, the souls that have passed through these walls, written at this desk, live, take advantage of those wonderful moments when joy could have been experienced instead of heartache? Did we take the time to watch the sunsets, the sunrises, to notice the tall reeds, aided by the breeze, wave at the sky, happy to be alive? Did we? How would these walls, which have grown stronger and wiser with time, standing tall against the storms, its corners hugging the noon day sunlight, answer that question?


Katrina, can you remember when we were young, when we lived for laughter and mocked at fear, daring anyone to impede our exploration of the world? Can you hear my voice when I write these letters, Kat? Can you recall the laughter of two girls dressed as one parading around a summer field with Father’s old top hat and baton, making up songs to sing as we marched along, with Whiskers nearby ready to pounce on a bumblebee, when we knew not the toll of war or the care of money or the loss of love or the importance of time?


What happened to those girls of yesteryear? Did we grow up or old or did we simply stop growing at all?


I’ll write again soon. Perhaps I’ll write in the morning hour when the sun doesn’t shine so brightly through the window, illuminating the dark well of bad decisions.

As always,
Your loving sister,
Christina

This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated July 22, 1999

July 22, 1999
Katrina,

It seems like ages since I’ve seen you, Sister; since we’ve sat on Mama’s porch swing talking, drinking sweet tea, and trying to count all the stars in a midnight sky as bare feet dangle above the cool night Earth. I miss you. Sisters shouldn’t spend much time apart. It’s not natural. When we’re apart, it feels as though a part of me is missing inside, empty. Though I write to you regularly, it is not the same as being in the same room, sitting across a table from one another while we share stores or whisper gossip after the house has quieted down. Oh, the memories I have of our youth!


Lately, now that we’re no longer in our younger years, I’ve been wondering what shall become of our lives when we’re both gone. Will we be remembered? Will there be anyone who tells the stories of our lives, anyone to pass along old recipes or family history? Though I have hardly lived a life to be described as worldly, I’ve learned a thing or two over the years. Will there be anyone learning from my mistakes when my life is through?


Your situation is quite different from mine and writing is not so much an option for you, but I think I’ve devised a way to leave some mark on this world, to leave a legacy of some sort. I’ll explain it Tuesday when I visit. I’ll bring your favorite flowers.

Sisters forever,
Christina

P.S. I still write these letters positioned behind Father’s old oak desk, next to the window letting in the warm morning sun and framing the field of clover leading down to the lake. Like the love between sisters, this old house and this old desk are strong and enduring, experiencing the graceful flow of age and being witness to the trials and triumphs of life. Some say that before you can write you have to live a life worth writing about. Others say that residing only one day on this Earth is enough to fill volumes. Although this desk and this house are not human, they seem to breathe in what’s around them and have experienced lives of their own. Like shadows on the wall, they have heard and seen the human lives nearby weave days into years, flowing through changes like water around a bend. If these walls, this desk could speak, I wonder what they would say?

C.

This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated July 20, 1999

July 20, 1999
Katrina,


I’ve been thinking lately, Sister, about giving, about returning something of what we’ve received. Mother and Father were always teaching us about giving back, about being grateful, about adding to the common good so that good would surround us. Can you recall, Sister, how Father replanted two trees for every tree he used to build The Oak? Or, how Mother would work with the other ladies about town to be certain that all of the families had enough food to get through the winter or enough blankets to survive a cold spell? And, here at The Oak, special care was taken to be certain that those people who helped care for The Oak were well taken care of themselves, it being important to Father and Mother that those employed here were happy, without need, and carrying the feeling within that The Oak was as much their home as ours.


Over the last few years, just as when Mother was alive, charity balls and auctions have been held here at The Oak, raising money for all sorts of organizations, political, social, and those protecting the land and the animals. And, during that time, I’ve tried to do what I can, writing checks mostly and attending functions as my health has allowed.


But, the trees here on the property, well, now that’s something in which The Oak has always taken pride. I feel a need to protect the trees here at The Oak because, on several occasions, they have hovered above me and done all they could to help, times when my Sister could not be with me. The trees have aged for generations, a desire to live grown from deep within their roots and a willingness to share their knowledge with the world reaching out through their branches... if only the world will listen. And, up on the mountain, where the trees can view the valleys, if one sits quietly, the trees will shake about their leaves and move their limbs, telling the story of their life and of all that they know of the world.


Every year since Father died, as Father did prior to his death, many of the fields are farmed. Yet, any one tree destroyed by man or by nature is replaced with two trees. Whenever possible, new acreage has been bought solely for the purpose of the planting of trees and part of the original acreage that Father purchased is for only the trees to enjoy. I think Mother and Father would have been proud of how The Oak has grown in size and continued to honor the trees about the property, particularly the ones that built this house.


But, is it enough? Is it ever enough? Can any one ever give just enough or give too much? No, I should think that, if that were possible, there would not be any injustice in the world, no need; for need is created when we do not all share in the responsibility of giving, the privilege of giving to our own common good.


But, the trees know and The Oak knows, don’t they Sister, about the importance of giving, of that truth buried deep within each living thing that connects us all, one to another; of the need we all have to give and to receive from others. That is the secret that has kept the Earth living for so long; it is one of the many secrets to life.


The Earth, the birds, the trees, the waters all work together, caring not of pride or expense or hierarchies, knowing that working together will bring life for all. But, humans have never really learned to work together, and suffering has resulted. Why is it, Katrina, that so many are unable to see their importance in this world, their importance to others, their role in the web of life? Why do some people feel such a need to force their power upon others, to destroy another at their innermost core? Think of what the world would be like if humans were like the planet, the elements, all caring one for another; like the trees and the waters and the land and the animals working together, torches of goodness being passed on as easily as the seasons change. Think of what the world would be like if we worked much harder to find the good within ourselves, within others, within all of us.


But, the Earth is able to find the good in all, the trees lending a branch to the birds, the birds singing a song to the stream, the stream quenching the thirst of both. The trees and the flowers birth their seeds, packages picked up by the bees and the wind, dropped to the Earth below, and nurtured by the soil. The rain gently knocks on the door of the mountaintop, and the mountains direct the rain into the streams below, streams that will feed the trees and house the fish and nurture the soil. Together, they will work and they will flourish.


But, perhaps that is too much to ask of a creature that, at its worst, is so capable of harm toward its own. Yet, history has shown us, time and time again, of humanity at its best, of hearts reaching out to one another like the branch to the bird, willing to be a friend, willing to help. So, that must mean that somewhere, within each living being, is goodness. Right?


I miss you, Sister. You were the one who always seemed to have the answers.

Forever,
Christina

This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated July 16, 1999

July 16, 1999
Katrina,

I stumbled today, Sister, falling against the wall in Father’s office while getting out of my chair. Bruised but not seriously injured, I am, and much surprised at the secret that fell from behind a plank in the wall when it gave way at the weight of my body falling against it. It was a series of letters packaged within an envelope for safe keeping. Perhaps an invasion of privacy, but I read the letters when curiosity got the best of me.


The letters that had been mailed to others appeared to be copies and the letters received from others appeared to have been previously opened, the seal upon each broken and the pages within no longer perfectly flat as if hands had held them and tangled them somewhat, staining them with tears. The letters were written by Father, on Betsy’s behalf, asking various Heads of State to assist with locating a child birthed by Betsy when she was quite young. According to the letters, Betsy had had a troubled past which she had never shared with us, and why the letters were hidden in the wall I still do not know.


It would seem, from the letters, that Betsy was quite young when she moved to Mother’s household, having been moved there by her family who was worried that a child might come since a stranger had had his way with Betsy, a child herself at the time. Betsy had been given a drink by her family thought to rid the body of what they felt to be an abomination, but no drink could remove the humiliation felt by her family and, a few months later, a child came about anyway. Somewhere between Betsy's parents and Mother’s parents, a decision was made to give away the baby, and the child was taken away before Betsy had ever seen the child, before she had ever determined if it was a boy or a girl. It was a decision made more, it would seem, by Mother’s parents, according to the letters Father wrote for Betsy, since they felt Betsy would not have time to care for an infant, perform her household duties, and care for Mother, a child herself at the time, and since Betsy's family could not afford to care for the infant. Yet, in the letters, Father also wrote of Betsy speaking of ambivalence towards the child at the time of birth.


According to the dates, letters drifted back and forth between Father and various people for a couple of years until a decided answer had been received. There were letters in the package to and from church officials and governmental leaders and some of Father’s business associates with connections that could gain access to information. Betsy’s child, they learned, had been placed with a family through a local church, but had died of unknown circumstances before learning to walk, and buried in an unmarked plot at the edge of a small town near Mother’s home without Betsy ever having seen her child. She had bore a son.


As you know, Sister, Betsy went on to marry a field worker here at The Oak, giving birth to two other children of her own in addition to caring for us. Betsy and her children lived here in the house with us, you’ll recall, after her husband died, his heart giving out in the fields one summer day. But, how sad a life must be to feel a need to deny such life-changing experiences. Today, I’ve wondered, did Betsy ever tell her husband or her children of her first-born, of her horrific experience, of the exile from her family for an event that was no fault of her own?


Yet, when I remember Betsy, I remember a maternal figure who smiled often and found hope in each day. I remember a woman who made certain we understood our prayers and did not merely recite them; a woman who, with Mother, would sit beside us if we were ill; a woman who could explain how to heal a calf and how to make sourdough bread. Though she worked in the house, Betsy understood how to work the fields and taught us about the Earth and the elements nourishing seeds so that they would become corn or wheat or trees. And, on those days when we were allowed to help her in the kitchen, I remember Betsy singing or humming old hymns as she would go about her work. No matter the past, Betsy never lost hope.


Mother and Betsy were close in age, Betsy being the older of the two, and, like sisters, they could be seen chatting on the porch over glasses of lemonade on warm summer nights when Father was away, deciding menus or talking about the weather or discussing our behavior of the day. Did Mother know of Betsy’s trials, Mother having been so young at the time?


Betsy knew that Father was a respectable man, righting wrongs when possible, comforting the heartbroken, and searching for the best in everyone. Though relieved that Betsy trusted Father to learn of this part of her history and not judge her, I’ve wondered today if Betsy was comforted by the information she received about her child, her first-born, or if not knowing was somehow easier.


I am troubled by these letters, and have returned them to their hiding place in the wall of this house. How many secrets do these walls hold, Katrina, and why, after all the years that we knew one another, did Betsy never tell us of this? But, then, I think I already know the answers to those questions. Yes, I already know. But, that’s a story for another time.

Forever Sisters,
Christina

This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated July 15, 1999

In Letters Home, Christina Allgood, age 99 years, shares the story of her life and the lessons she has learned as she writes to her twin sister, Katrina.


July 15, 1999
Katrina,

Mother had been promised to another man, a man she had never met, when she met Father at the tender age of seventeen. Mother never told us this story, feeling that it was improper to share such information with her children, but Father told us because he thought it was a wonderful love story.

Katrina, do you remember?

Mother’s parents had arranged for Mother to marry a man from Europe, a wealthy, older man who, in partnership with Grandfather, had made his fortune in diamonds and jewels. Grandfather thought it would be a good match, and he thought that this man would surely be able to support a wife so that she could live in the manner to which our Mother was accustomed. Besides, with a business partner for a son-in-law, business was certain to continue to thrive and Grandfather would be able to keep a watchful eye on how Mother was living. And, Mother went along because it was the proper thing to do.

Mother was quite the proper lady but was educated in her own right, knowing a great many things about art and history and world events. Mother was quite capable of enjoying an engaging conversation about politics and international affairs, but also knew of more feminine topics such as sewing and meal planning. Mother knew how to think for herself, but felt obliged to follow certain expected practices of the affluent and of the female gender. Still, when she had set her mind to something, she could be quite determined to see it through to completion and success.

It was in the late summer when Mother met Father. A showing of a new artist was being held at a museum in the city, and Mother and Father had both attended separately. Father was a few years older than Mother, but it didn’t seem to matter as they began chatting, while looking at a painting, about color and light and the mood of the work. Father always said that he was quite taken with her beauty and her intellect quite immediately. Father said that when you meet the right person your heart will let you know that you’ve found the one, and you simply have to ignore the shaky knees that may accompany.

Over the next few months, Mother and Father would meet and speak of art and politics and dreams as they would picnic or take walks through the countryside. And, according to Father, they fell in love, sharing their first kiss in the falling snow on New Year’s Day as they watched a parade pass through town. Mother always said that it was on that day that Father presented her with a golden necklace containing a heart pendant, a necklace she always said she treasured though I do not recall ever having seen it.

Father explained that he and Mother were not certain what to do about her having been promised to the European, but Mother and Father knew they wished to marry. Grandfather Smith, Mother’s father, was not pleased about possible changes in arrangements. Nor was Grandfather pleased with Mother marrying a common man, a military man, someone without great means, someone who had grown up on a farm, the son of someone connected to that silly railroad idea. In an effort to disband the couple, Grandfather Smith explained that, if Mother were to marry Father, Grandfather would disinherit her and she would take with her no money into the marriage and have no money from him at his death. It did not deter the lovebirds, and their wishes to marry remained strong. Over time, Grandfather Smith changed his mind and blessed the union, unable to deny the light within Mother and Father’s eyes when they looked at each other.

But, Grandfather Smith didn’t know everything about Father, about Father’s determination or means. Father was an educated and hard worker, showing promise of rising quickly through the ranks of the military. What little money Father had earned himself he used to purchase land and farm it, growing his business acre by acre, taking financial risks when necessary but never being reckless with the future. And, when a large track of mountain land formally owned by the State, a track bordering Father’s own few acres, was sold cheaply, Father purchased it, and then watched the value rise as he farmed the land. And, it was on that land that he built The Oak for Mother.

Granddaddy Allgood, Father’s father, who, later in life, had made quite the wealth in the railroad industry, assisted Father will designing The Oak. It was a process that began, according to Father, on the day that he first kissed Mother, the day he knew for certain that he would marry her. Together, Father and Granddaddy sketched the plans and, when it was time, Father took the plans to Mother.

It was in the springtime when Father took Mother to the land where The Oak was to be built, formally proposing and she formally accepting. A diamond ring he then presented to her, and, Mother said, Father blessed it with a kiss. It was there, as they walked about the fields that Father showed Mother the plans for The Oak. According to Father, Mother even put her own touches on the plans so that the house became a part of both of them.

As soon as the ground was readied, Father began accumulating the wood from the oak trees about the property, preparing to build The Oak. Mother often accompanied Father, the two of them working together to make certain The Oak was strong and their dream realized. And, little by little, piece by piece, The Oak came into existence, a home built by two hearts with hope as its center piece, its cornerstone.

By the fall, The Oak was nearing completion and Granddaddy Allgood had grown ill, his fortune upon his death being left to his only child, our Father. And, our Grandfather on Mother’s side of the family began to rest more easily at night.

Invitations were mailed to all of the appropriate families announcing the date of the wedding of Abigail Smith to Kevin Allgood, invitations of white with gold, fancy lettering. It was on New Year’s Day, the anniversary of their first kiss, when Mother and Father were married here in the grand entranceway at The Oak. A day for new beginnings, Mother said, always beaming as she told us of her wedding day.

Mother explained in detail her long gown of white, covered in lace, with long sleeves and a tight bodice, that she wore on her special day, adding that she felt that her heart would pound out of her chest when she first saw Father standing there in his black tails and top hat. Mother told of the veil that trained behind her, the pendant that she wore about her heart, her bouquet of white roses ordered especially for the wedding, and the blue handkerchief that she held in her hand. The dress was new, Mother said, and the handkerchief was a piece that had been used in Grandmother Smith’s wedding, a piece that had also been borrowed from her own mother. Mother admitted to being nervous, but stated that it was a wonderful kind of nervous like when you ride in a hot air balloon for the first time, knees shaking but thrilled at the same time.

The guests sat in chairs facing the front oak doors, doors that stood tall and grand with a gentle strength that seemed to bless this union as rays from the sun entered in through the windows to applaud the ceremony. Father and the preacher stood on the steps just inside the front doors, and, with shaky knees, Father waited for Mother to arrive.

Then, suddenly, a ten-piece band situated at the back of the room began to play that old familiar song and, then, there at the top of the grand staircase was Mother, dressed like an angel in white, gracefully taking each step to the bottom of the stairs until taking Grandfather’s hand and making her way to Father.

The couple honeymooned here, at The Oak, the home that they dreamed of and planned and built together. Betsy, who had been with Mother since her younger days, came to live at The Oak, becoming a part of its beauty, its peaceful presence. And, on Mother and Father’s first wedding anniversary, their gifts to each other were the births of two children, two sisters to be dressed as one, who would receive the gift of living at The Oak.

Forever,
Christina


This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated July 14, 1999

July 14, 1999
Katrina,

Photographs, Sister, have stories to tell, details spoken by lines in the faces and clarity coming from shadows and light. How I love looking through old photograph albums, images returning memories to the mind with the power to invoke emotion. Here on this desk, near this paper, with the light of the morning sun coming through the window to illuminate the image, faces become real in this tangible memory of our family.

A painting of our family had been commissioned, and Mother and Father knew that they wished the painting to be lifelike and bright, reflecting the brightness of this house. After locating and hiring the best painter in the country, the artist, along with Mother and Father, began communicating through telegram about how everyone would stand and the clothing that would be worn. It was decided that Mother, in her hat and elegant dress of white, would stand beside Father in his military dress as two seven-year-old girls, dressed alike in dresses of a pale shade of blue like a summer sky, would sit on short stools in front of the adults in such a manner as so the dresses would hide the stools. And, behind us all, standing proudly, strong and protective, would be the grand staircase.

It was the painter who brought the camera, photographing the image to assist him should we have grown tired over the hours required for him to paint the family portrait. However, when Mother and Father saw the image, they wished to have the painting, a small copy of the photograph, and a copy of the photograph that was enlarged to the same size of the painting. So, all versions of the images of our family were kept, and are still upon the walls of this house to this day.

When the painter arrived at The Oak, staying in The Oak until the painting was completed, he was quite impressed with the house, talking often of its artistic beauty and size, of how the house hugged the light and comforted those who entered. It was his idea to include the grand staircase in the background of the portrait, saying that the staircase was the best example of the grandeur of this house and how, when looking at the staircase, it felt as though the arms were outstretched and welcoming, a good reflection of our family.

And, so it began. We sat for hours until hours turned into days, you being told repeatedly not to fall asleep and I being repeatedly told to sit still. The artist would look at us and then return his glance to the canvas with an intensity in his eyes that I never quite understood. Each morning, we would have breakfast and then prepare ourselves as we were to be in the portrait. We would break for lunch, but were only allowed to eat after changing out of our portrait dresses. After lunch, again we would sit for a while until it was time to stop for the day.

Sitting for the portrait was almost painful, the dreaded hours of being still, but the artist brought an enjoyment of his work and appreciation of art with him to The Oak that was mesmerizing. Over dinner, he fancied us with stories of landscapes and famous people that he had painted, telling us of his travels and the people that he had met along the way. Sometimes, while breakfast was being prepared or after a day of sitting was over, he would pull out a smaller canvas and show us the details that truly make a painting spectacular, like a candle glowing in the window or water trickling down a mountainside. And, when our parents allowed, he would let us use his brushes and paints, teaching us about mixing colors and smoothing a line. And, when he wasn’t looking, we would giggle and attempt to mimic the intensity in his eyes and the seriousness to his brush strokes as he painted. After his visit, though, the trips to the museums meant so much more as we began to realize the talent and the effort and the knowledge that went in to each piece, and we began to learn that the intensity in his eyes was a respectful desire to find justice between the subject and the portrait.

It took almost a week before the artist had the portrait the way that he thought it should be, the light in the appropriate places, the shadows where they belonged. We held our breath as Mother and Father reviewed the portrait, breathing a sigh of relief when it met with their approval. Then, there were the four of us, immortalized on canvas in color and oil so that all who looked upon the painting could see the light in your eyes, Father’s brave posture with his sword by his side, and Mother’s elegant and feminine tastes. All of us, of course, in front of the strength of that grand staircase.

The same artist returned the following year to create both a pencil sketch and a painting of The Oak, both of the same size as the family portrait. Even more breathtaking than our portrait, the artist’s painting caught The Oak at sunrise, the gentle hues of morning about the sky cradling the house as if the delicate hands of God were protecting The Oak, wrapping the house in a beautiful warmth of color as gently as a feather.

Yet, of all the photographs and paintings and sketches that exist in The Oak, the grandest has yet to be the small sketches first drawn by Father as he began to design and plan this house for Mother. Within those marks of lead, is something that no professional artist has ever been able to capture.

Sisters,
Christina

This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated July 8, 1999

Letters Home is a collection of letters written by the fictional character of Christina Allgood to her sister, Katrina, letters in which she shares the lessons she has learned throughout her life.

July 8, 1999
Katrina,

Summer is here again, the sun shining brightly on this July afternoon. The cows sound as though they’re complaining about the summer heat, but even the horses are remaining in the shaded areas during the middle of the day. But the mountain doesn’t complain, spreading out its hills to absorb the rays of gold, basking in the season that it views as being the keeper of the circle of life, the force that can keep the cycle rotating.

In the early spring, seeds sprout and life returns after its journey through winter, all things beginning to grow anew. But, it is summer with its warmer temperatures and season of growth that receives the message from spring to keep the world growing, to continue in the process. And, so summer does continue, through heat and rain, bringing the growth of Earth to fruition. But, then the summer has other duties to fulfill, continuing to warm the Earth until preparations are readied for fall to begin her season. And, after assisting fall to begin, fall assists winter, and winter assists spring, until, once again, spring passes to summer the responsibility of the Earth. And, through it all, the sun shines, yielding, at times, to the necessity and the knowledge and the skill of the other seasons until reigning throughout the summer months.

They gladly work together, the seasons, helping the world to prosper, helping the cycle of life to continue. Each season is important and respected by the other seasons, each season a queen in her own right who rules the kingdom with a gentle hand and a compassionate heart, each determined to fulfill her role in helping the Earth continue, proud to make each season matter, proud to make each moment matter.

Humans could learn a thing or two from the seasons, lessons of interdependence, lessons of making each season, each moment, count. Even the wind has focus, blowing in certain directions, whispering the stories of the mountains into the ears of those who will hear, singing autumn lullabies to gently calm the Earth into slumber, or screaming in anger when enraged of how the Earth is being treated. But, humans too often tend to live without direction, without knowing their purpose, simply walking through life from one day to the next without reason, suffering through routines, and, unknowingly, without the determination of achieving happiness for their lives.

All life deserves joy. Think of how much more joy each person could feel if they felt purposeful, valuable, important to the cycle of life, if each person simply slowed down their life to enjoy each moment until learning that life is allowed to be happy and fulfilled. But, joy is lost to regularity when humans run through day after day, repeating the same tasks mindlessly, no longer thinking about or studying what is going on around them, simply counting the hours until it is time to repeat the same routine once again.

But, like each season has a reason for being, so does each human, each animal, each plant, and all living beings are allowed joy. Puppies, running and jumping over one another, sniffing about their new territory, are joyful, happy to be alive, having fun feeling the spring breeze in their face or a hand upon their fur. Flowers stretch upward in the morning, saying hello to the world, happy to greet the day as their dewy tears of joy drip to the Earth. And, the mountain sits proudly, watching it all, but still confused about the human condition, wondering why, after all this time, humans still haven’t learned to live.

So much beauty exists around us, if we only take the time to notice. We can find joy in gazing at the sunrise and watching the birth of a new day. We can find joy in watching the sunset, rich hues sailing across the horizon like an angel tucking in the world for a night of sleep, or in studying the romantic glow of the moon. We can find joy if we take the time to listen to the trees or actually experience the feeling of the breeze against our face comforting us. Joy can be found in studying the smile of a loved one or feeling the honesty of laughter or in that moment of humanity when we understand that we’ve helped someone, that we’ve made a difference in someone else’s life. And, in joy, we find our purpose.

Joy is all around us and inside of us, but we have to slow down to feel it, to experience it, to recognize it. Without joy, life is like eating nothing, tasteless, dull, and without sustenance. But, with joy, life is enriched and happy and, in joy, we find our reason for being and, in sharing joy with others, we find our humanity, the light within.

If humans can find joy, each night will be more restful, each morning more bright, and each day a more wonderful time to experience.

As I look up into the sunny summer sky, the sun knows its purpose and finds joy within. As I look about the land, the cows, the horses, and the trees seem to be comfortable with themselves, happy-- although life is not perfect and never will be-- but happy, content, and at ease. Perhaps, in time, humans shall join them in their triumph, in their peace, in their joy.

With hope,
Sisters,
Christina

This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated July 7, 1999

Christina Allgood shares the story of her life and the lessons she has learned as she writes her Letters Home.

July 7, 1999
Katrina,

The house staff has been talking of war, Katrina, now that Betsy’s great, great grandson has recently enlisted. War is such a strange phenomenon, an entity that no one really wants and no one ever enjoys but, unfortunately, is sometimes necessary. Sometimes, wars are fought for freedom, sometimes for justice, and, sometimes, wars are fought for reasons no one truly understands, reasons only later sorted out and decided upon by history. But, whatever the reason, all wars share the same prayer that the war will end quickly and that loved ones will return home safely.

I wanted The Oak to do something special for the troops this month, Katrina, something that would allow at least a few soldiers to know that they are in the hearts and on the minds of the people for whom they fight, so that they know that they are cared about and that their safe return is in our prayers. So, each day, all of us at The Oak are sending cards and letters hoping that some soldier somewhere will, if only for a moment, feel the comfort and peace of home and perhaps receive a message of hope to their heart. It’s been amazing to watch the hundreds of pieces of correspondence be boxed up each day and prepared to mail. It is such a small gesture and yet it feels so exciting, as if an angel of joy is preparing to wave her wand about the world. Yet, I wonder if the true receivers of the joy are those who will receive the cards and letters or those who are sending them, sending a message of hope?

Father used to talk about war, about the preparations of war. He would speak, at times, about soldiers practicing skills until the skills became as natural to the soldiers as breathing or blinking. Father would talk about the bonds that grow between soldiers as they begin to trust and depend on each other, learning that working together could possibly result in all returning home alive and well. It was a sense of duty and an honor, Father often explained, that brought young men to war. But, Father was also quick to mention that war was never easy, a frightening experience with inevitable bloodshed, adding that the greatest heartbreak of any soldier was the loss of another.

Yet, where would we be without war? But, as much as I dislike war, the costs of battle, the losses incurred, as much as I blame war for personal losses to our family, I am thankful and grateful for those people who have the strength, the fortitude, to make such difficult decisions regarding war and for those who fight for all of us. Still, I’ll hold on to the dream of a world at peace with itself, a future without war. Doesn’t everyone have that dream?

Forever,
Christina

This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated July 6, 1999

Letters home. We think about writing often but seldom find the time or make the time to pick up the pen. Yet, in those unwritten words are priceless treasures, lifetimes of lessons learned never passed down to the younger generations, admissions of mistakes never shared with those taking the same path. In Letters Home, the character of Christina Allgood shares the story of her life, hoping that others will use her story to enjoy similar victories and avoid the mistakes she has already made.

July 6, 1999
Katrina,

What a pleasure of life it has been, Sister, to view the rebirth of spring each year as the trees across the property begin to stand tall, yawning and stretching their limbs toward the sun like a child awaking from a nap, their leaves rustling in a spring breeze as if sharing with the other trees the dreams they’ve had over winter. The grass then begins to seem, each day, a bit greener than the day before and more birds begin to return home from their winter abodes. And, here and there, a small bit of color can be seen as if the flowers are trying to awake a bit early, lifting their heads above the Earth just long enough to see if the sun will keep them as warm as their winter blanket of soil. In the spring, even the sun appears to begin shining more brightly, happy to see the seasons rotate as they do, happy to know that when summer is in season the sun will be able to spend more time outside, hovering above the Earth, keeping watch over time, and playing peek-a-boo with the clouds.

Spring is such a wonderful season, a season of variety. Well, one can feel the warmth of the sun on the face during the day and, at night, feel the luxury of being wrapped in a favorite blanket with a cup of hot cocoa and a good book in front of the hypnotic comfort of a softly roaring fire. Spring is like the magic of Earth in all its splendor, birthing new life and returning to life those who have been sleeping under the protective eye of winter.

The animals are out in the fields on this day, running and sleeping in the sun, peering up to the sky searching for signs of rain or wind or summer heat. The horses feel the rush of freedom as they trot across their territory, the icy snow of winter and the cold rain of early spring no longer chilling their legs as they make their way across the land. The cows are enjoying sunning in the fields, grouped together loosely but turning their heads to one another as if holding a group discussion on whether or not the weather will hold out.

Near the window, the bird that has spent his life here at The Oak watches the events of the property from his wooden house situated on a pole high above the ground, butterflies beginning to tease him with the gentle flaps of brightly tinted wings before landing on the rooftop of the birdhouse for a panoramic view of the area.

In the spring, I look across the fields of clover leading down to the lake, with the old oak tree there by the water, and I watch the returning birds building their homes, preparing to lay their eggs, and flying about through the air, happy to be alive, happy to be back at The Oak. What an incredible world it would be if all mankind were to experience such joy of life and living.

But, to know such joy, one must know love, and the spring is the season of love. But, what, dear Sister, is love? In my old age, sitting here at the window, love is still a mystery to me. The Oak just passed its century mark and we are soon to follow, but I think The Oak knows of love and joy and hope and speaks of these elements through its history and with some hidden force from within these walls.

Is love charity, the giving of the heart, of time, of money, of respect, or of patience? Is love concern that one feels for another, be they familiar or a stranger to us? Is love nothing more than physical passion or the fluttering that occurs when one sees an attractive face? Is love the force that binds two sisters separated by time, by life? Is love that connection we have with all living beings, with God, with mankind, with the animals, and with the Earth, each one helping in some way to care for the others? Or, could love be, in its purest form, hope, a process of positive thinking that drives people to goodness?

Yet, despite my questions of love, I know it exists in the world. Love is all about this world, Sister, and throughout this house, seeping out of the walls and up through the flooring in an invisible mist that effects all who pass through the front doors. Love is throughout this property, floating on the winds and being whispered by the trees and swimming in the waters, making its way into the hearts of all of the field workers and the house staff and any soul who walks upon the land.

Sister, my eyes tire and my hand aches and I must rest. For nearly ten years now, Katrina, I’ve written almost every day, sometimes only writing when my health allows. But, somehow, time seems to be slowing down my mind, as if a tape is rewinding, stopping at certain moments to play for me memories of the past and remind me of questions long since unanswered. I thought perhaps it was the winter months taking a toll, but spring has passed and summer is in season and my thoughts continue to slow. Perhaps it is my old age requiring me to review my years. Soon, I shall open the windows, and the fresh air, as always, will invigorate my soul.

I shall visit soon, Sister, if I am able and should the summer provide a cool, breezy morning. And, I shall bring your favorite flowers along with flowers from the garden so as to adorn your dwelling with lively colors and the scents of the hope that comes from the rebirth that was brought about by spring and is maintained by the strength of summer.

Forever,
Christina

This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.