Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated July 2, 1999

Let the fictional character of Christina Allgood, age ninety-nine years and facing a new era, share of her life and the lessons she has learned as she writes her Letters Home.




July 2, 1999

Katrina,

I remember you fondly, Kat. I remember a young girl with brown hair like my own, slender in build and small in stature, but with fiery green eyes that could light up a room, eyes only outshone by your smile. You carried about you a radiance, a flame lit by the joy with which you approached each morning and the hopefulness with which you lived each day. Walking in the daylight, your face seemed to attract the sun as if the sun were encouraged about its own journey by the light of your soul. You were happy, and you were willing to share your happiness with others. Dearest Sister, there is no greater beauty in the world than a soul who is willing to share with others the light known within.

Some people struggle through each day, but for you the journey of life appeared easy, like breathing. Just inhale and exhale and, even in times of trial, life will work itself out and result in something beautiful.

“Katrina,” I remember that Mother would call out sweetly from down the hall. She was certain to hear the quiet giggles of two children hiding in one of the many wardrobes in the house. “Katrina,” Mother would say as she opened the door to the wardrobe in which we were playfully hiding, certain again to hear us giggling though Mother shut the door as if she did not see us.

Like breathing, yes, life was like breathing when we were young, growing here at The Oak. Life was regulated and peaceful and the life of each day just happened, no force or arranging required of us. There were fields to walk through and sunshine to enjoy and games to be played. Life was easy here when we were young, and life was happy.

“Katrina, look,” I would whisper in your ear as we would hide behind a tree and watch the deer walk about through a clearing. On many occasions together we would sit there quietly in the brush and watch the mother deer walk with her young fawn as the mother would teach her child where to find food and shade and sunshine.

As easy as breathing, life here at The Oak, as we would find our way through the fields of clover, searching for a lucky leaf as we made our way to the lake to feast on a picnic of sandwiches made with sourdough bread. Or, we would rest in the tall summer grass looking up toward the sky, counting clouds or mountaintops until Mother or Betsy would call us to supper. Some nights, when we were allowed to stay out late and sit on the porch swing or lay in the grass, we would try to count all the stars in the sky, once in a while catching sight of a star shooting across the sky like magic.

I recall us having a happy childhood, Katrina, filled with books and travel, animals and four leaf clovers. Hours we would spend in Father’s office, lying on our stomachs on the floor, reading his books about other countries, magical people, and kings and queens. Entire days we would spend in the barn, on those occasions we were allowed, helping to feed and care for the animals, making certain that the animals had all they needed with a few hugs to their necks thrown in for good measure. Whenever possible we were outside, watching the seasons change and learning of how nature worked and memorizing the locations of stones, holes, and trees on the property until we could find our way about the place blindfolded.

And, as easy as breathing we grew here at The Oak, amongst the trees and the animals and our family, growing up and growing older as we learned about birth and death and all of life that happens between the two, being schooled in the ways of textbooks and etiquette and museums and experience. And, as breathing often passes unrecognized, our childhoods quickly passed as well, as most happy moments do.

Father was often away, his military duties requiring his presence elsewhere or the business of the farm requiring him to travel to town. It was Mother who kept The Oak running smoothly, making certain that the house staff tended appropriately to the structure and the field workers tended to the farm. And, then, there was Betsy, the head of the house staff at The Oak, the one who had helped to rear Mother and who helped to rear us. All of them, I am certain in my heart, did their best to keep The Oak a holy place, a place which had a life of its own, a breath of its own, a place that could breathe in the goodness and hope and experiences that occurred within these walls and on this property.

And, like breathing, life continued at The Oak and each day brought with it subtle adventures, learning, and laughter. And, I enjoyed all of it with you, my Sister, a gentle soul who respected life and living beings, a sister with a great fondness for laughter and smiles. How fortunate we were to grow up here at The Oak, this wonderful house built from slabs of strength on a foundation of hope.

And, of course, Whiskers was with us. We were only four years old the spring that Father brought home to us a picnic basket. Sitting the basket down by the massive front doors as he kissed Mother hello and then removed his coat and handed it to Betsy, we were almost to the basket when Father called our names. Excited, we were, to see what was inside, and it only took a moment for us to realize that the box contained something living. Gently, we each took hold of the lid and slowly pushed it open, peaking beneath the lid as it rose for an early glimpse of the secret within. There, sitting in the bottom of the picnic basket upon a small towel used to line the bottom, was a kitten, meowing hello to us as it lifted a paw towards us and tried to climb out of the basket.

Golden in color with white striping and blue eyes, the young and tiny creature must have barely weighed a pound, certainly no more than two. Father had received him from a business associate in town who was trying to find homes for the litter, and Father thought he would make a good pet for us and keep mice away. We took turns holding him, stroking his fur, and watching his tail twist and turn and wag. Curious, he was, although his true boldness came later, walking about us, climbing over our feet, and sniffing about the front oak doors, periodically looking back to us to meow as if making certain we were still there to protect him. Whiskers, we decided to call him, because of the way his whiskers tickled on our necks as we held him or when he climbed over the shoulder.

Whiskers was part of our family for years, sleeping on our beds at night, waking us in the mornings by jumping on us, and traveling with us as we walked about the property, through the fields, and up the mountain. We would find him, sometimes, sitting atop a fencepost meowing to the horses or the cows as if commenting on their activities of the day. Other times, he would sit beneath the oak tree or in a windowsill watching the birdhouse, waiting to pounce on prey. But, though he had the will, the great cat was never much of a hunter, preferring, as it were, to eat leftovers from the dinners Betsy prepared.

Yes, the three of us, you, Whiskers, and me, were quite a team.

Sisters forever,

Christina

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