September 28
Katrina,
Is it any wonder, Katrina, that a child is the greatest gift of hope that one can receive since children are born of goodness and innocence, hope and promise for the future; since a child is a soul that knows nothing of the world but trust and love. For months, a child rests in the womb, nourished by the mother, sleeping safely within her walls of protection. Then, at birth, the child knows the protective arms of the mother, trusting completely in this older, wiser being to care for any need that may arise.
For months, a mother carries within her womb a child, feeling movement, feeling kicks, and sensing love, feeling changes within her as the child grows. Then, at birth, a mother looks upon a child as a welcomed stranger, an angel sent as a gift to the mother, a miracle the mother cannot comprehend and science cannot truly explain.
A child is born with no knowledge or concern for money or wealth, for hate or war, for color or gender or privilege. Instead, a child is born craving love and hope, learning and exploration, and laughter, looking about in each new moment to see how the world has changed and searching for something at which to smile. Children are born good, Sister, for no mother has looked upon her newborn child in terror, frightened of an evil she had delivered.
And, as a child grows, they learn that which is taught to them by mothers and by strangers and by all. Goodness and badness and all things in between are written upon a slate reminding the child throughout his or her life of rights and wrongs and gray areas. And, as a child continues to grow, more people write upon the slate, providing guidance of one type or another, information to be organized forever in an invisible notebook of life experiences. And, soon, the child begins writing on the slate as well to be certain that no experience is forgotten and others emphasized. And, by the time the child reaches adulthood, society can only hope that all those who have written on the slate have done so in such a way that the column of hope, of love, of kindness, and of goodness total greater than that of the column of despair and sorrow.
Children are like the fields, Katrina. They must be tended with care or ruin will result. But where tenderness and care are provided, beautiful flowers will bloom and fields will flourish.
Sisters forever,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips, is now available in print at www.wordclay.com and in download format at www.lulu.com.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
September 25, 2008, Letters Home
September 25, 2008
Thank you for visiting Letters Home.
Letters Home is a novel written in three sections. Section I, entitled The Letters, consists of a series of letters written by the character Christina Allgood as she writes of her life and of the lessons she has learned in letters to her twin sister, Katrina. Sections II and III are written in typical prose format, detailing the reaction to the life and death of Christina Allgood and of the startling power of the magnificent Allgood home, The Oak, a magical and mysterious estate where the walls seem to breathe and the trees about the property are protective.
Join Christina, age ninety-nine years and the last Allgood family member to live at The Oak, as she discusses the trials and triumphs of her life, as she contemplates the questions with which she struggles, and in her search for answers. Then, join the house staff at The Oak as they are confronted with the darkness that was kept at bay by the Allgood family.
Again, thank you for visiting Letters Home.
Have a wonderful day.
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips, is available in print at www.wordclay.com and in download format at www.lulu.com.
Letters Home © 2007
Thank you for visiting Letters Home.
Letters Home is a novel written in three sections. Section I, entitled The Letters, consists of a series of letters written by the character Christina Allgood as she writes of her life and of the lessons she has learned in letters to her twin sister, Katrina. Sections II and III are written in typical prose format, detailing the reaction to the life and death of Christina Allgood and of the startling power of the magnificent Allgood home, The Oak, a magical and mysterious estate where the walls seem to breathe and the trees about the property are protective.
Join Christina, age ninety-nine years and the last Allgood family member to live at The Oak, as she discusses the trials and triumphs of her life, as she contemplates the questions with which she struggles, and in her search for answers. Then, join the house staff at The Oak as they are confronted with the darkness that was kept at bay by the Allgood family.
Again, thank you for visiting Letters Home.
Have a wonderful day.
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips, is available in print at www.wordclay.com and in download format at www.lulu.com.
Letters Home © 2007
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated September 23
Portions of this post may not be suitable for younger readers. Discretion is advised.
If you or someone you know is a victim of violent crime, report the information immediately to your local law enforcement agency and seek out counseling, information, and assistance at local social service organizations for victims of violent crimes.
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
September 23
Katrina,
Just as nature interacts so that all of its elements are tended to, people are dependent on each other as well. But, unlike nature, people don’t always accept their responsibility to the rest of the human race, not understanding the true impact one can have on another, unconcerned with the effect that they have an another life.
Someone, saddened for any reason, walking down any street anywhere, can be cheered simply by the smile of a stranger passing by, the nodding of the head of a clerk, or the bright eyes of a mother carrying her child. Everyone, even strangers, affects other beings around them, silently or loudly changing thoughts, feelings, and perspectives. To someone pondering death, the smile of a stranger on the street may change their mind and erase their plans. To someone content or happy, the lost expression in the empty eyes of a stranger may turn happiness to sadness or fear. To someone feeling unlucky, seeing someone overcoming his or her own difficulties can change the feeling of misfortune to fortune, to possibility. It’s all related, interconnected.
But, when the apathy for the value of the lives of others sinks to its lowest form, when the lack of concern for any other is gone, the result is violence, violence at its worst, violence in an undeniably evil form.
I was twenty-seven, and yet I did not recognize Hell walking up the drive to The Oak one Sunday afternoon. Disguised as a man with a smile upon his face, evil walked up to me and I recognized it not. But, then, the drink can cloud the eyes, the judgment. Perhaps if I had not been at Joe’s Tavern that Friday or any Friday before, evil never would have seen me, found me, sought me out, and broken the sanctity of The Oak. But, then, perhaps I was the one who had broken the sanctity of The Oak long before that day.
As children, the boundaries of The Oak were as a fortress that evil, sorrow, and pain could not break through. The trees stood guard, their limbs pointing to each other of any possible intruders, intertwining their branches to prevent entry. But, the trees were under the careful watch of a good man, a good leader, our Father, and reckless had I become with the emotions and thoughts that were allowed passage through the front gates.
The Oak seemed empty of people that day, a lazy Sunday afternoon that was perfect for being with loved ones. I was outside tending to flowers along the front porch when I felt an uneasy breeze blow nearby, when I looked down the drive and saw him coming nearer. Instinctively, I looked up toward the angel standing guard at the attic for guidance, and it seemed as though a teardrop fell.
Must one travel to the end of a road before being allowed to change? Do demons feel an incorrigible need to fight for what they feel belongs to them?
His name was Steven, I learned, as he approached and began speaking. I remembered him vaguely from Friday night at Joe’s Tavern, but had either known not his name or had forgotten it in the blur of the drink. After a long walk from town, though uninvited, I felt obliged to at least speak to him for a while, offer him rest on the porch and a glass of water. As he settled in on the porch, I went inside to fetch the water, continuing to notice how strangely vacant The Oak seemed on this day, and then I returned to him.
We spoke of the local community, which he seemed to know little about having just hitched in from a place with a name he could not recall. Perhaps his lack of recollection was because of the drink of which he mentioned being fond. We spoke of Joe’s Tavern, and he expressed also having plans to stop drinking, to settle down. We spoke of world events, of wars past and wars on the horizon, we spoke of romances and glory lost, and, as the hours passed, I seemed to forget the vacancy of The Oak and the uneasiness I had felt upon his arrival.
He seemed nice enough, lacking in harsh words or tones, and his clothing, though old and worn, showed signs of care and concern for his appearance. So, just before sunset when he suggested a short walk, I agreed, though I knew the season and the weather well enough to know that the clouds would likely restrict the stars and hide the moon.
We walked through the field, his steps acting as though they knew this land, familiar with the positioning of stones and water. And, the night grew darker.
As we continued to walk, we talked of this and that and of the history of The Oak. When I began telling him that I felt we should return to the house, he circled around me and put a gun to my body. I heard the trees shake as the wind picked up force, angry at what I had allowed on this hallowed ground. I felt the gun there, pushing into my side just before he pushed me to the ground; his voice changing, becoming angry, resentful, hateful, deadly. He lowered his weight upon me and, from face down in the dirt, I managed to turn over and began to swing my fists at whatever I could hit. He continued to scream at me, ranting, his rage growing with each word. In the darkness, in the struggle, I felt my head hit with something heavy, though I’m not sure if it was a stone or a fist. I made contact with his body with my fists from time to time and tried to push him off at others, but it seemed to have no impact as he ripped at my skirt and tore at my soul. My hand searched the ground for anything to use as a weapon, finding the gun. And, a shot exploded into the air. And, I felt myself hit in the head.
I woke there in the field the next morning, my dress torn and covered in blood. The trees looked down upon me in confusion of what had happened in their field, their leaves seeming to hang low, weeping for me. The gun was still in my hand and the rock that had been forced against my head was sitting beside me. Through dizzy, blurry eyes, the precious stone appeared to have been crying blood to have been used in such an evil manner. My hair felt matted and, after putting a hand to it, realized that it was matted with blood, blood that also ran across my face from the wound caused by the rock at the hairline. I had not been shot, yet pain blared throughout my body like a siren and it was difficult to move. And, Steven was nowhere to be found.
I just laid there, unable to move for the pain, until mid-morning when a field worker found me and carried me home. Betsy spoke to the field worker who found me, instructing him to tell no one. Then Betsy cleaned me up and tended to my wounds, ordering bed rest, keeping cloths smothered in herbal mixtures on my head wound, and keeping salve on cuts and bruises and scratches. Betsy had me consume regularly a liquid she had brewed containing a vile taste and a smell reminiscent of vinegar and horse manure being rolled around in rotten eggs, but Betsy was adamant that it would help me to heal. Together, we decided not to call the doctor or the sheriff, for we did not want anyone to know of this ordeal; the humiliation would be too much and would ruin my reputation, the reputation of The Oak, and Father’s business dealings. We would have to wait and see, she said, if there would be a baby, adding that, if there were, there were ways to deal with that.
For days, I stayed in bed, getting up at times to eat and to care for one very important task. I spent energy trying to regain my strength, crying, and searching for my spirit. The walls of the room closed in somewhat as if they were protecting me from harm, but the sun hid from me. And, I needed my Sister.
Betsy and I took the gun, the bloody rock, and the bloody clothing, shoving them into a laundry bag and then into a metal box. And, the box we carefully hid inside the wall leading to Father’s office so that no one would ever be able to find it, so that no one would ever know.
About a week later, my embarrassment and emotional pain were still great but my wounds were healing and my physical strength was returning. Business meetings had been canceled, the excuse of illness being provided as reason, and The Oak was basically able to run itself. I looked through the window of the grand entranceway onto the front porch one morning, and then looked to the strength of the front doors. Steven had never made it inside because the house knew--The Oak knew--and such evil cannot pass through the doors of hope. It was a couple of weeks before I was ready to go back on the front porch, and then only venturing there with the strength of Betsy beside me. But, finally, once there, the sun shined on me again as if welcoming me back home.
Two weeks after the incident, a field worker came to the house. They had found a body out in the fields. Having to know, Betsy and I followed them to the place where the body lay, and there was Steven, dead, a gunshot would to his chest and dried blood covering his clothing. From the location of the body, it appeared as though Steven had been running for the border of The Oak, his foot becoming entangled in the intertwined roots of some trees where the forest grew deep, causing him to fall and hit his head on a large root. That he bled to death was Betsy’s theory, and with a look of terror upon his face at the time. And, above him, the trees swayed gently, their branches outstretched to Heaven.
The body was turned over to the sheriff, but no evidence was ever found and no one had any information regarding this man or what he might have been doing on the property. And no one has ever reporting missing a man named Steven.
The brightness of The Oak seemed to return to normal after that, the walls attracting more sunlight, the workers about the fields and the house. But, even though The Oak had returned to normal, there was something of a cloud about me that remained. Though at times I was able to see the sun and appreciate its grandeur and warmth, to accept its comfort, there were also times I felt loss and unease. Much time passed before I felt comfortable enough to roam this property alone as I did as a child, and yet I’ve never returned to that particular part of the field.
If there was a baby, I’ve never been sure. In my bed one night, I screamed for Betsy to come help me and, with a painful cry, my body expelled a bloody mess just after Steven’s body was found. But Betsy kept it from me, explaining that it was in my best interest not to know, not to see. She wrapped it in a sheet and after I, weak from blood loss, made it to the window, I saw Betsy and a field hand bury it, sheet and all, by the old oak tree near the lake.
Hope lives here at The Oak, Sister. Father built it that way. Father used to say that it was the good spirits of The Oak that kept the workers happy to be here, that kept the place running smoothly and growing strong. Is it possible, Katrina, that The Oak protects its inhabitants as much as it can, considering that all things in life, all beings, all creatures, all living things are interconnected?
The world was different then, Kat. The world was different then. I wanted so much to talk to you, my Sister, about how I felt, about what had happened to me, and about what I had done, but I could not find the Sister I knew here at The Oak when we were children. Now, I realize that you were there, but I could not see you for my pride was as a heavy curtain that I did not push aside to look for you.
One is never the same after such an experience, the nightmare returning from time to time and the trust of others and of the self never fully returning. Betsy acted as my adviser as I tried to heal my soul, and after Betsy died I was left alone holding the secret and trying to repair the seams of my spirit that had been ripped apart. I’ve often wondered, Katrina, if I did something to deserve what happened. Was I being punished for some wrong I had done, I’ve wondered. Did my anger towards you, perhaps, or the hardening of my heart somehow invite such evil to The Oak, to me? And, sometimes, when my heart is open and I see the sun and remember what happened, I wonder if Steven began his life as a happy child running through fields of wildflowers, but later drawn from the light by despair until his heart was torn from him and he had no light left within at all. And, somehow, in those moments, I feel forgiveness for Steven, sorry for the pain he must have felt within. Is that where violence begins, Kat, as a seed of negativity, emotional turmoil, fertilized by sorrow and despair until any concern for life is gone completely?
Was I wrong? Was my action as equally violent as his, followed by a secret equally as evil? Katrina? Is there truly forgiveness for everyone? Sister?
Forever,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Education, information, counseling, and additional assistance is available to victims of violent crimes at social service organizations that can be usually be contacted by local or toll free numbers. If you've been the victim of a violent crime or if you know someone who has, report this information to the local law enforcement agency and contact a social service organization for assistance.
If you or someone you know is a victim of violent crime, report the information immediately to your local law enforcement agency and seek out counseling, information, and assistance at local social service organizations for victims of violent crimes.
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
September 23
Katrina,
Just as nature interacts so that all of its elements are tended to, people are dependent on each other as well. But, unlike nature, people don’t always accept their responsibility to the rest of the human race, not understanding the true impact one can have on another, unconcerned with the effect that they have an another life.
Someone, saddened for any reason, walking down any street anywhere, can be cheered simply by the smile of a stranger passing by, the nodding of the head of a clerk, or the bright eyes of a mother carrying her child. Everyone, even strangers, affects other beings around them, silently or loudly changing thoughts, feelings, and perspectives. To someone pondering death, the smile of a stranger on the street may change their mind and erase their plans. To someone content or happy, the lost expression in the empty eyes of a stranger may turn happiness to sadness or fear. To someone feeling unlucky, seeing someone overcoming his or her own difficulties can change the feeling of misfortune to fortune, to possibility. It’s all related, interconnected.
But, when the apathy for the value of the lives of others sinks to its lowest form, when the lack of concern for any other is gone, the result is violence, violence at its worst, violence in an undeniably evil form.
I was twenty-seven, and yet I did not recognize Hell walking up the drive to The Oak one Sunday afternoon. Disguised as a man with a smile upon his face, evil walked up to me and I recognized it not. But, then, the drink can cloud the eyes, the judgment. Perhaps if I had not been at Joe’s Tavern that Friday or any Friday before, evil never would have seen me, found me, sought me out, and broken the sanctity of The Oak. But, then, perhaps I was the one who had broken the sanctity of The Oak long before that day.
As children, the boundaries of The Oak were as a fortress that evil, sorrow, and pain could not break through. The trees stood guard, their limbs pointing to each other of any possible intruders, intertwining their branches to prevent entry. But, the trees were under the careful watch of a good man, a good leader, our Father, and reckless had I become with the emotions and thoughts that were allowed passage through the front gates.
The Oak seemed empty of people that day, a lazy Sunday afternoon that was perfect for being with loved ones. I was outside tending to flowers along the front porch when I felt an uneasy breeze blow nearby, when I looked down the drive and saw him coming nearer. Instinctively, I looked up toward the angel standing guard at the attic for guidance, and it seemed as though a teardrop fell.
Must one travel to the end of a road before being allowed to change? Do demons feel an incorrigible need to fight for what they feel belongs to them?
His name was Steven, I learned, as he approached and began speaking. I remembered him vaguely from Friday night at Joe’s Tavern, but had either known not his name or had forgotten it in the blur of the drink. After a long walk from town, though uninvited, I felt obliged to at least speak to him for a while, offer him rest on the porch and a glass of water. As he settled in on the porch, I went inside to fetch the water, continuing to notice how strangely vacant The Oak seemed on this day, and then I returned to him.
We spoke of the local community, which he seemed to know little about having just hitched in from a place with a name he could not recall. Perhaps his lack of recollection was because of the drink of which he mentioned being fond. We spoke of Joe’s Tavern, and he expressed also having plans to stop drinking, to settle down. We spoke of world events, of wars past and wars on the horizon, we spoke of romances and glory lost, and, as the hours passed, I seemed to forget the vacancy of The Oak and the uneasiness I had felt upon his arrival.
He seemed nice enough, lacking in harsh words or tones, and his clothing, though old and worn, showed signs of care and concern for his appearance. So, just before sunset when he suggested a short walk, I agreed, though I knew the season and the weather well enough to know that the clouds would likely restrict the stars and hide the moon.
We walked through the field, his steps acting as though they knew this land, familiar with the positioning of stones and water. And, the night grew darker.
As we continued to walk, we talked of this and that and of the history of The Oak. When I began telling him that I felt we should return to the house, he circled around me and put a gun to my body. I heard the trees shake as the wind picked up force, angry at what I had allowed on this hallowed ground. I felt the gun there, pushing into my side just before he pushed me to the ground; his voice changing, becoming angry, resentful, hateful, deadly. He lowered his weight upon me and, from face down in the dirt, I managed to turn over and began to swing my fists at whatever I could hit. He continued to scream at me, ranting, his rage growing with each word. In the darkness, in the struggle, I felt my head hit with something heavy, though I’m not sure if it was a stone or a fist. I made contact with his body with my fists from time to time and tried to push him off at others, but it seemed to have no impact as he ripped at my skirt and tore at my soul. My hand searched the ground for anything to use as a weapon, finding the gun. And, a shot exploded into the air. And, I felt myself hit in the head.
I woke there in the field the next morning, my dress torn and covered in blood. The trees looked down upon me in confusion of what had happened in their field, their leaves seeming to hang low, weeping for me. The gun was still in my hand and the rock that had been forced against my head was sitting beside me. Through dizzy, blurry eyes, the precious stone appeared to have been crying blood to have been used in such an evil manner. My hair felt matted and, after putting a hand to it, realized that it was matted with blood, blood that also ran across my face from the wound caused by the rock at the hairline. I had not been shot, yet pain blared throughout my body like a siren and it was difficult to move. And, Steven was nowhere to be found.
I just laid there, unable to move for the pain, until mid-morning when a field worker found me and carried me home. Betsy spoke to the field worker who found me, instructing him to tell no one. Then Betsy cleaned me up and tended to my wounds, ordering bed rest, keeping cloths smothered in herbal mixtures on my head wound, and keeping salve on cuts and bruises and scratches. Betsy had me consume regularly a liquid she had brewed containing a vile taste and a smell reminiscent of vinegar and horse manure being rolled around in rotten eggs, but Betsy was adamant that it would help me to heal. Together, we decided not to call the doctor or the sheriff, for we did not want anyone to know of this ordeal; the humiliation would be too much and would ruin my reputation, the reputation of The Oak, and Father’s business dealings. We would have to wait and see, she said, if there would be a baby, adding that, if there were, there were ways to deal with that.
For days, I stayed in bed, getting up at times to eat and to care for one very important task. I spent energy trying to regain my strength, crying, and searching for my spirit. The walls of the room closed in somewhat as if they were protecting me from harm, but the sun hid from me. And, I needed my Sister.
Betsy and I took the gun, the bloody rock, and the bloody clothing, shoving them into a laundry bag and then into a metal box. And, the box we carefully hid inside the wall leading to Father’s office so that no one would ever be able to find it, so that no one would ever know.
About a week later, my embarrassment and emotional pain were still great but my wounds were healing and my physical strength was returning. Business meetings had been canceled, the excuse of illness being provided as reason, and The Oak was basically able to run itself. I looked through the window of the grand entranceway onto the front porch one morning, and then looked to the strength of the front doors. Steven had never made it inside because the house knew--The Oak knew--and such evil cannot pass through the doors of hope. It was a couple of weeks before I was ready to go back on the front porch, and then only venturing there with the strength of Betsy beside me. But, finally, once there, the sun shined on me again as if welcoming me back home.
Two weeks after the incident, a field worker came to the house. They had found a body out in the fields. Having to know, Betsy and I followed them to the place where the body lay, and there was Steven, dead, a gunshot would to his chest and dried blood covering his clothing. From the location of the body, it appeared as though Steven had been running for the border of The Oak, his foot becoming entangled in the intertwined roots of some trees where the forest grew deep, causing him to fall and hit his head on a large root. That he bled to death was Betsy’s theory, and with a look of terror upon his face at the time. And, above him, the trees swayed gently, their branches outstretched to Heaven.
The body was turned over to the sheriff, but no evidence was ever found and no one had any information regarding this man or what he might have been doing on the property. And no one has ever reporting missing a man named Steven.
The brightness of The Oak seemed to return to normal after that, the walls attracting more sunlight, the workers about the fields and the house. But, even though The Oak had returned to normal, there was something of a cloud about me that remained. Though at times I was able to see the sun and appreciate its grandeur and warmth, to accept its comfort, there were also times I felt loss and unease. Much time passed before I felt comfortable enough to roam this property alone as I did as a child, and yet I’ve never returned to that particular part of the field.
If there was a baby, I’ve never been sure. In my bed one night, I screamed for Betsy to come help me and, with a painful cry, my body expelled a bloody mess just after Steven’s body was found. But Betsy kept it from me, explaining that it was in my best interest not to know, not to see. She wrapped it in a sheet and after I, weak from blood loss, made it to the window, I saw Betsy and a field hand bury it, sheet and all, by the old oak tree near the lake.
Hope lives here at The Oak, Sister. Father built it that way. Father used to say that it was the good spirits of The Oak that kept the workers happy to be here, that kept the place running smoothly and growing strong. Is it possible, Katrina, that The Oak protects its inhabitants as much as it can, considering that all things in life, all beings, all creatures, all living things are interconnected?
The world was different then, Kat. The world was different then. I wanted so much to talk to you, my Sister, about how I felt, about what had happened to me, and about what I had done, but I could not find the Sister I knew here at The Oak when we were children. Now, I realize that you were there, but I could not see you for my pride was as a heavy curtain that I did not push aside to look for you.
One is never the same after such an experience, the nightmare returning from time to time and the trust of others and of the self never fully returning. Betsy acted as my adviser as I tried to heal my soul, and after Betsy died I was left alone holding the secret and trying to repair the seams of my spirit that had been ripped apart. I’ve often wondered, Katrina, if I did something to deserve what happened. Was I being punished for some wrong I had done, I’ve wondered. Did my anger towards you, perhaps, or the hardening of my heart somehow invite such evil to The Oak, to me? And, sometimes, when my heart is open and I see the sun and remember what happened, I wonder if Steven began his life as a happy child running through fields of wildflowers, but later drawn from the light by despair until his heart was torn from him and he had no light left within at all. And, somehow, in those moments, I feel forgiveness for Steven, sorry for the pain he must have felt within. Is that where violence begins, Kat, as a seed of negativity, emotional turmoil, fertilized by sorrow and despair until any concern for life is gone completely?
Was I wrong? Was my action as equally violent as his, followed by a secret equally as evil? Katrina? Is there truly forgiveness for everyone? Sister?
Forever,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Education, information, counseling, and additional assistance is available to victims of violent crimes at social service organizations that can be usually be contacted by local or toll free numbers. If you've been the victim of a violent crime or if you know someone who has, report this information to the local law enforcement agency and contact a social service organization for assistance.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated September 20
September 20
Katrina,
The fresh September morning breeze is brisk this morning as it comes in through the window. As I sit here at Father’s old oak desk, the breeze seems to speak to me, whispering in my ear and teasing me with humorous memories from the past. And, as I smile in response to the wordless messages, part of my heart brightens.
The past is full of bright memories and difficult days. Life is like that, an incredible combination of laughter, easy paths, obstacles, and tears. For too many years I focused on the negative memories, Katrina, but I’m learning in my old age to do better now, to remember the good times, the laughter, and all of the blessings, even learning to be thankful for the blessings that come from learning difficult lessons and overcoming obstacles. It is all part of the journey.
What is the past, Sister? Do we make too much of it, spending our energies considering options no longer available to us, dwelling on what has been lost or what was never had? I think we do, Kat. Energy can be fleeting, just as can be time, and so many of us waste our energy focusing on days already forgotten to the world instead of spending energy improving today and tomorrow.
Yet, is there really a tomorrow? Or, is tomorrow nothing more than a wish? For, dear Sister, tomorrow seems to be elusive, a promise always just a step ahead of us. Perhaps, all we really have is today, here, now.
Is that the secret of time, Katrina? Could it be that the past is merely something similar to a book we have lived, an opportunity to look back over the pages, emphasizing sections with underlines and marginal notes, and then learning from the mistakes that were made; using this learned information to make today, now, the best it can be; using the combination of mistakes and triumphs from yesterday and today to plan for the next today that comes along?
The seasonal changes have kept me thinking, Katrina, invigorating the mind with questions that have answers only known to those much greater than myself.
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips, is now available in print at www.wordclay.com and in download format at www.lulu.com.
Katrina,
The fresh September morning breeze is brisk this morning as it comes in through the window. As I sit here at Father’s old oak desk, the breeze seems to speak to me, whispering in my ear and teasing me with humorous memories from the past. And, as I smile in response to the wordless messages, part of my heart brightens.
The past is full of bright memories and difficult days. Life is like that, an incredible combination of laughter, easy paths, obstacles, and tears. For too many years I focused on the negative memories, Katrina, but I’m learning in my old age to do better now, to remember the good times, the laughter, and all of the blessings, even learning to be thankful for the blessings that come from learning difficult lessons and overcoming obstacles. It is all part of the journey.
What is the past, Sister? Do we make too much of it, spending our energies considering options no longer available to us, dwelling on what has been lost or what was never had? I think we do, Kat. Energy can be fleeting, just as can be time, and so many of us waste our energy focusing on days already forgotten to the world instead of spending energy improving today and tomorrow.
Yet, is there really a tomorrow? Or, is tomorrow nothing more than a wish? For, dear Sister, tomorrow seems to be elusive, a promise always just a step ahead of us. Perhaps, all we really have is today, here, now.
Is that the secret of time, Katrina? Could it be that the past is merely something similar to a book we have lived, an opportunity to look back over the pages, emphasizing sections with underlines and marginal notes, and then learning from the mistakes that were made; using this learned information to make today, now, the best it can be; using the combination of mistakes and triumphs from yesterday and today to plan for the next today that comes along?
The seasonal changes have kept me thinking, Katrina, invigorating the mind with questions that have answers only known to those much greater than myself.
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips, is now available in print at www.wordclay.com and in download format at www.lulu.com.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated September 18
September 18
Katrina,
The sun shines down warmly on this autumn day as the darker half of the year begins. And, I am but to wonder what the world has learned over the summer months. As the sun shown down in the summer season with warmth and brightness, did we seek warmth and brightness within ourselves and give these blessings freely to others? Dear Sister, isn’t it true that the greatest treasures are those that are given away freely, without invitation, without strings, without the promise of some return? Do the people of the world learn as we age?
I leave this for you to ponder, Sister.
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips is available in print at www.wordclay.com and in downloadable format at www.lulu.com.
Katrina,
The sun shines down warmly on this autumn day as the darker half of the year begins. And, I am but to wonder what the world has learned over the summer months. As the sun shown down in the summer season with warmth and brightness, did we seek warmth and brightness within ourselves and give these blessings freely to others? Dear Sister, isn’t it true that the greatest treasures are those that are given away freely, without invitation, without strings, without the promise of some return? Do the people of the world learn as we age?
I leave this for you to ponder, Sister.
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips is available in print at www.wordclay.com and in downloadable format at www.lulu.com.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated September 17
September 17
Katrina,
Autumn is embracing The Oak, comforting the property, embracing the house like a mother’s arms rocking her child to sleep for the winter. The wise mountain sits, overlooking The Oak, and I long to walk up its side, sit in the noonday sun, and ask questions of the trees; questions to help create an understanding within me of the world; questions with answers that may help to create peace in the recesses of my mind, in the soul, and in the world.
I’ve been wondering, Katrina, while sitting here remembering the past, recalling events from long ago and contemplating causes and outcomes and how things happen as they do, about listening. It is said to be a great skill of communication but, as I sit here, I think listening may hold keys to deeper meanings.
Communication is so complicated, with subtle clues to meaning gathered from emphasis on certain words and body movements and slight changes in tone. One who is speaking may mean to be humorous, but the one who is listening may consider the meaning to be critical. Are we listening with ears or with hearts? Or, are we listening from a much deeper place, a place that anonymously whispers to our spirit what the anonymous voice wants us to believe about the message, a place that has already made up its mind about meaning before the speaker even begins speaking, judgments that are made before a sound is uttered? Do we simply hear what we want to hear or do listen for what we expect to hear or what we hope to hear?
Most people have been in that situation, haven’t they, Kat? A situation of confusion where meaning is distorted somewhere between the sender and the receiver, both being left puzzled, either immediately or at a later date after rumors have begun about the conversation, about the temperament of the parties involved? I’ve been on both ends, sometimes misunderstanding the intent of another and, other times, people leaving my presence angered at something I’ve said though I had no ill intentions. And the emotion that is caused by these misunderstandings is lasting and effects reputations, tainting future conversations with certain meanings before they occur as if a seed had been planted.
Why? How? What demons of discontent are at work? What voices from the past are making judgments and convincing us to make judgments, and causing pain within the hearts of the innocent, causing pain for no other reason than because they can?
Only the angels know the truth.
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips is now available in print at www.wordclay.com and in downloadable format at www.lulu.com.
Katrina,
Autumn is embracing The Oak, comforting the property, embracing the house like a mother’s arms rocking her child to sleep for the winter. The wise mountain sits, overlooking The Oak, and I long to walk up its side, sit in the noonday sun, and ask questions of the trees; questions to help create an understanding within me of the world; questions with answers that may help to create peace in the recesses of my mind, in the soul, and in the world.
I’ve been wondering, Katrina, while sitting here remembering the past, recalling events from long ago and contemplating causes and outcomes and how things happen as they do, about listening. It is said to be a great skill of communication but, as I sit here, I think listening may hold keys to deeper meanings.
Communication is so complicated, with subtle clues to meaning gathered from emphasis on certain words and body movements and slight changes in tone. One who is speaking may mean to be humorous, but the one who is listening may consider the meaning to be critical. Are we listening with ears or with hearts? Or, are we listening from a much deeper place, a place that anonymously whispers to our spirit what the anonymous voice wants us to believe about the message, a place that has already made up its mind about meaning before the speaker even begins speaking, judgments that are made before a sound is uttered? Do we simply hear what we want to hear or do listen for what we expect to hear or what we hope to hear?
Most people have been in that situation, haven’t they, Kat? A situation of confusion where meaning is distorted somewhere between the sender and the receiver, both being left puzzled, either immediately or at a later date after rumors have begun about the conversation, about the temperament of the parties involved? I’ve been on both ends, sometimes misunderstanding the intent of another and, other times, people leaving my presence angered at something I’ve said though I had no ill intentions. And the emotion that is caused by these misunderstandings is lasting and effects reputations, tainting future conversations with certain meanings before they occur as if a seed had been planted.
Why? How? What demons of discontent are at work? What voices from the past are making judgments and convincing us to make judgments, and causing pain within the hearts of the innocent, causing pain for no other reason than because they can?
Only the angels know the truth.
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips is now available in print at www.wordclay.com and in downloadable format at www.lulu.com.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated September 15
September 15
Katrina,
These September days are transitioning time, altering the seasons, warm days and cool nights intermingling until the cool nights, hour by hour, take over the days in their entirety. Like a bridge, the connection between the seasons of time is unmistakable, and it is a bridge that must be crossed, for the winter of life is a necessity for growth. Soon, the leaves of golden reds and yellows will blanket the Earth again, a natural patchwork quilt made of love and with great determination for spring.
My hand grows weaker, it seems, and my heart grows worried. Have I made the right decision, Kat, about The Oak? Will it be cared for when I’m gone as Father would have wanted? As I want? I wonder.
Most things are in order, a will is in place, a knowledgeable staff of people who have dedicated their hearts to The Oak to remain. Still, when I’m gone they may find a few surprises left behind should they happen upon them.
Do you recall the time capsule we created as children, Sister? Buried in the ground like the seed of the mighty oak, on the eastern side of the house facing the rising sun, is a small metal box that was our own; a box containing ribbons so that we would always have pretty ribbons for our hair, a coin from each of us so that we would have good fortune in our future, a bookmark so that we would always have books to read, a wildflower so that there would always be beautiful flowers, and a picture of us so that we would always be together. Each of us blessed the box with a kiss and buried it, Whiskers with us there and curious about what we were doing.
And, Whiskers... we can’t forget that Whiskers is buried in an oak box that Father made and respectfully buried near the great oak tree that rises tall by the water. In the box with Whiskers we buried his favorite ball of green yarn. Do you remember, Sister, watching Father dig the hole, the three of us saying a blessing over Whiskers as Father shoveled the dirt over the box?
In the room we used to share still sit our childhood trinkets, our teenage diaries that we would read to each other in the quiet of the night, wildflowers and roses still pressed between pages. On the shelves are the angel sculptures and music boxes, gifts from parents and grandparents. Stuffed animals still sit upon the rocking chair in the corner. On our dresser, silver combs and brushes sit in identical pairs near looking glasses and pretty perfume bottles. And, there, on the window ledge, is the small crystal angel that looks out over the property.
In the attic, beneath a loose board in the floor and in view of the angel looking out from the attic tower, are the rag dolls given to us by our Mother’s mother, dolls that we buried there beneath the oak floor the same day that we saw our grandmother buried. And, in that same attic are trunks filled with our baby shoes, our baby rattles, the dresses we wore as children, and the essays we wrote for our school lessons. Yes, Mother saved it all. Another trunk holds Mother’s wedding dress and Father’s uniforms, clothing that will probably be displayed when I’m no longer here.
And, situated here and there inside the house, beneath loose planks, behind certain paintings, inside of the walls, and within hidden compartments of dresser drawers, are thousands of dollars that Father had had in his safe when he left for war. The cash remained there at the time of Mother’s death. And, after George left, I decided to find a much more safer location for some of the cash than a safe. Where else but a safe would a crook expect to find money? So, I redistributed the cash about the house, telling no one of its locations. But, I find humor and some comfort knowing that when I’m gone, should they ever do construction or repairs in the proper location, should they ever happen to stumble across a treasure, they will be rewarded with Father’s money.
I have no qualms regarding these memories of ours being on display in the future; the visitors here seem respectful of the past and of the people who have lived within these walls and passed through these doors. But, mostly, I hope that visitors find some information of value here, leaving The Oak with a new understanding of the importance of life, the importance of their life, the importance of time, and the significance of choices.
And, what of you, Sister? Do you mind having your childhood on display, of sharing the days of your childhood with kind-hearted strangers?
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips is now available in print at www.wordclay.com and in downloadable format at www.lulu.com.
Katrina,
These September days are transitioning time, altering the seasons, warm days and cool nights intermingling until the cool nights, hour by hour, take over the days in their entirety. Like a bridge, the connection between the seasons of time is unmistakable, and it is a bridge that must be crossed, for the winter of life is a necessity for growth. Soon, the leaves of golden reds and yellows will blanket the Earth again, a natural patchwork quilt made of love and with great determination for spring.
My hand grows weaker, it seems, and my heart grows worried. Have I made the right decision, Kat, about The Oak? Will it be cared for when I’m gone as Father would have wanted? As I want? I wonder.
Most things are in order, a will is in place, a knowledgeable staff of people who have dedicated their hearts to The Oak to remain. Still, when I’m gone they may find a few surprises left behind should they happen upon them.
Do you recall the time capsule we created as children, Sister? Buried in the ground like the seed of the mighty oak, on the eastern side of the house facing the rising sun, is a small metal box that was our own; a box containing ribbons so that we would always have pretty ribbons for our hair, a coin from each of us so that we would have good fortune in our future, a bookmark so that we would always have books to read, a wildflower so that there would always be beautiful flowers, and a picture of us so that we would always be together. Each of us blessed the box with a kiss and buried it, Whiskers with us there and curious about what we were doing.
And, Whiskers... we can’t forget that Whiskers is buried in an oak box that Father made and respectfully buried near the great oak tree that rises tall by the water. In the box with Whiskers we buried his favorite ball of green yarn. Do you remember, Sister, watching Father dig the hole, the three of us saying a blessing over Whiskers as Father shoveled the dirt over the box?
In the room we used to share still sit our childhood trinkets, our teenage diaries that we would read to each other in the quiet of the night, wildflowers and roses still pressed between pages. On the shelves are the angel sculptures and music boxes, gifts from parents and grandparents. Stuffed animals still sit upon the rocking chair in the corner. On our dresser, silver combs and brushes sit in identical pairs near looking glasses and pretty perfume bottles. And, there, on the window ledge, is the small crystal angel that looks out over the property.
In the attic, beneath a loose board in the floor and in view of the angel looking out from the attic tower, are the rag dolls given to us by our Mother’s mother, dolls that we buried there beneath the oak floor the same day that we saw our grandmother buried. And, in that same attic are trunks filled with our baby shoes, our baby rattles, the dresses we wore as children, and the essays we wrote for our school lessons. Yes, Mother saved it all. Another trunk holds Mother’s wedding dress and Father’s uniforms, clothing that will probably be displayed when I’m no longer here.
And, situated here and there inside the house, beneath loose planks, behind certain paintings, inside of the walls, and within hidden compartments of dresser drawers, are thousands of dollars that Father had had in his safe when he left for war. The cash remained there at the time of Mother’s death. And, after George left, I decided to find a much more safer location for some of the cash than a safe. Where else but a safe would a crook expect to find money? So, I redistributed the cash about the house, telling no one of its locations. But, I find humor and some comfort knowing that when I’m gone, should they ever do construction or repairs in the proper location, should they ever happen to stumble across a treasure, they will be rewarded with Father’s money.
I have no qualms regarding these memories of ours being on display in the future; the visitors here seem respectful of the past and of the people who have lived within these walls and passed through these doors. But, mostly, I hope that visitors find some information of value here, leaving The Oak with a new understanding of the importance of life, the importance of their life, the importance of time, and the significance of choices.
And, what of you, Sister? Do you mind having your childhood on display, of sharing the days of your childhood with kind-hearted strangers?
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips is now available in print at www.wordclay.com and in downloadable format at www.lulu.com.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated September 11
September 11
Katrina,
We named them Betsy and Abigail after the two most prominent women in our lives. It was late in our seventh year when the rag dolls were received in the post, and we were so proud to see them addressed specifically to us, Katrina and Christina Allgood, the letters neatly printed on the package of brown tied with string. How excited we were when Mother handed us the package and told us that it was a gift from Grandmother Smith, the grandparent Mother always said I most favored, a strange comment since you and I appeared the same. It wasn’t our birthday, the hot August sun reminded us of that, but the confusion regarding why we would receive a gift this time of year did not dampen our enthusiasm.
I held on to Whiskers as Mother cut the string and you gently opened the box, pulling back the paper carefully and slowly so as not to rip it, my anticipation at what could possibly be inside growing, and even Whiskers trying to lend a paw to hurry the opening of the box.
Then, there they were, two rag dolls laying side by side in the box. They were nearly identical in appearance of green eyes, big smiles, and yellow hair; each with a white dress, a red tulip on the apron of one and a blue tulip on the apron of the other. You chose the doll with the red tulip while I chose the blue, and I remember feeling the comfort of the stuffing inside the doll as I held it, cradling the doll in my arms after Whiskers had jumped inside the box to investigate and then to nap.
There, sitting on the floor of the grand entranceway, we held the dolls and pretended as though they were our children. Together, it was decided that Mother would help us in preparing proper thank you notes to Grandmother Smith. While speaking of what we might say in the notes, we asked again why Grandmother Smith would send us gifts when it wasn’t our birthday, especially since Grandmother Smith wasn’t fond of giving gifts to children without legitimate reason. Mother finally explained that Grandmother Smith had not been feeling well lately and that, sometimes, when people don’t feel well they like to do nice things for others. We didn’t really understand, but we would in time.
We loved those dolls, and carried the dolls and Whiskers with us everywhere we went, through the fields or to the lake. We would carry the dolls in our arms or in a picnic basket; wrapped in blankets or with an old bottle. They slept on pillows next to our own and Abigail, the name of your doll, was usually positioned in the rocking chair while Betsy, the name of my doll, preferred sitting in the window. The dolls would join us for tea and cookies and we would pretend that they would have conversations about Whiskers or the animals in the fields.
Mother never seemed very fond of our dolls. She explained once that she had had a doll like ours when she was a little girl, adding that she had cherished it dearly. When asked what had happened to it she would never say, but she often warned us not to get the dolls dirty because dolls too dirty to come clean must be discarded. So, we took great care to keep Betsy and Abigail’s white dresses without flaw, quickly asking for help to wash out any minor spot when they occurred.
The thank you cards sent to Grandmother Smith, one from each of us, were quite sophisticated, Mother’s stylish handwriting upon cards of white with yellow flowers drawn in the margins. We signed them, as did Mother, and they were placed in the post, but not before Mother added her own letter to the bundle. I’ve always wondered what she wrote to Grandmother Smith or why she did not share it with us.
Father had been away serving the country at the time the dolls were received, and when he returned home in November we told him the story, providing all the details about the packaging and the thank you cards and how the dolls were with us always. He laughed as he always did.
Christmas came and went, as did our birthday, and cards and candies were sent and received. Then in late January we received the news of Grandmother Smith passing. Though the weather was difficult and bitterly cold, we were allowed to attend the funeral with Mother and Father, the dolls in our arms as we stood by her grave as icy snow fell about us. Later, while people enjoyed refreshments at the Smith home, we overheard people talking about lost opportunities; about Grandmother Smith being so alive in her youth but also about how marriage to Grandfather Smith seemed to change her; about time; most of it simply confusing our youthful minds until we weren’t certain if people loved or hated Grandmother Smith.
It all makes more sense now. Yes, much more sense, age and life experience lending a hand to understanding.
When we returned home, we placed the dolls in a location where they, like Grandmother Smith, would be cared for and watched over with hope and love. And, when I remember Grandmother Smith, I remember the dolls, fabric and yarn sewn with good intentions and heartfelt wishes, and the peaceful, hopeful snowflakes falling about her grave.
Sisters forever,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips, is available in print at www.wordclay.com and in downloadable format at www.lulu.com.
Katrina,
We named them Betsy and Abigail after the two most prominent women in our lives. It was late in our seventh year when the rag dolls were received in the post, and we were so proud to see them addressed specifically to us, Katrina and Christina Allgood, the letters neatly printed on the package of brown tied with string. How excited we were when Mother handed us the package and told us that it was a gift from Grandmother Smith, the grandparent Mother always said I most favored, a strange comment since you and I appeared the same. It wasn’t our birthday, the hot August sun reminded us of that, but the confusion regarding why we would receive a gift this time of year did not dampen our enthusiasm.
I held on to Whiskers as Mother cut the string and you gently opened the box, pulling back the paper carefully and slowly so as not to rip it, my anticipation at what could possibly be inside growing, and even Whiskers trying to lend a paw to hurry the opening of the box.
Then, there they were, two rag dolls laying side by side in the box. They were nearly identical in appearance of green eyes, big smiles, and yellow hair; each with a white dress, a red tulip on the apron of one and a blue tulip on the apron of the other. You chose the doll with the red tulip while I chose the blue, and I remember feeling the comfort of the stuffing inside the doll as I held it, cradling the doll in my arms after Whiskers had jumped inside the box to investigate and then to nap.
There, sitting on the floor of the grand entranceway, we held the dolls and pretended as though they were our children. Together, it was decided that Mother would help us in preparing proper thank you notes to Grandmother Smith. While speaking of what we might say in the notes, we asked again why Grandmother Smith would send us gifts when it wasn’t our birthday, especially since Grandmother Smith wasn’t fond of giving gifts to children without legitimate reason. Mother finally explained that Grandmother Smith had not been feeling well lately and that, sometimes, when people don’t feel well they like to do nice things for others. We didn’t really understand, but we would in time.
We loved those dolls, and carried the dolls and Whiskers with us everywhere we went, through the fields or to the lake. We would carry the dolls in our arms or in a picnic basket; wrapped in blankets or with an old bottle. They slept on pillows next to our own and Abigail, the name of your doll, was usually positioned in the rocking chair while Betsy, the name of my doll, preferred sitting in the window. The dolls would join us for tea and cookies and we would pretend that they would have conversations about Whiskers or the animals in the fields.
Mother never seemed very fond of our dolls. She explained once that she had had a doll like ours when she was a little girl, adding that she had cherished it dearly. When asked what had happened to it she would never say, but she often warned us not to get the dolls dirty because dolls too dirty to come clean must be discarded. So, we took great care to keep Betsy and Abigail’s white dresses without flaw, quickly asking for help to wash out any minor spot when they occurred.
The thank you cards sent to Grandmother Smith, one from each of us, were quite sophisticated, Mother’s stylish handwriting upon cards of white with yellow flowers drawn in the margins. We signed them, as did Mother, and they were placed in the post, but not before Mother added her own letter to the bundle. I’ve always wondered what she wrote to Grandmother Smith or why she did not share it with us.
Father had been away serving the country at the time the dolls were received, and when he returned home in November we told him the story, providing all the details about the packaging and the thank you cards and how the dolls were with us always. He laughed as he always did.
Christmas came and went, as did our birthday, and cards and candies were sent and received. Then in late January we received the news of Grandmother Smith passing. Though the weather was difficult and bitterly cold, we were allowed to attend the funeral with Mother and Father, the dolls in our arms as we stood by her grave as icy snow fell about us. Later, while people enjoyed refreshments at the Smith home, we overheard people talking about lost opportunities; about Grandmother Smith being so alive in her youth but also about how marriage to Grandfather Smith seemed to change her; about time; most of it simply confusing our youthful minds until we weren’t certain if people loved or hated Grandmother Smith.
It all makes more sense now. Yes, much more sense, age and life experience lending a hand to understanding.
When we returned home, we placed the dolls in a location where they, like Grandmother Smith, would be cared for and watched over with hope and love. And, when I remember Grandmother Smith, I remember the dolls, fabric and yarn sewn with good intentions and heartfelt wishes, and the peaceful, hopeful snowflakes falling about her grave.
Sisters forever,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips, is available in print at www.wordclay.com and in downloadable format at www.lulu.com.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated September 8
September 8
Katrina,
This old house has stood through sunny days and through storms, through marriages and through deaths, the walls like eyes watching it all. Father built this house to stand forever, building it with hope that it would last as long or longer than his love for Mother. That must surely be a very long time. The visitors that come here sometimes share with me their own stories of lasting love, but none of them compare with that of Mother and Father.
During some electrical repairs a few decades ago, one side of a central wall within this house was removed, the repairs to the wiring completed, and the side of the wall returned to its original location. The workers found, in the center of the house, a small locked wooden box made of oak with Mother and Father’s names engraved upon it. They brought it to me, feeling it improper to open the box themselves. I opened the clasp here on Father’s desk, and found a treasure chest of memories I had never known living inside.
Time is an amazing concept, Katrina, for nothing is truly forgotten over time but only stored away for safekeeping. The memories contained in the box seemed as lovely and as wonderful as they must have on the day they were placed in the box, a box planted like a seed at the center of the house to serve as its heart, its truest foundation.
The box of oak was closed with a silver clasp and lined with red felt, the color of love. Photographs of Mother and Father's wedding were attached to the inside lid of the box. Inside the box was a necklace of gold, a heart pendant on a chain with the word hope written within the shape of the heart. Beneath the necklace was a note that read, “As hope fills this golden heart, so shall it fill our own hearts and our home.” The box also contained a Bible with Mother’s name inscribed at the top in golden lettering and, placed between pages, an invitation to their wedding and a note saying that this was the Bible used in their ceremony. The box contained letters addressed as though they had been written between Mother and Father prior to their marriage, but I felt it inappropriate of me to read the private thoughts of our parents.
All of the items found in the box were returned to it, accompanied by our infant photographs and a photograph of your wedding that I added before clasping the lid back into place. The box was returned to its original location at the center of this house where it belonged, the location where the box acted as a seed long ago and built around it walls of hope.
Forever,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips, is available in print at www.wordclay.com and in downloadable format at www.lulu.com.
Katrina,
This old house has stood through sunny days and through storms, through marriages and through deaths, the walls like eyes watching it all. Father built this house to stand forever, building it with hope that it would last as long or longer than his love for Mother. That must surely be a very long time. The visitors that come here sometimes share with me their own stories of lasting love, but none of them compare with that of Mother and Father.
During some electrical repairs a few decades ago, one side of a central wall within this house was removed, the repairs to the wiring completed, and the side of the wall returned to its original location. The workers found, in the center of the house, a small locked wooden box made of oak with Mother and Father’s names engraved upon it. They brought it to me, feeling it improper to open the box themselves. I opened the clasp here on Father’s desk, and found a treasure chest of memories I had never known living inside.
Time is an amazing concept, Katrina, for nothing is truly forgotten over time but only stored away for safekeeping. The memories contained in the box seemed as lovely and as wonderful as they must have on the day they were placed in the box, a box planted like a seed at the center of the house to serve as its heart, its truest foundation.
The box of oak was closed with a silver clasp and lined with red felt, the color of love. Photographs of Mother and Father's wedding were attached to the inside lid of the box. Inside the box was a necklace of gold, a heart pendant on a chain with the word hope written within the shape of the heart. Beneath the necklace was a note that read, “As hope fills this golden heart, so shall it fill our own hearts and our home.” The box also contained a Bible with Mother’s name inscribed at the top in golden lettering and, placed between pages, an invitation to their wedding and a note saying that this was the Bible used in their ceremony. The box contained letters addressed as though they had been written between Mother and Father prior to their marriage, but I felt it inappropriate of me to read the private thoughts of our parents.
All of the items found in the box were returned to it, accompanied by our infant photographs and a photograph of your wedding that I added before clasping the lid back into place. The box was returned to its original location at the center of this house where it belonged, the location where the box acted as a seed long ago and built around it walls of hope.
Forever,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips, is available in print at www.wordclay.com and in downloadable format at www.lulu.com.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated September 4
September 4
Katrina,
Drink, Kat, is the Devil’s syrup, a sweet concoction that is intended to burn away resistance, leaving the soul tattered and unfeeling, a worthwhile home for the twins of Apathy and Recklessness. And drink, I did, Kat, on Friday nights at a nearby town tavern in those years after George had left. I took my responsibility to Father’s business affairs seriously, but Friday nights were reserved for me, for forgetting to pretend a smile, for not having to be responsible to a memory, for creating a consistency between how I felt in my soul and how I felt in my body.
Until George left, I had barely tasted alcohol; Mother had given us a few sips of wine to teach us of proper etiquette and the taste of well aged wine or we would be given a taste of whiskey if we were ill. I had purchased for George as a wedding gift a bottle of vintage, putting it in Father’s wine cellar after George left.
Months passed and I never thought any more about it. Then, as I assisted Betsy with preparing dinner one night for invited business guests, I requested Betsy to retrieve a bottle of wine from the cellar. It was the bottle I had purchased for George that she, unknowingly, brought to the kitchen. I explained to Betsy where the bottle had come from, pretending that it did not matter to me. The wine was served with dinner that night, a Friday night, and I had but a glass. And,lucrative business deals were struck, and Father’s business would thrive because of them, and I felt as empty as a broken vase unable to hold water.
When dinner was over that night, after the guests had departed and Betsy had gone to bed, I sat alone at the bottom of the grand staircase and drank what was left of the bottle, perhaps a partial glass; and I reveled in the luscious aroma as it drifted from the glass up towards my nose; and I closed my eyes, cherishing the rich taste as I held the wine on my tongue before feeling a slight tingling sensation in my throat when I swallowed.
It was really just that simple, how it began. Months passed and, after the house was asleep and quiet, I would sit on the bottom of the staircase, alone, and drink a single glass of wine from Father’s favorite collection or enjoy a shot of liquor from his old liquor cabinet. No one ever knew, and I was always very proper, very ladylike about it. Mother would have been proud.
Time passed and I spent my days making and managing business deals and my nights reviewing the work of the day. Betsy had only good intentions when she mentioned setting aside some time for myself, for fun, for life outside of work, for being young. If I had only known then what I know now, I would have chosen more wisely.
It started innocently enough, but with time and despair one drink a night turned to two and then I wasn’t quite so shy about having a drink while the house staff was still busied with their routines. All I can say in my defense about those days is that I never drank to the point of intoxication or of being unable to handle Father’s business dealings. Not in those days.
It was a Friday night when I was in a nearby town delivering paperwork to the local bank since the manager had agreed to remain open late so as to receive the papers on that particular date. I had spent most of the day in that town, and the summer heat was wearing me down and, on my tongue, the familiar taste of the hour returned. I was hesitant about entering the tavern, having never been in a bar before. Yet, the desire for a single drink calling to me was stronger than anything Mother had taught me. Though I invited in the driver, Charles, he chose to remain in the car and wait for me.
Joe’s Tavern it was, named, of course, for the owner. When I entered, it seemed safe enough, except for a few drunks in the corner playing cards. I remember thinking that the men in the bar seemed to be honest, hard working souls addicted to the drink and wasting money on liquid instead of families. The women in the bar, some of which had attire as if they were working in a local factory, hung on to the men like a coat, either unable or unwilling to lose their catch. I sat on a stool at the counter bar and, this establishment not serving wine, ordered whiskey. A man down the length of the bar approached me to politely inquire as to why I was there, since I seemed quite different from the usual clientele at Joe’s Tavern. I simply told him that I planned to have a drink on a hot summer night before returning home. He apologized when some friends of his at a nearby table teased me that whiskey was a strong drink and a lady could not hold her liquor. By the time I finished my drink, a single shot, I turned to the table, showing them an empty shot glass, and explained that I had held my liquor just fine.
Charles, the driver, came in to check on me about half an hour later, concerned for my safety. By then, a man at the table and I had engaged in a challenge, shot for shot, and jokes of an unladylike nature had been told and laughter was present. I was four shots into the challenge when Charles entered Joe’s Tavern, suggesting that it was time to return home for it was getting late. I sensed disapproval in his voice that I did not like and yet, somewhere inside, I knew he was right. I abandoned the challenge, paid for the drinks for everyone in the establishment, and left with Charles. I was slightly aware of Charles holding my arm as we walked out the door.
On the way home, I noticed the warm feeling within, memories of the past spinning in my head so that I was unable to concentrate on any one, my head seemingly lightened of responsibility, the emptiness not filled but disguised and decorated so that it did not seem as difficult to house. But, that, so to speak, is the loophole in the contract with the drink, its effect being only a disguise of a solution, a disguise that can easily fool the mind and worsen the soul.
After that night, drinking at home alone no longer appealed to me, and I only drank at The Oak when business dinners were held there. But, I began to find reasons to go to Joe’s Tavern on Friday nights.
The week after my introduction to Joe’s Tavern, I again delivered paperwork in the late afternoon, finding the summer sun leaving me with a need to quench a thirst. Charles, the driver, an older fellow that had known Father and whom Father had trusted, tried to talk me out of entering but when I did he followed, and as we walked he explained that it was for my own protection.
Again, the men at the table were there and, again, a drinking challenge ensued. This time it was rum, and the drinks didn’t stop flowing for any length of time. Charles, after multiple suggestions to leave, was finally able to lead me away. Of course, I paid for everyone’s drinks. It seemed the least I could do for these souls who were company for me without business deals attached. As long as I paid for their drinks, they seemed content to keep me around.
After a while, Saturday mornings became difficult, and I began accomplishing little work on those days. Yet, the rest of the week was nothing but work, days without laughter, without feeling alive. Betsy, more and more, was noticing my health on Saturday mornings and I think that Charles had spoken with her about my Friday nights. Betsy tried to distract me by offering other activities--ones more suited to a lady--for Friday nights, such as church gatherings, but I never listened. I didn’t want to be preached at, wanting, rather, to be laughed with and, mostly, to feel that blanket of warmth that disguised the emptiness inside, at least disguising it until the light of day reminded me of the truth.
And, so the Friday nights at Joe’s Tavern continued; and I began to feel no need to have reason to be near Joe’s Tavern to go there; and I became more bold over time, drinking more liquor, dancing with strangers, but never allowing strangers to drive me home instead of Charles. Betsy was worried, and she was right. The Friday nights at Joe’s Tavern lasted for months and contained many nights that I find myself unable to recall. I wasted a great deal of money in that tavern, but I lost so much more.
One Friday night, the last Friday night I went to Joe’s Tavern, it was my twenty-seventh spring, and the night was cool as I sat at the usual table and began drinking with the usual group. Even the bartender warned me of one particular stranger who kept buying me drinks that evening. Charles, who always sat at the bar but never drinking, tried to convince me to leave that night. Instead, I remained, talking with this stranger, dancing, and drinking.
Vague memories I have of that night and of all of the events that unfolded I do not know though I remember drinking with the stranger and that familiar warm disguise blanketing me and I remember Charles driving me home. An argument began between Charles and myself in the car regarding his concern for my behavior, my drinking, and I went inside the house that night angry and convinced that Charles was wrong.
But, he wasn’t and, somewhere inside, I agreed with him. The drink no longer offered the same luxury it offered in the beginning. The privilege and satisfaction of the drink, the dangling carrot that had lured me, had been yanked back, the disguise of blanketing the pain removed, and the drink had revealed its true identity. The warm sensation confusing the past and leaving me numb for a while was gone, and no amount of drink seemed able to return that blanket to me. Now, in its place, was a harsh mirror; and the more I drank the more consumed I became by the emptiness inside, with the memories of the past, and the more I began to listen to sorrow as it whispered in my ear.
By Sunday afternoon, brief sobriety had washed the sleep from my eyes, allowing me to see that I could not return to Joe’s Tavern or to drinking.
It was on that Sunday afternoon that the stranger from Friday night walked up the drive toward The Oak. Uninvited but a long way from town, I felt obliged to speak with him though embarrassed of not remembering all of that night at the tavern and experiencing uncertainty over why the bartender had warned me of him. It was Sunday afternoon that I learned his name was Steven, though I am not sure if I knew that on Friday night.
That Sunday afternoon, unfortunately, I remember with great clarity. But that story, Sister, is not one I am yet ready to tell.
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
Drink, Kat, is the Devil’s syrup, a sweet concoction that is intended to burn away resistance, leaving the soul tattered and unfeeling, a worthwhile home for the twins of Apathy and Recklessness. And drink, I did, Kat, on Friday nights at a nearby town tavern in those years after George had left. I took my responsibility to Father’s business affairs seriously, but Friday nights were reserved for me, for forgetting to pretend a smile, for not having to be responsible to a memory, for creating a consistency between how I felt in my soul and how I felt in my body.
Until George left, I had barely tasted alcohol; Mother had given us a few sips of wine to teach us of proper etiquette and the taste of well aged wine or we would be given a taste of whiskey if we were ill. I had purchased for George as a wedding gift a bottle of vintage, putting it in Father’s wine cellar after George left.
Months passed and I never thought any more about it. Then, as I assisted Betsy with preparing dinner one night for invited business guests, I requested Betsy to retrieve a bottle of wine from the cellar. It was the bottle I had purchased for George that she, unknowingly, brought to the kitchen. I explained to Betsy where the bottle had come from, pretending that it did not matter to me. The wine was served with dinner that night, a Friday night, and I had but a glass. And,lucrative business deals were struck, and Father’s business would thrive because of them, and I felt as empty as a broken vase unable to hold water.
When dinner was over that night, after the guests had departed and Betsy had gone to bed, I sat alone at the bottom of the grand staircase and drank what was left of the bottle, perhaps a partial glass; and I reveled in the luscious aroma as it drifted from the glass up towards my nose; and I closed my eyes, cherishing the rich taste as I held the wine on my tongue before feeling a slight tingling sensation in my throat when I swallowed.
It was really just that simple, how it began. Months passed and, after the house was asleep and quiet, I would sit on the bottom of the staircase, alone, and drink a single glass of wine from Father’s favorite collection or enjoy a shot of liquor from his old liquor cabinet. No one ever knew, and I was always very proper, very ladylike about it. Mother would have been proud.
Time passed and I spent my days making and managing business deals and my nights reviewing the work of the day. Betsy had only good intentions when she mentioned setting aside some time for myself, for fun, for life outside of work, for being young. If I had only known then what I know now, I would have chosen more wisely.
It started innocently enough, but with time and despair one drink a night turned to two and then I wasn’t quite so shy about having a drink while the house staff was still busied with their routines. All I can say in my defense about those days is that I never drank to the point of intoxication or of being unable to handle Father’s business dealings. Not in those days.
It was a Friday night when I was in a nearby town delivering paperwork to the local bank since the manager had agreed to remain open late so as to receive the papers on that particular date. I had spent most of the day in that town, and the summer heat was wearing me down and, on my tongue, the familiar taste of the hour returned. I was hesitant about entering the tavern, having never been in a bar before. Yet, the desire for a single drink calling to me was stronger than anything Mother had taught me. Though I invited in the driver, Charles, he chose to remain in the car and wait for me.
Joe’s Tavern it was, named, of course, for the owner. When I entered, it seemed safe enough, except for a few drunks in the corner playing cards. I remember thinking that the men in the bar seemed to be honest, hard working souls addicted to the drink and wasting money on liquid instead of families. The women in the bar, some of which had attire as if they were working in a local factory, hung on to the men like a coat, either unable or unwilling to lose their catch. I sat on a stool at the counter bar and, this establishment not serving wine, ordered whiskey. A man down the length of the bar approached me to politely inquire as to why I was there, since I seemed quite different from the usual clientele at Joe’s Tavern. I simply told him that I planned to have a drink on a hot summer night before returning home. He apologized when some friends of his at a nearby table teased me that whiskey was a strong drink and a lady could not hold her liquor. By the time I finished my drink, a single shot, I turned to the table, showing them an empty shot glass, and explained that I had held my liquor just fine.
Charles, the driver, came in to check on me about half an hour later, concerned for my safety. By then, a man at the table and I had engaged in a challenge, shot for shot, and jokes of an unladylike nature had been told and laughter was present. I was four shots into the challenge when Charles entered Joe’s Tavern, suggesting that it was time to return home for it was getting late. I sensed disapproval in his voice that I did not like and yet, somewhere inside, I knew he was right. I abandoned the challenge, paid for the drinks for everyone in the establishment, and left with Charles. I was slightly aware of Charles holding my arm as we walked out the door.
On the way home, I noticed the warm feeling within, memories of the past spinning in my head so that I was unable to concentrate on any one, my head seemingly lightened of responsibility, the emptiness not filled but disguised and decorated so that it did not seem as difficult to house. But, that, so to speak, is the loophole in the contract with the drink, its effect being only a disguise of a solution, a disguise that can easily fool the mind and worsen the soul.
After that night, drinking at home alone no longer appealed to me, and I only drank at The Oak when business dinners were held there. But, I began to find reasons to go to Joe’s Tavern on Friday nights.
The week after my introduction to Joe’s Tavern, I again delivered paperwork in the late afternoon, finding the summer sun leaving me with a need to quench a thirst. Charles, the driver, an older fellow that had known Father and whom Father had trusted, tried to talk me out of entering but when I did he followed, and as we walked he explained that it was for my own protection.
Again, the men at the table were there and, again, a drinking challenge ensued. This time it was rum, and the drinks didn’t stop flowing for any length of time. Charles, after multiple suggestions to leave, was finally able to lead me away. Of course, I paid for everyone’s drinks. It seemed the least I could do for these souls who were company for me without business deals attached. As long as I paid for their drinks, they seemed content to keep me around.
After a while, Saturday mornings became difficult, and I began accomplishing little work on those days. Yet, the rest of the week was nothing but work, days without laughter, without feeling alive. Betsy, more and more, was noticing my health on Saturday mornings and I think that Charles had spoken with her about my Friday nights. Betsy tried to distract me by offering other activities--ones more suited to a lady--for Friday nights, such as church gatherings, but I never listened. I didn’t want to be preached at, wanting, rather, to be laughed with and, mostly, to feel that blanket of warmth that disguised the emptiness inside, at least disguising it until the light of day reminded me of the truth.
And, so the Friday nights at Joe’s Tavern continued; and I began to feel no need to have reason to be near Joe’s Tavern to go there; and I became more bold over time, drinking more liquor, dancing with strangers, but never allowing strangers to drive me home instead of Charles. Betsy was worried, and she was right. The Friday nights at Joe’s Tavern lasted for months and contained many nights that I find myself unable to recall. I wasted a great deal of money in that tavern, but I lost so much more.
One Friday night, the last Friday night I went to Joe’s Tavern, it was my twenty-seventh spring, and the night was cool as I sat at the usual table and began drinking with the usual group. Even the bartender warned me of one particular stranger who kept buying me drinks that evening. Charles, who always sat at the bar but never drinking, tried to convince me to leave that night. Instead, I remained, talking with this stranger, dancing, and drinking.
Vague memories I have of that night and of all of the events that unfolded I do not know though I remember drinking with the stranger and that familiar warm disguise blanketing me and I remember Charles driving me home. An argument began between Charles and myself in the car regarding his concern for my behavior, my drinking, and I went inside the house that night angry and convinced that Charles was wrong.
But, he wasn’t and, somewhere inside, I agreed with him. The drink no longer offered the same luxury it offered in the beginning. The privilege and satisfaction of the drink, the dangling carrot that had lured me, had been yanked back, the disguise of blanketing the pain removed, and the drink had revealed its true identity. The warm sensation confusing the past and leaving me numb for a while was gone, and no amount of drink seemed able to return that blanket to me. Now, in its place, was a harsh mirror; and the more I drank the more consumed I became by the emptiness inside, with the memories of the past, and the more I began to listen to sorrow as it whispered in my ear.
By Sunday afternoon, brief sobriety had washed the sleep from my eyes, allowing me to see that I could not return to Joe’s Tavern or to drinking.
It was on that Sunday afternoon that the stranger from Friday night walked up the drive toward The Oak. Uninvited but a long way from town, I felt obliged to speak with him though embarrassed of not remembering all of that night at the tavern and experiencing uncertainty over why the bartender had warned me of him. It was Sunday afternoon that I learned his name was Steven, though I am not sure if I knew that on Friday night.
That Sunday afternoon, unfortunately, I remember with great clarity. But that story, Sister, is not one I am yet ready to tell.
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated September 3
September 3
Katrina,
The rain is falling again outside, this time blown by angry winds and punctuated with biting strikes of lightning and thunder that roars and cracks like a whip against the Earth. Unmistakable electricity fills the air and lightning seems to point toward the wall as if it knows where secrets are kept while thunder voices its rage. The storm began just before dawn, just before the light of day was to come, and shows no signs of weakening as it holds a darkness over the land, nurturing the Earth with water but expressing its anger at how the world has been cared for over time.
The storm sees the arrogance that has butchered the land, expressing its displeasure, its pain, of what has become of the Earth, its sibling. The storm reaches out its hands, sorting through areas of turmoil, its wrath moving about like a drunkard in a saloon turning over tables and chairs and breaking glass.
And, the storm continues; winds crying and wailing at the lack of concern for its sibling, the Earth; rain falling in sheets, sobbing uncontrollably over the loss of respect; and the lightning pointing like a judge to the guilty party.
The storm speaks to me, Katrina, in sounds without words, screaming at me of mistakes I’ve made, reminding me of wrongdoings. The wind blows through my soul as if its handless force were trying to strike me, punish me, and the rain takes the appearance of tears that I have caused and tears that I have shed in vain.
Yet, the house is like a parent, breathing quietly with ample strength to understand the storm, as if to pacify the storm like an angry child and remaining unaffected by its rage. But, the walls seem to dim here and there, somehow saddened by that truth of which the storm speaks.
The storm knows, Sister. I’m certain the storm knows, and is very angry with me.
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
The rain is falling again outside, this time blown by angry winds and punctuated with biting strikes of lightning and thunder that roars and cracks like a whip against the Earth. Unmistakable electricity fills the air and lightning seems to point toward the wall as if it knows where secrets are kept while thunder voices its rage. The storm began just before dawn, just before the light of day was to come, and shows no signs of weakening as it holds a darkness over the land, nurturing the Earth with water but expressing its anger at how the world has been cared for over time.
The storm sees the arrogance that has butchered the land, expressing its displeasure, its pain, of what has become of the Earth, its sibling. The storm reaches out its hands, sorting through areas of turmoil, its wrath moving about like a drunkard in a saloon turning over tables and chairs and breaking glass.
And, the storm continues; winds crying and wailing at the lack of concern for its sibling, the Earth; rain falling in sheets, sobbing uncontrollably over the loss of respect; and the lightning pointing like a judge to the guilty party.
The storm speaks to me, Katrina, in sounds without words, screaming at me of mistakes I’ve made, reminding me of wrongdoings. The wind blows through my soul as if its handless force were trying to strike me, punish me, and the rain takes the appearance of tears that I have caused and tears that I have shed in vain.
Yet, the house is like a parent, breathing quietly with ample strength to understand the storm, as if to pacify the storm like an angry child and remaining unaffected by its rage. But, the walls seem to dim here and there, somehow saddened by that truth of which the storm speaks.
The storm knows, Sister. I’m certain the storm knows, and is very angry with me.
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated August 29
August 29
Katrina,
There is a storm this morning, Sister dear, a storm that preaches to me of time, of promise, preaching of the importance of time and the gift of each moment. Humans often take for granted the moments we are given, choosing, unwisely as it were, not to cherish them, not to worship them as the precious treasure that they are, these gifts that are easily lost never to be reclaimed.
Do we ever learn? What are people waiting on? Each day, we wait. Nearly every day people listen to or read inspirational stories of success and accomplishment, grand feats performed by someone admired, and wonder why it hasn’t happened to them. Often, we encounter stories of near-death experiences which encouraged the survivors to make changes in their lives that they had been delaying, stories from people who decided to chase their dreams after losing loved ones unexpectedly, stories of people who traveled through difficult life experiences to find that the journey provided encouragement to live.
And, after releasing a sigh of such a beautiful example of life and contemplating how wonderful it would be if certain changes occurred in our own lives, we continue to wait. We say to ourselves that we’ll make a change we’d like to see in our lives in the future, when the time is right, when there’s not so much else to do, and when we feel that the people around us will morally support us instead of laughing. After all, people tend to think that change can only occur to, that dreams only come true for, and that the lottery is ever won by strangers, someone down the street, across town, or in another state, but never to anyone close to us. Thinking that we have as much opportunity as another requires self-confidence, self-respect, hope, and faith in ourselves.
But, we’re wrong in thinking it can’t happen to us. The lottery winner has family, the dreamer has friends, and everyone is known to someone. We all have the capacity to change, the ability to improve, to have our dreams come true. And, the secret to real success is being unafraid to face our fears, to challenge our limits, to test our strength, and to risk the experience of failure from time to time. If we wait to try, time may run out and take with it our opportunity. If we take a chance, even if we fail, we’ll always know in our hearts that we walked down the path of our choice and followed our desires. But, then, every path is a choice, to follow a dream or to live in despair, and the question is which path will we choose.
So, what are we waiting for? Each day, we wait, playing a game of chance with time, hoping that another second chance will come, hoping that time won’t steal our opportunity and leave us behind. But, time, if we’re willing to listen, can also teach us appreciation, an appreciation of life, of love, of possibility. From time, we can learn that experiences, both positive and negative, have lessons to teach us and advantages to offer, advantages of growth, advantages of hope. From time, we can learn that facing the fear of failure and dealing with negative experiences will only increase the joy of the positive moments. From time, we can learn that each moment is a gift not to be wasted with worry but to be enjoyed with life. Time, in the game of chance, is trying to teach us that waiting will only bring about regrets, but taking the opportunity to grow, to change, to improve will build a life where time is not feared but treasured.
Change doesn’t have to be physical or adventurous or tangible. Change could simply be choosing to see some good in any situation, choosing to seek out the positive in each moment, choosing hope and faith over anything negative, choosing to live a moment for that moment instead of wasting it, giving it to the yesterdays that have passed before we even experience it in the present.
Help me to remember, Sister. Isn’t that the way we were as children? Weren’t we hopeful, happy, willing to see the best in everyone and everything, willing to take a risk, willing to learn, willing to face our fears?
I miss you, Sister, and I spend too much time longing for those childhood days and regretting years that have passed instead of living for each moment in the moment when it occurs. Sometimes, I wonder if there is much else to be done at my age except review the past. But, day by day, I’m learning to focus my thoughts, to choose a positive emotion over the negative. I’m learning how to push away and turn a deaf ear to sorrow, like a daily exorcism that drives out a demon.
Should the storm end and my health hold, I would like to visit you in the next couple of days, Katrina. And, as always, I will bring your favorite flowers, flowers that shall fill the air with the beautiful scent of memories and the newness of now.
Forever,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
There is a storm this morning, Sister dear, a storm that preaches to me of time, of promise, preaching of the importance of time and the gift of each moment. Humans often take for granted the moments we are given, choosing, unwisely as it were, not to cherish them, not to worship them as the precious treasure that they are, these gifts that are easily lost never to be reclaimed.
Do we ever learn? What are people waiting on? Each day, we wait. Nearly every day people listen to or read inspirational stories of success and accomplishment, grand feats performed by someone admired, and wonder why it hasn’t happened to them. Often, we encounter stories of near-death experiences which encouraged the survivors to make changes in their lives that they had been delaying, stories from people who decided to chase their dreams after losing loved ones unexpectedly, stories of people who traveled through difficult life experiences to find that the journey provided encouragement to live.
And, after releasing a sigh of such a beautiful example of life and contemplating how wonderful it would be if certain changes occurred in our own lives, we continue to wait. We say to ourselves that we’ll make a change we’d like to see in our lives in the future, when the time is right, when there’s not so much else to do, and when we feel that the people around us will morally support us instead of laughing. After all, people tend to think that change can only occur to, that dreams only come true for, and that the lottery is ever won by strangers, someone down the street, across town, or in another state, but never to anyone close to us. Thinking that we have as much opportunity as another requires self-confidence, self-respect, hope, and faith in ourselves.
But, we’re wrong in thinking it can’t happen to us. The lottery winner has family, the dreamer has friends, and everyone is known to someone. We all have the capacity to change, the ability to improve, to have our dreams come true. And, the secret to real success is being unafraid to face our fears, to challenge our limits, to test our strength, and to risk the experience of failure from time to time. If we wait to try, time may run out and take with it our opportunity. If we take a chance, even if we fail, we’ll always know in our hearts that we walked down the path of our choice and followed our desires. But, then, every path is a choice, to follow a dream or to live in despair, and the question is which path will we choose.
So, what are we waiting for? Each day, we wait, playing a game of chance with time, hoping that another second chance will come, hoping that time won’t steal our opportunity and leave us behind. But, time, if we’re willing to listen, can also teach us appreciation, an appreciation of life, of love, of possibility. From time, we can learn that experiences, both positive and negative, have lessons to teach us and advantages to offer, advantages of growth, advantages of hope. From time, we can learn that facing the fear of failure and dealing with negative experiences will only increase the joy of the positive moments. From time, we can learn that each moment is a gift not to be wasted with worry but to be enjoyed with life. Time, in the game of chance, is trying to teach us that waiting will only bring about regrets, but taking the opportunity to grow, to change, to improve will build a life where time is not feared but treasured.
Change doesn’t have to be physical or adventurous or tangible. Change could simply be choosing to see some good in any situation, choosing to seek out the positive in each moment, choosing hope and faith over anything negative, choosing to live a moment for that moment instead of wasting it, giving it to the yesterdays that have passed before we even experience it in the present.
Help me to remember, Sister. Isn’t that the way we were as children? Weren’t we hopeful, happy, willing to see the best in everyone and everything, willing to take a risk, willing to learn, willing to face our fears?
I miss you, Sister, and I spend too much time longing for those childhood days and regretting years that have passed instead of living for each moment in the moment when it occurs. Sometimes, I wonder if there is much else to be done at my age except review the past. But, day by day, I’m learning to focus my thoughts, to choose a positive emotion over the negative. I’m learning how to push away and turn a deaf ear to sorrow, like a daily exorcism that drives out a demon.
Should the storm end and my health hold, I would like to visit you in the next couple of days, Katrina. And, as always, I will bring your favorite flowers, flowers that shall fill the air with the beautiful scent of memories and the newness of now.
Forever,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated August 25
August 25
Katrina,
As the Earth has a season of growth, of death, and of rebirth, a cycle of life dependent on an ability to re-energize the cells, there comes a time when every soul must have a season of healing, a season for the opportunity to rebirth the soul, to regain hope. The transition from darkness to light, from despair to hope, requires only a single step, yet, like that of forgiveness, it is a difficult step to make.
The light is beckoning to me like a lighthouse in the misty waters, but I look back in time. The light is reaching out to me with the hands of faith, and yet I look back, searching the shadows; shadows that whisper to me about the danger of hope and the heartbreak of disappointment while the lighthouse whispers from ahead the song of peace and the opportunity for joy. There is no joy without the risk of disappointment, but disappointment will hide the opportunity for joy behind dark veils of sorrow. But, stepping into the light means taking a risk, a venture, and leaving behind the dark familiar.
As I look up from this desk, across the fields of clover, and into the lake, I watch the water mirror the sky: I see how the water opens her arms and breathes in the sunlight; but, in darkness, the water also breathes in the moon. The water seeks out the light, reflecting it in her pools, and never denying herself the pleasure of the light, that beam of hope coming from a distance. The water is not afraid of joy, of risking disappointment for the happiness of today; instead smiling, sharing the beauty of the light with all who will look upon her.
All around us are reflections of the light, opportunities for change and growth, each moment being an available season of healing, an opportunity to regain hope. But, moment after moment, year after year, I have repeatedly chosen to remain in the familiar expectation of darkness than to venture near the lighthouse; holding tight to what I know as opposed to taking the risk, a risk that is less than the suffering of darkness, to find joy.
Others have been effected by my decisions, Katrina, haven’t they? No one’s decisions effect only the one, life being too interconnected for that to occur.
I remember sitting on the grand staircase the day of my wedding, reaching out my hand to sorrow as if it were a long lost friend that I had never truly known; drinking it in until my mind was intoxicated with darkness; holding on to it as though I had nothing else in the world; holding on to it as though I was afraid to let go. Though we had lived through Father and Mother’s deaths, illnesses, and other sad events of life, sorrow had never lived at The Oak; the strength, the hope, within these walls keeping sorrow at bay by gathering and reflecting the light of the sun entering the windows, by sharing the light with all who entered this house.
From that point on, sorrow was like a demon that I allowed to stay within, whispering in my ear at every turn of negativity, of all you had and of all I had lost. Then, sorrow gave birth to secrets that whispered echoes of sorrow, and I listened.
We were only twenty-nine, Katrina, when everything changed between us. Can you remember? Your life on the coast with Robert had been flourishing, a son having been born and named for his father and a daughter having been born named for our Mother. I had remained here at The Oak, continuing to care for Father’s business affairs and trying to hold my head high amongst town rumors of George. The two sisters having shared so much in youth had grown older and grown apart, our lives vastly different with you in the role of mother on the coast and my taking a more industrial path here in the mountains. Since Father’s death, we wrote each other irregularly but with lengthy pages when we did write. Every couple of years we would visit, talking for days of how much we had changed.
Your life was full, your children growing, your husband’s business thriving, and your charitable work requiring your time and leaving time for little else. I was so proud of you, Sister, I really was and, somewhere deep down inside, I always have been proud of you and happy for you.
My life here at The Oak I filled with business affairs, intentionally leaving time for nothing else. I buried myself in work, certain that there would be security there. Father’s fortune was barely marked by the loss of the ten thousand dollars, but the money was neither what I missed nor what I needed. Daily, my heart continued to harden bit by bit, determined not to let anyone in, trying to keep my heart safe, ritually practicing the process of turning emotion in to a substance similar to stone. Yes, Sister, I accept responsibility for it was I who darkened my heart.
That same year, Betsy had grown ill, often taking to her bed due to pain in her stomach so terrible that she could not stand. I took care of her the best I could, making certain that she had the best doctors, following the doctor’s instructions for medicines, and keeping a cool compress on her forehead as she and Mother used to do for us. It seemed to go on for months. One day, Betsy had felt strong enough to sit on the porch with me and enjoy the view of a beautiful day. She grew weak, however, and I helped her to her bed. I sat there beside her bed, reading to her until she fell asleep and then I adjusted the blankets to be certain she was warm. After going to the kitchen to prepare some broth, thinking that she may have been able to eat that day, I returned to Betsy’s room and found her dead. The doctor came immediately, but it was too late. Betsy was gone. That great spirit who had spent so much of her life here at The Oak taking care of us, taking care of this house since its creation, and giving to this house the joy of her spirit was gone.
You had journeyed to return for Betsy’s funeral, your children left in the care of their father. While you were here at The Oak, I began to truly notice the maturity you had grown in to, the woman you had become, strong and intelligent in your own right. I was never certain if you felt I had not grown, if you disliked the direction of my life, or if I simply allowed sorrow to adjust your words before reaching me, but arguments began between us over everything from the arrangements for Betsy’s funeral and how the kitchen was stocked to the election of President Hoover; from how we were dressed to whether it was partly cloudy or partly sunny outside. There was so much I wanted to tell you, so many secrets to share, but within this wonderful woman you had become I was unable to find the child of yesterday, the sister I could trust with anything, the sister I needed desperately. When your visit was over, I clenched my teeth and watched as you drove away, my heart hardening still as I mourned the loss of Betsy and the sister I felt you had abandoned.
That was the last time I ever saw you for far, far too long. How I regret those years since then, years I traded for pride and gave away to foolishness. Years without speaking to my Sister, my voice silenced in jealous rages over the life, the love, you had been granted. Those were years when I refused to read your letters and spilled no ink to paper for you. How I regret those years, years that cannot be reclaimed.
In time, your letters stopped, and blame you I can not for finally giving up a battle you had been losing for so many years; both of us left only with the memory of two children, dressed as one, running through fields of wildflowers.
Over all of those decades, the house has battled to retain its hope, still reflecting, sharing, and smiling in the sunlight; but rooms have darkened as I’ve entered, walls quickly wishing sunlight away, hanging their heads, and dimming, as if they feared destruction if they reminded me of brighter days.
The house has grown stronger since then, brighter, less intimidated of me in the last ten years. The walls seem to recognize the opportunities to remind me of the hope and love with which Father built these walls, to remind me of days in the sun and laughter. It is as though the house has waited all these years for me to grow. Now, the house seems unafraid to reach out its invisible arms to me, comforting me like a child in the womb, trying to remind me with sunlight and shimmering walls of the opportunity for rebirth, of the opportunity to regain hope.
Ten years ago, when I had heard rumor that you were very ill, I picked up the pen; persuaded by the memory of those children running together and laughing in the wildflowers to talk to you; finally listening to the voices in my head that whispered songs of peace; finally realizing that, as a child and as I’ve aged, my heart has wanted much love and joy for your life. It was happiness that I've always wanted for you; yet I was angered when you received it. I did not realize it, then, that it was I who was causing you pain, heartbreak; but I realize it now. Did I wait too long? Are all acts allowed forgiveness, Sister? Are you sure?
Sometimes, in fleeting seconds, I think I hear those two little children in this room, laughing, and the scent of wildflowers floats in on the breeze.
Are you sure, Katrina?
Your loving Sister,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
As the Earth has a season of growth, of death, and of rebirth, a cycle of life dependent on an ability to re-energize the cells, there comes a time when every soul must have a season of healing, a season for the opportunity to rebirth the soul, to regain hope. The transition from darkness to light, from despair to hope, requires only a single step, yet, like that of forgiveness, it is a difficult step to make.
The light is beckoning to me like a lighthouse in the misty waters, but I look back in time. The light is reaching out to me with the hands of faith, and yet I look back, searching the shadows; shadows that whisper to me about the danger of hope and the heartbreak of disappointment while the lighthouse whispers from ahead the song of peace and the opportunity for joy. There is no joy without the risk of disappointment, but disappointment will hide the opportunity for joy behind dark veils of sorrow. But, stepping into the light means taking a risk, a venture, and leaving behind the dark familiar.
As I look up from this desk, across the fields of clover, and into the lake, I watch the water mirror the sky: I see how the water opens her arms and breathes in the sunlight; but, in darkness, the water also breathes in the moon. The water seeks out the light, reflecting it in her pools, and never denying herself the pleasure of the light, that beam of hope coming from a distance. The water is not afraid of joy, of risking disappointment for the happiness of today; instead smiling, sharing the beauty of the light with all who will look upon her.
All around us are reflections of the light, opportunities for change and growth, each moment being an available season of healing, an opportunity to regain hope. But, moment after moment, year after year, I have repeatedly chosen to remain in the familiar expectation of darkness than to venture near the lighthouse; holding tight to what I know as opposed to taking the risk, a risk that is less than the suffering of darkness, to find joy.
Others have been effected by my decisions, Katrina, haven’t they? No one’s decisions effect only the one, life being too interconnected for that to occur.
I remember sitting on the grand staircase the day of my wedding, reaching out my hand to sorrow as if it were a long lost friend that I had never truly known; drinking it in until my mind was intoxicated with darkness; holding on to it as though I had nothing else in the world; holding on to it as though I was afraid to let go. Though we had lived through Father and Mother’s deaths, illnesses, and other sad events of life, sorrow had never lived at The Oak; the strength, the hope, within these walls keeping sorrow at bay by gathering and reflecting the light of the sun entering the windows, by sharing the light with all who entered this house.
From that point on, sorrow was like a demon that I allowed to stay within, whispering in my ear at every turn of negativity, of all you had and of all I had lost. Then, sorrow gave birth to secrets that whispered echoes of sorrow, and I listened.
We were only twenty-nine, Katrina, when everything changed between us. Can you remember? Your life on the coast with Robert had been flourishing, a son having been born and named for his father and a daughter having been born named for our Mother. I had remained here at The Oak, continuing to care for Father’s business affairs and trying to hold my head high amongst town rumors of George. The two sisters having shared so much in youth had grown older and grown apart, our lives vastly different with you in the role of mother on the coast and my taking a more industrial path here in the mountains. Since Father’s death, we wrote each other irregularly but with lengthy pages when we did write. Every couple of years we would visit, talking for days of how much we had changed.
Your life was full, your children growing, your husband’s business thriving, and your charitable work requiring your time and leaving time for little else. I was so proud of you, Sister, I really was and, somewhere deep down inside, I always have been proud of you and happy for you.
My life here at The Oak I filled with business affairs, intentionally leaving time for nothing else. I buried myself in work, certain that there would be security there. Father’s fortune was barely marked by the loss of the ten thousand dollars, but the money was neither what I missed nor what I needed. Daily, my heart continued to harden bit by bit, determined not to let anyone in, trying to keep my heart safe, ritually practicing the process of turning emotion in to a substance similar to stone. Yes, Sister, I accept responsibility for it was I who darkened my heart.
That same year, Betsy had grown ill, often taking to her bed due to pain in her stomach so terrible that she could not stand. I took care of her the best I could, making certain that she had the best doctors, following the doctor’s instructions for medicines, and keeping a cool compress on her forehead as she and Mother used to do for us. It seemed to go on for months. One day, Betsy had felt strong enough to sit on the porch with me and enjoy the view of a beautiful day. She grew weak, however, and I helped her to her bed. I sat there beside her bed, reading to her until she fell asleep and then I adjusted the blankets to be certain she was warm. After going to the kitchen to prepare some broth, thinking that she may have been able to eat that day, I returned to Betsy’s room and found her dead. The doctor came immediately, but it was too late. Betsy was gone. That great spirit who had spent so much of her life here at The Oak taking care of us, taking care of this house since its creation, and giving to this house the joy of her spirit was gone.
You had journeyed to return for Betsy’s funeral, your children left in the care of their father. While you were here at The Oak, I began to truly notice the maturity you had grown in to, the woman you had become, strong and intelligent in your own right. I was never certain if you felt I had not grown, if you disliked the direction of my life, or if I simply allowed sorrow to adjust your words before reaching me, but arguments began between us over everything from the arrangements for Betsy’s funeral and how the kitchen was stocked to the election of President Hoover; from how we were dressed to whether it was partly cloudy or partly sunny outside. There was so much I wanted to tell you, so many secrets to share, but within this wonderful woman you had become I was unable to find the child of yesterday, the sister I could trust with anything, the sister I needed desperately. When your visit was over, I clenched my teeth and watched as you drove away, my heart hardening still as I mourned the loss of Betsy and the sister I felt you had abandoned.
That was the last time I ever saw you for far, far too long. How I regret those years since then, years I traded for pride and gave away to foolishness. Years without speaking to my Sister, my voice silenced in jealous rages over the life, the love, you had been granted. Those were years when I refused to read your letters and spilled no ink to paper for you. How I regret those years, years that cannot be reclaimed.
In time, your letters stopped, and blame you I can not for finally giving up a battle you had been losing for so many years; both of us left only with the memory of two children, dressed as one, running through fields of wildflowers.
Over all of those decades, the house has battled to retain its hope, still reflecting, sharing, and smiling in the sunlight; but rooms have darkened as I’ve entered, walls quickly wishing sunlight away, hanging their heads, and dimming, as if they feared destruction if they reminded me of brighter days.
The house has grown stronger since then, brighter, less intimidated of me in the last ten years. The walls seem to recognize the opportunities to remind me of the hope and love with which Father built these walls, to remind me of days in the sun and laughter. It is as though the house has waited all these years for me to grow. Now, the house seems unafraid to reach out its invisible arms to me, comforting me like a child in the womb, trying to remind me with sunlight and shimmering walls of the opportunity for rebirth, of the opportunity to regain hope.
Ten years ago, when I had heard rumor that you were very ill, I picked up the pen; persuaded by the memory of those children running together and laughing in the wildflowers to talk to you; finally listening to the voices in my head that whispered songs of peace; finally realizing that, as a child and as I’ve aged, my heart has wanted much love and joy for your life. It was happiness that I've always wanted for you; yet I was angered when you received it. I did not realize it, then, that it was I who was causing you pain, heartbreak; but I realize it now. Did I wait too long? Are all acts allowed forgiveness, Sister? Are you sure?
Sometimes, in fleeting seconds, I think I hear those two little children in this room, laughing, and the scent of wildflowers floats in on the breeze.
Are you sure, Katrina?
Your loving Sister,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated August 23
August 23
Katrina,
The morning is bright, here at The Oak, and I am feeling strong this morning, more at peace, and I’m thinking that perhaps I have enough hope inside now to forgive those who have hurt me. Do you think, Sister, that all actions are deserving of forgiveness? All?
I remember the way George appeared that day, standing on the platform upon his return from the war, although the war had been over for some time. The trials of war had worn on him, his eyes having dimmed, his face having aged from the youthful boy that boarded the train to leave for war into a face that reflected the horrors the war had shown him. He seemed tired, tired in a manner that wasn’t the result of a long travel home. I should think that your son, named for his father, upon his return from a different war had the same expression upon his face.
That was the first time he had ever held me, hugging me tightly but saying nothing there on the platform. It was as if he were holding on to safety, holding on for dear life to something better in his future than what he had left behind. It was a moment that seemed to last forever and simultaneously vanish into the past as immediately as it had arrived.
As the driver drove us back to The Oak, George, almost immediately, began talking of plans for our wedding, our honeymoon, of the future. I was so excited, more excited than I had ever been about anything in my life up to that point, and I was relieved to see a familiar light in George’s eyes when he, too, spoke with excitement about the impending wedding.
George returned to the facilities where he had resided with the other farm workers that day because no job should be lost for time off to serve one’s country. Father taught us that. Sadly, George had no other place to go since he had no family to speak of and his military income had been minimal and, he said, regrettably, its entirety spent on his upkeep and travels home. I was told by George that the other workers welcomed him back warmly, many of them older than George and having served in the military themselves. Oddly, the head worker tried to meet with me a few days later, messaging that he needed to discuss George. I didn’t listen, thinking gossip inappropriate and disrespectful to George. George had plans, and that was all I needed to know.
It was several weeks before George was able to open up about his experiences in the war, the blood he had seen, the blood he had shed, a powerful guilt coming over his face that shadowed humanity with regret. He spoke of guns and tanks and corpses littering the ground like crumpled up pieces of paper that someone had simply tossed out as if they were worthless. He spoke of the terror of canons in the night and the nightmares that follow; the fear to sleep; the fear to breathe too loudly or cough, lest a location be given away and certain death to follow; of how cold the human heart can learn to react when faced with unmentionable darkness. He had never mentioned any of it in the few letters he wrote to me, mostly keeping a positive outlook in words as if nothing were wrong.
For days, it seemed that the war was all he could speak of; and I let him talk, hoping that it could somehow be talked out of his system, as if the horrors could be lost to time like a forgotten nightmare if he only told of all he had experienced. It was then that I realized that George was capable of stepping into Father’s shoes and running Father’s business affairs since Father was no longer here to do so, and I suggested such to George. I had been sitting in for Father since his death, but was somewhat bored with the details of daily business dealings. George thought the idea splendid, but admitted to there being much he would need to learn. He still maintained the dream of owning a farm of his own someday, not wanting to be seen as relying solely on Father’s money.
Since the war had removed any desire George may have had for world travel, we had decided to honeymoon by traveling across the country. Sister, we planned to see all the wonders, the canyons and mountains, the ocean, great waterfalls, and places of historic interest. We planned to travel by train and be away from The Oak for approximately a year. Father had built The Oak to be able to essentially care for itself, everyone here knowing their responsibilities and seemingly happy to help The Oak each day. So being away for a year didn’t seem like much of a struggle. General business transactions could be dealt with regularly from afar.
The days leading up the wedding were filled with a blend of excitement and dread. The dress was prepared, a gown of white that must have weighed fifty pounds with an outer garment of silk that seemed to shimmer like starlight. I felt like a princess in that dress, even during the fittings. The gown was smooth, since I had never had as much of a fondness for lace as you had had. George and I continued to make travel plans for the honeymoon, making certain to cover all of the details such as the order in which locations would be visited, how long we would be there, and where we would stay. I had traveled enough in my lifetime to know that I needed to take an appropriate amount of money, but wasn’t certain how much would be needed for such an extensive trip. We were to stay at some of the best hotels and dine at the most famous of restaurants in the most popular cities. Finally, after many suggestions to George that were deemed insufficient, we settled on an amount of ten thousand dollars that we would take with us. I missed Mother and Father and was saddened that they wouldn’t see me wed. You, with two young children and your husband recovering from a bout of pneumonia, were unable to travel, and my heart broke knowing that you, my Sister, would be absent from this important day.
Then, there was Betsy. Betsy had been greatly saddened by Mother’s passing as if she had witnessed the end of an era with both Mother and Father gone. Betsy tried her best to be something of a mother to me, advising, comforting. Betsy was a beautiful soul. But, when it came to George, Betsy would not be quiet. She did not like George, and made certain that I knew that she did not approve of this union and that neither would Mother nor Father have approved. She never was able to point out exactly what it was that she didn’t like about George--just an instinct--so I paid her no mind and hoped that the three of us could live peacefully in this house.
The day of the wedding was beautiful. I had planned the wedding of my dreams; a wedding in the grand entranceway with a shimmering dress to wear as I descended the steps toward my husband-to-be; a wedding of white roses and white candles with golden candlelight that would shimmer against the walls and flicker to the rhythm of my heart as a twelve-piece played. The chairs for the guests were to be draped in white, as they had been at your wedding, and facing the strength of that front door, the entranceway to my future. The cake was to be tiers of white cake with snow white frosting, with white roses of frosting adorning its sides. Golden servers had been chosen to cut the cake, golden to reflect the candlelight. And, as at your wedding, I hoped that The Oak would bless George and I with her good fortune, her strength and endurance.
The morning of the wedding, a Saturday it was, the preacher spoke to me about new beginnings, about a wife leaving her earlier life behind to begin a new life with her husband, and he blessed the union although George was not with me when the blessing was received. The preacher, you know the one, Sister, who has known us since birth, asked of you and wished you and your family well. I don’t think I ever told you that. Betsy came in my room and prepared my hair, pulling it upward as she attached the veil. Memories of your wedding and photographs of Mother and Father’s wedding day kept flooding back to me that day.
As I stepped into my wedding gown, I exhaled an earlier life of childlike fantasy and hopeful dreams and inhaled a new reality. I was to be a wife, George’s wife, and, hopefully, one day a mother just like my own.
About an hour before the ceremony was to begin, I had already dressed, anxious and excited to begin my new life. I was quite surprised when George, who must have followed one of the house staff, popped in to my room. Other than the one time when he was in the kitchen with Father, I don’t think he was ever inside The Oak. But, in walked a member of the house staff and then ran in George. Although I was completely dressed, I ran behind the dressing screen, having heard that it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding. But, George, muttering and heard pacing on the other side of the dressing screen, said that he was anxious as well and could not figure out what to do with himself. Through the screen, we spoke of all the plans we had made, going over all the details, laughing. It was then I who suggested to him that he could spend some of the anxious time loading the car, preparing it for travel.
From the window, I watched guests arrive, top hats and long gowns walking up to the house from their cars. And, then, the time arrived. Betsy came in to the room and told me that we would walk to the end of the hall and wait until the music began playing before walking into view of all the guests at the top of the grand staircase. Although she did not like George, she wished me luck and wished me well. We walked to the end of the hall and waited and waited, but the guests grew restless and the music never played, and George was gone as was Father’s car and the ten thousand dollars that I had placed in my traveling trunk, as George and I had discussed during our planning, for safe keeping.
George had already had about an hour head start before anyone realized he was gone, and it was then that I realized that I had unknowingly already begun my new life. I knew at the very moment that Betsy and the preacher told me George was gone that I would never marry, that my young heart of twenty-one would grow old as cold and alone as it felt at that very moment.
Betsy, being the wonderful soul that she was, explained to the guests that there would be no wedding, although she provided them with no formal reason why. It wasn’t long, however, before rumors began about town about George leaving and the reasons why.
After the guests departed, I sat there for the rest of the day on the grand staircase looking about the room at a dream turned bad, soured like milk that had been out to long. But, there were no tears, only emptiness as I seemed to feel my heart harden within as hours passed, the light of my soul dimming with each echoing tick of the clock.
The cake and the food prepared for the reception were eaten by the house staff and farm workers. The tent where the reception was to be held was taken down immediately and the house removed of its wedding décor. And, I awoke the next morning a different woman in a war of my own.
It was only then that I sought out the head farm worker, asking him what it had been that he had wanted to tell me. He explained that he wasn’t certain that it was his place but that there had been talk in those early days of George’s return that George had been discharged from the war early, and that George had returned to this country and traveled, gambling away his military earnings until he had no place else to return except for The Oak. And, then there had been the rumors, he said, that George had planned this far in advance; winning the hand of an heiress; easy money swindled from a desperate heart.
Years later, I had heard a rumor from one of the farm workers that George had been killed, shot to death when he was caught cheating at cards. The report was never confirmed, and I cared not to investigate the matter.
If only I had listened, paid attention, none of this ever would have happened. Perhaps George is not the one who needs forgiving. Perhaps, after all these years, it is myself I have been angry at for not keeping my eyes open, for allowing it all to happen.
Do all acts deserve forgiveness, Sister? Do they?
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
The morning is bright, here at The Oak, and I am feeling strong this morning, more at peace, and I’m thinking that perhaps I have enough hope inside now to forgive those who have hurt me. Do you think, Sister, that all actions are deserving of forgiveness? All?
I remember the way George appeared that day, standing on the platform upon his return from the war, although the war had been over for some time. The trials of war had worn on him, his eyes having dimmed, his face having aged from the youthful boy that boarded the train to leave for war into a face that reflected the horrors the war had shown him. He seemed tired, tired in a manner that wasn’t the result of a long travel home. I should think that your son, named for his father, upon his return from a different war had the same expression upon his face.
That was the first time he had ever held me, hugging me tightly but saying nothing there on the platform. It was as if he were holding on to safety, holding on for dear life to something better in his future than what he had left behind. It was a moment that seemed to last forever and simultaneously vanish into the past as immediately as it had arrived.
As the driver drove us back to The Oak, George, almost immediately, began talking of plans for our wedding, our honeymoon, of the future. I was so excited, more excited than I had ever been about anything in my life up to that point, and I was relieved to see a familiar light in George’s eyes when he, too, spoke with excitement about the impending wedding.
George returned to the facilities where he had resided with the other farm workers that day because no job should be lost for time off to serve one’s country. Father taught us that. Sadly, George had no other place to go since he had no family to speak of and his military income had been minimal and, he said, regrettably, its entirety spent on his upkeep and travels home. I was told by George that the other workers welcomed him back warmly, many of them older than George and having served in the military themselves. Oddly, the head worker tried to meet with me a few days later, messaging that he needed to discuss George. I didn’t listen, thinking gossip inappropriate and disrespectful to George. George had plans, and that was all I needed to know.
It was several weeks before George was able to open up about his experiences in the war, the blood he had seen, the blood he had shed, a powerful guilt coming over his face that shadowed humanity with regret. He spoke of guns and tanks and corpses littering the ground like crumpled up pieces of paper that someone had simply tossed out as if they were worthless. He spoke of the terror of canons in the night and the nightmares that follow; the fear to sleep; the fear to breathe too loudly or cough, lest a location be given away and certain death to follow; of how cold the human heart can learn to react when faced with unmentionable darkness. He had never mentioned any of it in the few letters he wrote to me, mostly keeping a positive outlook in words as if nothing were wrong.
For days, it seemed that the war was all he could speak of; and I let him talk, hoping that it could somehow be talked out of his system, as if the horrors could be lost to time like a forgotten nightmare if he only told of all he had experienced. It was then that I realized that George was capable of stepping into Father’s shoes and running Father’s business affairs since Father was no longer here to do so, and I suggested such to George. I had been sitting in for Father since his death, but was somewhat bored with the details of daily business dealings. George thought the idea splendid, but admitted to there being much he would need to learn. He still maintained the dream of owning a farm of his own someday, not wanting to be seen as relying solely on Father’s money.
Since the war had removed any desire George may have had for world travel, we had decided to honeymoon by traveling across the country. Sister, we planned to see all the wonders, the canyons and mountains, the ocean, great waterfalls, and places of historic interest. We planned to travel by train and be away from The Oak for approximately a year. Father had built The Oak to be able to essentially care for itself, everyone here knowing their responsibilities and seemingly happy to help The Oak each day. So being away for a year didn’t seem like much of a struggle. General business transactions could be dealt with regularly from afar.
The days leading up the wedding were filled with a blend of excitement and dread. The dress was prepared, a gown of white that must have weighed fifty pounds with an outer garment of silk that seemed to shimmer like starlight. I felt like a princess in that dress, even during the fittings. The gown was smooth, since I had never had as much of a fondness for lace as you had had. George and I continued to make travel plans for the honeymoon, making certain to cover all of the details such as the order in which locations would be visited, how long we would be there, and where we would stay. I had traveled enough in my lifetime to know that I needed to take an appropriate amount of money, but wasn’t certain how much would be needed for such an extensive trip. We were to stay at some of the best hotels and dine at the most famous of restaurants in the most popular cities. Finally, after many suggestions to George that were deemed insufficient, we settled on an amount of ten thousand dollars that we would take with us. I missed Mother and Father and was saddened that they wouldn’t see me wed. You, with two young children and your husband recovering from a bout of pneumonia, were unable to travel, and my heart broke knowing that you, my Sister, would be absent from this important day.
Then, there was Betsy. Betsy had been greatly saddened by Mother’s passing as if she had witnessed the end of an era with both Mother and Father gone. Betsy tried her best to be something of a mother to me, advising, comforting. Betsy was a beautiful soul. But, when it came to George, Betsy would not be quiet. She did not like George, and made certain that I knew that she did not approve of this union and that neither would Mother nor Father have approved. She never was able to point out exactly what it was that she didn’t like about George--just an instinct--so I paid her no mind and hoped that the three of us could live peacefully in this house.
The day of the wedding was beautiful. I had planned the wedding of my dreams; a wedding in the grand entranceway with a shimmering dress to wear as I descended the steps toward my husband-to-be; a wedding of white roses and white candles with golden candlelight that would shimmer against the walls and flicker to the rhythm of my heart as a twelve-piece played. The chairs for the guests were to be draped in white, as they had been at your wedding, and facing the strength of that front door, the entranceway to my future. The cake was to be tiers of white cake with snow white frosting, with white roses of frosting adorning its sides. Golden servers had been chosen to cut the cake, golden to reflect the candlelight. And, as at your wedding, I hoped that The Oak would bless George and I with her good fortune, her strength and endurance.
The morning of the wedding, a Saturday it was, the preacher spoke to me about new beginnings, about a wife leaving her earlier life behind to begin a new life with her husband, and he blessed the union although George was not with me when the blessing was received. The preacher, you know the one, Sister, who has known us since birth, asked of you and wished you and your family well. I don’t think I ever told you that. Betsy came in my room and prepared my hair, pulling it upward as she attached the veil. Memories of your wedding and photographs of Mother and Father’s wedding day kept flooding back to me that day.
As I stepped into my wedding gown, I exhaled an earlier life of childlike fantasy and hopeful dreams and inhaled a new reality. I was to be a wife, George’s wife, and, hopefully, one day a mother just like my own.
About an hour before the ceremony was to begin, I had already dressed, anxious and excited to begin my new life. I was quite surprised when George, who must have followed one of the house staff, popped in to my room. Other than the one time when he was in the kitchen with Father, I don’t think he was ever inside The Oak. But, in walked a member of the house staff and then ran in George. Although I was completely dressed, I ran behind the dressing screen, having heard that it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding. But, George, muttering and heard pacing on the other side of the dressing screen, said that he was anxious as well and could not figure out what to do with himself. Through the screen, we spoke of all the plans we had made, going over all the details, laughing. It was then I who suggested to him that he could spend some of the anxious time loading the car, preparing it for travel.
From the window, I watched guests arrive, top hats and long gowns walking up to the house from their cars. And, then, the time arrived. Betsy came in to the room and told me that we would walk to the end of the hall and wait until the music began playing before walking into view of all the guests at the top of the grand staircase. Although she did not like George, she wished me luck and wished me well. We walked to the end of the hall and waited and waited, but the guests grew restless and the music never played, and George was gone as was Father’s car and the ten thousand dollars that I had placed in my traveling trunk, as George and I had discussed during our planning, for safe keeping.
George had already had about an hour head start before anyone realized he was gone, and it was then that I realized that I had unknowingly already begun my new life. I knew at the very moment that Betsy and the preacher told me George was gone that I would never marry, that my young heart of twenty-one would grow old as cold and alone as it felt at that very moment.
Betsy, being the wonderful soul that she was, explained to the guests that there would be no wedding, although she provided them with no formal reason why. It wasn’t long, however, before rumors began about town about George leaving and the reasons why.
After the guests departed, I sat there for the rest of the day on the grand staircase looking about the room at a dream turned bad, soured like milk that had been out to long. But, there were no tears, only emptiness as I seemed to feel my heart harden within as hours passed, the light of my soul dimming with each echoing tick of the clock.
The cake and the food prepared for the reception were eaten by the house staff and farm workers. The tent where the reception was to be held was taken down immediately and the house removed of its wedding décor. And, I awoke the next morning a different woman in a war of my own.
It was only then that I sought out the head farm worker, asking him what it had been that he had wanted to tell me. He explained that he wasn’t certain that it was his place but that there had been talk in those early days of George’s return that George had been discharged from the war early, and that George had returned to this country and traveled, gambling away his military earnings until he had no place else to return except for The Oak. And, then there had been the rumors, he said, that George had planned this far in advance; winning the hand of an heiress; easy money swindled from a desperate heart.
Years later, I had heard a rumor from one of the farm workers that George had been killed, shot to death when he was caught cheating at cards. The report was never confirmed, and I cared not to investigate the matter.
If only I had listened, paid attention, none of this ever would have happened. Perhaps George is not the one who needs forgiving. Perhaps, after all these years, it is myself I have been angry at for not keeping my eyes open, for allowing it all to happen.
Do all acts deserve forgiveness, Sister? Do they?
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated August 14
August 14
Katrina,
As the sun plays this morning, bouncing behind a cloud then bouncing out as if playing peak-a-boo with the Earth, his rays smiling brightly with joy, I see that life is an opportunity for change and that hope lives within each moment. As long as we have hope, we have everything.
Hope, Sister. Such a tiny little word, with only four letters connected to each other to form the strength of a word. Hope. A tiny word that holds the power to heal a soul, to build a bridge over gulfs of lost emotion, to change the world. Hope may be the closest thing there is to God.
As long as the human race has been on this Earth, and before, we have walked with the intangible source of life: Hope. Hope surrounds us as it is carried on the wings of the breeze, gently gliding across the miles and whispering into the hearts of the living, “I am here for you.” Hope is the raindrop that can gently raise a seed into a rose, the smell of dawn, and the quiet sensation of sunset. Hope is the first cry of a newborn spirit reaching out toward the future with the excitement of exploration on the expedition of life.
Katrina, do you remember the myth of long ago about Pandora’s box? Legend has it that Zeus presented Pandora with an ornate box, locked as it were, on her wedding day but with strict instructions not to open it. Pandora, her curiosity too strong, slowly turned the key, opening the box to see what had been hidden inside. When the lid unclasped, diseases and evils, sorrows, were cast upon the world. Yet, left inside the box, inside the true heart of the vessel, was hope. Left there within Pandora’s reach was the greatest gift of all and the most powerful presence.
And the epic battle between good and evil rages on, even today. Daily, one can find the empty eyes of heartbreak, the injuries of cruelty, and the casualties of hopelessness. During any moment, somewhere in the world, are the ruins of poverty, the fear of violence, the waste of life. The battle cries of the wounded are heard regularly in courts, jails, schools, and hospitals, in wars, and in lonely darkened rooms. The forgotten silently scream a voiceless plea that echoes through the vacant corridors of empty hearts that have turned away.
And the war rages on. Daily, souls become prey to the magnetic negativity of despair, losing their hope for change, losing their quest for life. A cold blanket of darkness begins to cloak the world in a tapestry of apathy, regret, and surrender as human kindness seems to vanish like a ghost crossing over to the other side. Invisible armor becomes the fashion of the human race as walls are built around the heart and self-protection outweighs the protection of humanity.
Yes, Sister, I have learned a lot sitting at this window, observing the world around me though I am not so much a part of it anymore.
Yet, above all of the chaos, hovering with the electricity of tomorrow, are the smiles of angels wielding the Sword of Hope. “I am here for you,” the voices whisper into an ear, and then another, and another. “I am here for you,” the wind sighs as each moment of sadness is met with an equally powerful moment of joy, allowing the world to choose between the shadowed path of life and the path lit brightly by the sun, allowing the world to see that life is created of both negative and positive energy and the free will to focus on either.
Hope is all around us, Sister. Hope is in the cool, gentle breeze as it brushes against the face on a warm summer day. Hope is the laughing eyes of a dog as he rests on a lawn, paws outstretched, waiting to hear the footsteps of a child coming home to play. Hope is a mountain range forged through centuries of collision to create a beauty of strength, and a single seed that can grow into a mighty oak. Hope is in the sunshine and the moonlight, in birth and in death, in youth and in age. Hope exists in every breath. Hope even exists somewhere in the darkness.
Somewhere between the light of one day and the new dawn of the next sits the power of the midnight, that one reoccurring moment of time that is neither past nor present but a combination of both. It is in that moment that is shared by all that Hope and Despair are born and reborn each day. And, in that moment, the world is granted a choice, an opportunity of free will to follow the song of Despair or to listen to the chorus of Hope.
The Earth naturally believes in Hope as it experiences each day, growing and changing and turning with confidence into the future. We can recognize the harmonies of Hope as we listen to the rustling of leaves as the forest creates a blanket at the nearing of winter, as we see a bird in flight taking food to her young, or as we try to count the endless stars in the sky. Hope is everywhere, if we’re willing to accept it.
Can you hear it, Katrina? Perhaps... is it you, whispering on the breeze, “I am here for you. I am here.”
Forever Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
As the sun plays this morning, bouncing behind a cloud then bouncing out as if playing peak-a-boo with the Earth, his rays smiling brightly with joy, I see that life is an opportunity for change and that hope lives within each moment. As long as we have hope, we have everything.
Hope, Sister. Such a tiny little word, with only four letters connected to each other to form the strength of a word. Hope. A tiny word that holds the power to heal a soul, to build a bridge over gulfs of lost emotion, to change the world. Hope may be the closest thing there is to God.
As long as the human race has been on this Earth, and before, we have walked with the intangible source of life: Hope. Hope surrounds us as it is carried on the wings of the breeze, gently gliding across the miles and whispering into the hearts of the living, “I am here for you.” Hope is the raindrop that can gently raise a seed into a rose, the smell of dawn, and the quiet sensation of sunset. Hope is the first cry of a newborn spirit reaching out toward the future with the excitement of exploration on the expedition of life.
Katrina, do you remember the myth of long ago about Pandora’s box? Legend has it that Zeus presented Pandora with an ornate box, locked as it were, on her wedding day but with strict instructions not to open it. Pandora, her curiosity too strong, slowly turned the key, opening the box to see what had been hidden inside. When the lid unclasped, diseases and evils, sorrows, were cast upon the world. Yet, left inside the box, inside the true heart of the vessel, was hope. Left there within Pandora’s reach was the greatest gift of all and the most powerful presence.
And the epic battle between good and evil rages on, even today. Daily, one can find the empty eyes of heartbreak, the injuries of cruelty, and the casualties of hopelessness. During any moment, somewhere in the world, are the ruins of poverty, the fear of violence, the waste of life. The battle cries of the wounded are heard regularly in courts, jails, schools, and hospitals, in wars, and in lonely darkened rooms. The forgotten silently scream a voiceless plea that echoes through the vacant corridors of empty hearts that have turned away.
And the war rages on. Daily, souls become prey to the magnetic negativity of despair, losing their hope for change, losing their quest for life. A cold blanket of darkness begins to cloak the world in a tapestry of apathy, regret, and surrender as human kindness seems to vanish like a ghost crossing over to the other side. Invisible armor becomes the fashion of the human race as walls are built around the heart and self-protection outweighs the protection of humanity.
Yes, Sister, I have learned a lot sitting at this window, observing the world around me though I am not so much a part of it anymore.
Yet, above all of the chaos, hovering with the electricity of tomorrow, are the smiles of angels wielding the Sword of Hope. “I am here for you,” the voices whisper into an ear, and then another, and another. “I am here for you,” the wind sighs as each moment of sadness is met with an equally powerful moment of joy, allowing the world to choose between the shadowed path of life and the path lit brightly by the sun, allowing the world to see that life is created of both negative and positive energy and the free will to focus on either.
Hope is all around us, Sister. Hope is in the cool, gentle breeze as it brushes against the face on a warm summer day. Hope is the laughing eyes of a dog as he rests on a lawn, paws outstretched, waiting to hear the footsteps of a child coming home to play. Hope is a mountain range forged through centuries of collision to create a beauty of strength, and a single seed that can grow into a mighty oak. Hope is in the sunshine and the moonlight, in birth and in death, in youth and in age. Hope exists in every breath. Hope even exists somewhere in the darkness.
Somewhere between the light of one day and the new dawn of the next sits the power of the midnight, that one reoccurring moment of time that is neither past nor present but a combination of both. It is in that moment that is shared by all that Hope and Despair are born and reborn each day. And, in that moment, the world is granted a choice, an opportunity of free will to follow the song of Despair or to listen to the chorus of Hope.
The Earth naturally believes in Hope as it experiences each day, growing and changing and turning with confidence into the future. We can recognize the harmonies of Hope as we listen to the rustling of leaves as the forest creates a blanket at the nearing of winter, as we see a bird in flight taking food to her young, or as we try to count the endless stars in the sky. Hope is everywhere, if we’re willing to accept it.
Can you hear it, Katrina? Perhaps... is it you, whispering on the breeze, “I am here for you. I am here.”
Forever Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated August 13
August 13
Katrina,
Life is a cornucopia, moments of pleasure and hopefulness blended with moments of learning and sorrow; a complex gathering of all emotions, positive and negative, all parts blending together in harmony so that there are equal parts of each existing in the mix, allowing for a true experience of all. Even the hermit, void of human contact and hiding in the deepest recesses of the darkest cavern cannot escape life, though he may avoid parts of it. Life is inescapable because being alive requires life to be experienced, whether it be the human feeling the warmth of the sun, a tree being cooled by the water of a nearby creek on his roots, or an animal hearing the crunch of a nut as he chews. Life is all about us.
Do we take advantage of the opportunities life grants us? Do humans respect life or do we mock it, trying to alter the factors that we don’t like until they’re no longer noticeable, becoming scientific, controlled, and artificial?
Here we are, on the dawn of a new century, a new millennium, and life is vastly different from when we were children. Farming is easier now, machines existing in place of some of the hard labor, and computers often dictate planting seasons and the choice of crop. Medicines are much improved, but are more costly and doctors no longer make house calls or take patients on credit. Insurance rules the medical field that compassion and instinct used to rule. Work is now completed by computers; no one adding or subtracting without those tiny machines, no one keeping data in their head, no one keeping tabs of money spent or money earned or money owed on a notebook kept in a desk drawer. It’s a different world. Some changes have been for the better and some I’m not so sure about.
We’ve come so far this century, learning so much about the physical sciences, such as medicine and astronomy, and the social sciences, such as psychology. Women now stand equal to men. Education has received more of the focus and importance it deserves. Nearly every household now has electricity and indoor plumbing. Why, our century saw the invention of the television and the popularity of the car. It was in our century when the first shuttle landed on the moon and King Tut’s tomb was found. How exciting!
But, have we lost part of our humanity in what we’ve defined as progress? We disgrace the trees upon the land by plowing them down, ignoring their purposefulness and the stamina that allowed them to grow old. Architecture, which used to be a proud endeavor, now seems to be limited to cold, concrete, tall city businesses; the intricate detail of design reflecting personality no longer easy to find except in structures built long ago. We seem to be more interested in finishing projects quickly than well, the fine art of craftsmanship seemingly vanishing. And, worst of all, though families used to care for their elderly, respecting their wisdom and seeing to their needs, families now tend to push them away, disrespecting the experiences of aged lives, refusing to learn from their failures and successes, placing them in cold, anonymous facilities that seem void of independence and void of home. We were lucky, Sister, to have the money to buy our freedom of choice.
If we’ve made mistakes in this century, the Earth is now pregnant and about to birth a new century, a new opportunity for all to make positive changes for the future. Although I know that we won’t be a part of it, I do wish well for the future of this great planet. I hope that science continues to find medicines and cures for illnesses and diseases that continue to devastate the world. I pray that the human race will learn more about each other, about protecting each other, about protecting the right for people to be who they want to be. I pray that the human race will learn to respect the Earth, the animals, all of nature, and to learn to live peacefully with these elements instead of attempting to rule over them, control them. We all must work together, and when we do balance and harmony will result. And, I hope that wars will end and that peace will be known.
It was raining when I began this letter, Kat, Heaven’s tears washing over the Earth to cleanse it, washing away mistakes and allowing the Earth a new opportunity to try again. And, now, as the sun begins to glance over a rainbow to see if its time to shine, I think there shall truly be a second chance, a new opportunity for change. Life is an opportunity for change.
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
Life is a cornucopia, moments of pleasure and hopefulness blended with moments of learning and sorrow; a complex gathering of all emotions, positive and negative, all parts blending together in harmony so that there are equal parts of each existing in the mix, allowing for a true experience of all. Even the hermit, void of human contact and hiding in the deepest recesses of the darkest cavern cannot escape life, though he may avoid parts of it. Life is inescapable because being alive requires life to be experienced, whether it be the human feeling the warmth of the sun, a tree being cooled by the water of a nearby creek on his roots, or an animal hearing the crunch of a nut as he chews. Life is all about us.
Do we take advantage of the opportunities life grants us? Do humans respect life or do we mock it, trying to alter the factors that we don’t like until they’re no longer noticeable, becoming scientific, controlled, and artificial?
Here we are, on the dawn of a new century, a new millennium, and life is vastly different from when we were children. Farming is easier now, machines existing in place of some of the hard labor, and computers often dictate planting seasons and the choice of crop. Medicines are much improved, but are more costly and doctors no longer make house calls or take patients on credit. Insurance rules the medical field that compassion and instinct used to rule. Work is now completed by computers; no one adding or subtracting without those tiny machines, no one keeping data in their head, no one keeping tabs of money spent or money earned or money owed on a notebook kept in a desk drawer. It’s a different world. Some changes have been for the better and some I’m not so sure about.
We’ve come so far this century, learning so much about the physical sciences, such as medicine and astronomy, and the social sciences, such as psychology. Women now stand equal to men. Education has received more of the focus and importance it deserves. Nearly every household now has electricity and indoor plumbing. Why, our century saw the invention of the television and the popularity of the car. It was in our century when the first shuttle landed on the moon and King Tut’s tomb was found. How exciting!
But, have we lost part of our humanity in what we’ve defined as progress? We disgrace the trees upon the land by plowing them down, ignoring their purposefulness and the stamina that allowed them to grow old. Architecture, which used to be a proud endeavor, now seems to be limited to cold, concrete, tall city businesses; the intricate detail of design reflecting personality no longer easy to find except in structures built long ago. We seem to be more interested in finishing projects quickly than well, the fine art of craftsmanship seemingly vanishing. And, worst of all, though families used to care for their elderly, respecting their wisdom and seeing to their needs, families now tend to push them away, disrespecting the experiences of aged lives, refusing to learn from their failures and successes, placing them in cold, anonymous facilities that seem void of independence and void of home. We were lucky, Sister, to have the money to buy our freedom of choice.
If we’ve made mistakes in this century, the Earth is now pregnant and about to birth a new century, a new opportunity for all to make positive changes for the future. Although I know that we won’t be a part of it, I do wish well for the future of this great planet. I hope that science continues to find medicines and cures for illnesses and diseases that continue to devastate the world. I pray that the human race will learn more about each other, about protecting each other, about protecting the right for people to be who they want to be. I pray that the human race will learn to respect the Earth, the animals, all of nature, and to learn to live peacefully with these elements instead of attempting to rule over them, control them. We all must work together, and when we do balance and harmony will result. And, I hope that wars will end and that peace will be known.
It was raining when I began this letter, Kat, Heaven’s tears washing over the Earth to cleanse it, washing away mistakes and allowing the Earth a new opportunity to try again. And, now, as the sun begins to glance over a rainbow to see if its time to shine, I think there shall truly be a second chance, a new opportunity for change. Life is an opportunity for change.
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated August 12
August 12
Katrina,
There was the most wonderful wedding by the lake this morning as a couple said their vows and pledged their lives to each other. From my window, I saw the bride in a sleeveless gown of white holding a bouquet of wildflowers. Under the tent that had been erected in the field, the couple had their reception. The food that drifted on the air smelled delightful, though I was unable to determine what had been served. I imagine Betsy’s granddaughter outdid herself again.
Do you remember being that young and in love and stepping into a new beginning? Monica told me that she had heard that the bride and groom were to honeymoon in France. I said a little prayer for the couple, for their love to last through the ages as did yours.
Weddings. I always thought generation after generation of family members would be married here at Father’s Oak, in the grand entranceway with the bride coming down the staircase. So much is the same, yet so much has changed at The Oak. I’ve done the best I could with this old house, the property. Not all of the decisions I’ve made have been good or right, but many have been necessary. It’s not so bad really, knowing that the oak tree by the lake blesses its good fortune on strangers who unite as one near the shade of its branches. Sometimes it gives me warmth inside, knowing that the wonder and magic of this property can reach out past its borders like a mother reaching for her babe, protective, helpful, loving.
In all of these years of words, Katrina, I can’t recall if I’ve ever told you the story of how this came to be, the weddings here.
The Oak had made it through the Great Depression with minimal damage primarily due to its strength heading into the Depression. Since Father never cared much for the stock market, his wealth was not immediately effected by the crash and, as always, The Oak did its best to meet the needs of the farm workers and the house staff. Whatever the effect, The Oak and the people associated with it pulled through the crisis.
The second world war took aim and fired at Father’s property and financial worth like it had been the enemy in the war, crops failing and investments I had made not doing very well. Yet The Oak, with its ever enduring strength, survived and regained its financial health. Looking back, I think the compound effect of the Depression and War is what really took a toll on The Oak and on Father’s fortune.
By the time we were sixty-four years old, President Johnson, just having been elected by a landslide, was concentrating on another war the country was engaged in at the time, and The Oak, as well as myself, was continuing to be supported by Father’s wealth, good farming habits, and good investments. By that time, you were a grandmother several times over, both Betsy and Robert had been passed for many years, your son had safely returned--thank Heavens--from the second big war and entered Robert’s banking empire, and I was living at The Oak while you continued to reside in the home you had shared with Robert on the coast.
The farmland had been blessed with good workers and good weather, prospering several years in a row. Additional orchards had been planted on the property as an additional investment, but orchards require time to produce worthwhile product. Father’s fortune was still strong, but not what it had been, and I worried about the future.
What would become of The Oak, I wondered, unprepared to see the memories within this house be disgraced by time and by hands with no reverence for the history written on these walls. I had no descendants and, at the time, was certain not to see The Oak delivered into the hands of your children, then grown with children of their own, successful in their own right, and heir to Robert’s wealth. So, I sought out the advice of financial experts as I had when I had other questions regarding The Oak.
I wanted then and still want Father’s Oak to be remembered, for Father and Mother to be remembered. And, so a plan was devised. The agreement stated that the State would be allowed to share The Oak with visitors who wished to learn of Father and, in return, they would assist with the upkeep of the property. The State would have their own staff on the property but maintain the staff that existed here prior to the agreement. As Father would have wanted, I made sure that no hire lost a wage. I maintain ownership of The Oak, but the State shall obtain power over it when I am no longer here. I maintained Father’s monetary wealth, but have willed it to charitable organizations. In the agreement, as well, was a stipulation that I may reside in our family home until my death and that no changes could be made to the structure of the house. It’s not that complicated, really.
So, sometimes, friendly visitors with a respect for the past come to marry on this promised land or to learn of our parents and The Oak and the history within. But there is much they never learn, much they’ll never know, words written just beneath the surface of these walls that can only be read by us.
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
There was the most wonderful wedding by the lake this morning as a couple said their vows and pledged their lives to each other. From my window, I saw the bride in a sleeveless gown of white holding a bouquet of wildflowers. Under the tent that had been erected in the field, the couple had their reception. The food that drifted on the air smelled delightful, though I was unable to determine what had been served. I imagine Betsy’s granddaughter outdid herself again.
Do you remember being that young and in love and stepping into a new beginning? Monica told me that she had heard that the bride and groom were to honeymoon in France. I said a little prayer for the couple, for their love to last through the ages as did yours.
Weddings. I always thought generation after generation of family members would be married here at Father’s Oak, in the grand entranceway with the bride coming down the staircase. So much is the same, yet so much has changed at The Oak. I’ve done the best I could with this old house, the property. Not all of the decisions I’ve made have been good or right, but many have been necessary. It’s not so bad really, knowing that the oak tree by the lake blesses its good fortune on strangers who unite as one near the shade of its branches. Sometimes it gives me warmth inside, knowing that the wonder and magic of this property can reach out past its borders like a mother reaching for her babe, protective, helpful, loving.
In all of these years of words, Katrina, I can’t recall if I’ve ever told you the story of how this came to be, the weddings here.
The Oak had made it through the Great Depression with minimal damage primarily due to its strength heading into the Depression. Since Father never cared much for the stock market, his wealth was not immediately effected by the crash and, as always, The Oak did its best to meet the needs of the farm workers and the house staff. Whatever the effect, The Oak and the people associated with it pulled through the crisis.
The second world war took aim and fired at Father’s property and financial worth like it had been the enemy in the war, crops failing and investments I had made not doing very well. Yet The Oak, with its ever enduring strength, survived and regained its financial health. Looking back, I think the compound effect of the Depression and War is what really took a toll on The Oak and on Father’s fortune.
By the time we were sixty-four years old, President Johnson, just having been elected by a landslide, was concentrating on another war the country was engaged in at the time, and The Oak, as well as myself, was continuing to be supported by Father’s wealth, good farming habits, and good investments. By that time, you were a grandmother several times over, both Betsy and Robert had been passed for many years, your son had safely returned--thank Heavens--from the second big war and entered Robert’s banking empire, and I was living at The Oak while you continued to reside in the home you had shared with Robert on the coast.
The farmland had been blessed with good workers and good weather, prospering several years in a row. Additional orchards had been planted on the property as an additional investment, but orchards require time to produce worthwhile product. Father’s fortune was still strong, but not what it had been, and I worried about the future.
What would become of The Oak, I wondered, unprepared to see the memories within this house be disgraced by time and by hands with no reverence for the history written on these walls. I had no descendants and, at the time, was certain not to see The Oak delivered into the hands of your children, then grown with children of their own, successful in their own right, and heir to Robert’s wealth. So, I sought out the advice of financial experts as I had when I had other questions regarding The Oak.
I wanted then and still want Father’s Oak to be remembered, for Father and Mother to be remembered. And, so a plan was devised. The agreement stated that the State would be allowed to share The Oak with visitors who wished to learn of Father and, in return, they would assist with the upkeep of the property. The State would have their own staff on the property but maintain the staff that existed here prior to the agreement. As Father would have wanted, I made sure that no hire lost a wage. I maintain ownership of The Oak, but the State shall obtain power over it when I am no longer here. I maintained Father’s monetary wealth, but have willed it to charitable organizations. In the agreement, as well, was a stipulation that I may reside in our family home until my death and that no changes could be made to the structure of the house. It’s not that complicated, really.
So, sometimes, friendly visitors with a respect for the past come to marry on this promised land or to learn of our parents and The Oak and the history within. But there is much they never learn, much they’ll never know, words written just beneath the surface of these walls that can only be read by us.
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated August 8
August 8
Katrina,
Sister, I feel I am growing ill. Today, in the new morning light, a ceramic angel with white and blue painted robes and wings of white and pink, sitting upon a bookshelf keeping watch about the room, seemed to come to life; her wings fluttering, growing a bit, her head turning toward me with a peaceful glance and a trusting smile. I blinked, and she returned to the way she has always been. Perhaps it was merely the August heat having an effect on my mind. In whatever case, it was not a frightening experience, but rather a glorious one. The angel seemed to have Mother’s face.
I miss you, Sister. Sometimes, when I forget the presence of a mirror, I think I see you there inside the frame like a picture that had come to life. Then I realize that it is only my own reflection. Yet, there are days when I sort through old photograph albums that I swear I hear your voice calling to me from down the hall, inviting me out to play as we did when we were young. And, when I dream, I dream of us running through fields of wildflowers. Then, I awake with the taste of sourdough bread on my tongue and the sound of your voice echoing in my ears as if you had actually been here in this room; as if, for a brief time, we had turned back the clock and relived our moments in the sun.
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
Sister, I feel I am growing ill. Today, in the new morning light, a ceramic angel with white and blue painted robes and wings of white and pink, sitting upon a bookshelf keeping watch about the room, seemed to come to life; her wings fluttering, growing a bit, her head turning toward me with a peaceful glance and a trusting smile. I blinked, and she returned to the way she has always been. Perhaps it was merely the August heat having an effect on my mind. In whatever case, it was not a frightening experience, but rather a glorious one. The angel seemed to have Mother’s face.
I miss you, Sister. Sometimes, when I forget the presence of a mirror, I think I see you there inside the frame like a picture that had come to life. Then I realize that it is only my own reflection. Yet, there are days when I sort through old photograph albums that I swear I hear your voice calling to me from down the hall, inviting me out to play as we did when we were young. And, when I dream, I dream of us running through fields of wildflowers. Then, I awake with the taste of sourdough bread on my tongue and the sound of your voice echoing in my ears as if you had actually been here in this room; as if, for a brief time, we had turned back the clock and relived our moments in the sun.
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated August 7
August 7
Katrina,
I feel remarkably refreshed this day, Kat. The August sun rose early and bright. The field workers are saying that the summer has been perfect weather and that the harvest should be plentiful this year. A rare thing it is, Katrina, for farmland to be blessed by perfect weather. Well, in all my years, I can’t recall a single year that has been described as perfect weather.
I dreamed last night of Mother, how beautiful she was, how peaceful her expression even in her final hours. I dreamed of her laughter, her smile, the way she would look out the window with glee when she heard Father coming up the drive, quickly adjusting her hair before opening the door, always so happy to see him.
I am so sorry that you weren’t here in those weeks before Mother’s death, Katrina, unable to share in an experience unlike any other, unable to share the experience of traveling with someone along their journey to death, of having to let go at the final door. It was difficult, yet somehow I would not trade that experience for the world. Between us, Katrina, that time I was the lucky one; and Betsy too, as we nursed Mother with medicine and soup and clear, cool water. Each morning, I would read to Mother her favorite Bible passages and each day, when she was strong enough to speak, she would dictate letters to me, information on how to run the farm and memories that she did not want to be lost to the world. Those letters are still in Father’s desk, Sister, where they were placed after you read them after Mother was buried.
There was so much going on during that time. You and Robert had been living on the coast for some time, having moved there after your wedding, and you with your second child on the way when you received the news of Mother passing. The world was still at war, possible compromises being pushed aside, and I was sending letters weekly to George as he fought on the battle lines so that he knew there was someone here at home wishing him well. Once in a while, when he was able, he would write to me. Although he and I didn’t really know each other that well before his leaving, we seemed to learn of one another in those letters. At least, he got to know me.
George and I spoke at times before he enlisted just after Father died. He told me once, in the barn when I went to check on a sick cow and found George cleaning out the stalls, of his dream to own a farm of his own; a respectable goal for anyone. But, being young and somewhat reckless, and planning on the money he would earn in the military assisting him in reaching his dream, George enlisted, almost immediately boarding the train to war, to another land, to an uncertain future.
I was infatuated with George from the moment I first saw him, though why I could never explain. For George to notice me was my dream then and, after Father left for war and you married, George and I shared a few walks and a few conversations, but we never spoke of the future. Yet, I quickly lost my heart to him as he spoke of things he had done and planned yet to do. But, George had his work to do and I had other responsibilities. Then, shortly after Father died, George was gone to fight. It didn’t seem fair.
How I wished you had been here during those times to talk to. My heart was both full of pride and broken as I stood on the platform and waved goodbye to George as he left, praying silently for his safe return. From the stairwell of the train car, George asked me to marry him and, in surprise--since the subject had never come up before--I could only yell to him that I would. Love, at last, had arrived but was leaving; I was joyful, but heartbroken.
Overwhelming, it seemed at times, with you away in your new life, Father gone, and George at war. And, Mother, well, Mother just wasn’t quite the same as she had been before Father’s death. Sometimes I wonder if her death was a relief to her, not because it ended her suffering from pneumonia but because it ended her separation from Father. I’ve always found it ironic that the bloody war that took Father away just before his birthday ended shortly after Mother died, almost as if it had served its purpose in their lives.
Yet, everything happens for a reason, doesn’t it Katrina? Even the events we’re not fond of experiencing? Everything contains a lesson for one to learn, an opportunity to grow.
I miss Mother’s laughter, how it would echo softly as if an angel was nearby mimicking the sweet sound, and the pretty feeling that is saved for the experience of laughter alone. And, I think often of the joy within Father’s laugh, the way his eyes would light up with laughter. Somewhere, Katrina, I believe that they are together, somewhere, laughing.
I must go for now, Katrina. The day is nearing an end as streaks of amber paint the sky and, down the hall, I hear the faint whisper of laughter.
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
I feel remarkably refreshed this day, Kat. The August sun rose early and bright. The field workers are saying that the summer has been perfect weather and that the harvest should be plentiful this year. A rare thing it is, Katrina, for farmland to be blessed by perfect weather. Well, in all my years, I can’t recall a single year that has been described as perfect weather.
I dreamed last night of Mother, how beautiful she was, how peaceful her expression even in her final hours. I dreamed of her laughter, her smile, the way she would look out the window with glee when she heard Father coming up the drive, quickly adjusting her hair before opening the door, always so happy to see him.
I am so sorry that you weren’t here in those weeks before Mother’s death, Katrina, unable to share in an experience unlike any other, unable to share the experience of traveling with someone along their journey to death, of having to let go at the final door. It was difficult, yet somehow I would not trade that experience for the world. Between us, Katrina, that time I was the lucky one; and Betsy too, as we nursed Mother with medicine and soup and clear, cool water. Each morning, I would read to Mother her favorite Bible passages and each day, when she was strong enough to speak, she would dictate letters to me, information on how to run the farm and memories that she did not want to be lost to the world. Those letters are still in Father’s desk, Sister, where they were placed after you read them after Mother was buried.
There was so much going on during that time. You and Robert had been living on the coast for some time, having moved there after your wedding, and you with your second child on the way when you received the news of Mother passing. The world was still at war, possible compromises being pushed aside, and I was sending letters weekly to George as he fought on the battle lines so that he knew there was someone here at home wishing him well. Once in a while, when he was able, he would write to me. Although he and I didn’t really know each other that well before his leaving, we seemed to learn of one another in those letters. At least, he got to know me.
George and I spoke at times before he enlisted just after Father died. He told me once, in the barn when I went to check on a sick cow and found George cleaning out the stalls, of his dream to own a farm of his own; a respectable goal for anyone. But, being young and somewhat reckless, and planning on the money he would earn in the military assisting him in reaching his dream, George enlisted, almost immediately boarding the train to war, to another land, to an uncertain future.
I was infatuated with George from the moment I first saw him, though why I could never explain. For George to notice me was my dream then and, after Father left for war and you married, George and I shared a few walks and a few conversations, but we never spoke of the future. Yet, I quickly lost my heart to him as he spoke of things he had done and planned yet to do. But, George had his work to do and I had other responsibilities. Then, shortly after Father died, George was gone to fight. It didn’t seem fair.
How I wished you had been here during those times to talk to. My heart was both full of pride and broken as I stood on the platform and waved goodbye to George as he left, praying silently for his safe return. From the stairwell of the train car, George asked me to marry him and, in surprise--since the subject had never come up before--I could only yell to him that I would. Love, at last, had arrived but was leaving; I was joyful, but heartbroken.
Overwhelming, it seemed at times, with you away in your new life, Father gone, and George at war. And, Mother, well, Mother just wasn’t quite the same as she had been before Father’s death. Sometimes I wonder if her death was a relief to her, not because it ended her suffering from pneumonia but because it ended her separation from Father. I’ve always found it ironic that the bloody war that took Father away just before his birthday ended shortly after Mother died, almost as if it had served its purpose in their lives.
Yet, everything happens for a reason, doesn’t it Katrina? Even the events we’re not fond of experiencing? Everything contains a lesson for one to learn, an opportunity to grow.
I miss Mother’s laughter, how it would echo softly as if an angel was nearby mimicking the sweet sound, and the pretty feeling that is saved for the experience of laughter alone. And, I think often of the joy within Father’s laugh, the way his eyes would light up with laughter. Somewhere, Katrina, I believe that they are together, somewhere, laughing.
I must go for now, Katrina. The day is nearing an end as streaks of amber paint the sky and, down the hall, I hear the faint whisper of laughter.
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
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