July 28, 1999
Katrina,
Is it beautiful where you are, Katrina? Do the hummingbirds flutter their wings, darting back and forth between flowers, lowering their beaks to taste the nectar? Do the lions protecting the gates of your abode slowly turn their stone heads, opening their eyes and smiling as they lift their noses to the scent of lilies drifting on the breeze with the honeysuckle? Is it peaceful? Is it quiet? From where you are, can your memory recall the quiet trickle of the water flowing through the creek that runs across the home-place, the creek where we once played as children? Can your mind reach back and feel summer Earth beneath bare feet? Can you see us in our youth carving our initials in the old oak tree down by the creek, splashing in the water, and having picnic lunches of apples and sandwiches made with Betsy’s sourdough bread? Can you recall helping with household chores and Mother helping us with our lessons and listening to the field workers brag or worry about the crop that existed on any given year? Can you, Kat?
You would still recognize the old home-place if you saw it, Sister. The Oak, like us, has grown older but, although some of the grandeur of yesteryear is gone, this old house still maintains its glory. The mountains still stand to the east, elegantly keeping watch over the property and counting time with the seasons. The lake at the edge of the fields still sparkles in blue, and the field of clover leading to it, I’m sure, still has a lucky petal or two. The fields are seeded and harvested now by machines much more than people, the care of the fields now entrusted to the son of the son of the man who worked those fields with Father. The house now has only a minimal staff, Betsy’s granddaughter and her two children. Then, of course, there is Monica, the young lady who helps take care of me; the one who helps me with things I can sadly no longer do myself. She is a kind soul and often takes me about the property in a wheelchair so that I can feel the sun and smell the honeysuckle and be reminded of the beautiful Oak that Father built for Mother as a wedding gift, this house where we were born, this house where my life has been spent. Mostly, though, I spend my days in this room, Father’s old office on the second floor, at his oak desk, looking out the window, writing, remembering, wondering.
In the spring, I saw the barn where we used to sit on bales of hay in the loft; talking and checking about our heads for spiders coming down from the roof; laying on our stomachs so that we could peer over the edge of the loft to watch the newborn calves sleep next to their mothers; or watching Whiskers hiss at the chickens only to see the chickens flap their wings and frighten that old cat.
The barn seemed like a holy place, protected by a sense of purpose with a resemblance to its immediate family, the trees on the property, and built with compassion for the creatures that called it home. For years, the barn was patched and repaired, but never painted. And, for decades, it proudly stood on the property like a monument to time.
That old barn still stands, its stalls still serving like small apartments for the animals within, the loft still seeming like a place of mystery and wonder. Repairs continue from time to time and care has been taken to shelter the planks from the seasons, but it still stands against the storms, against the rain, against the sun. Of course, it’s not exactly the same as it was in our youth, power lights, some additional windows, and some additional rooms having been added. The field workers now make their office in one of the new additions.
And this property, well, it has its own tale to tell. The road leading up to The Oak is now paved and, like a concrete hand, it continues to curve a finger, inviting people to continue up the road toward the house. The drive, still dotted on either side with the old oak trees, circles in front of the front door so that when someone leaves they are led back again as if the house is letting everyone know that they are welcome. In the middle of the circle, a garden of flowers has been planted, colors and sizes and plants arranged like a painting and, in the center, a water fountain made of stone with engravings of an oak tree all around it. In front of the fountain, Sister-- you would be so proud-- is a concrete plaque dedicated to Father explaining how he built this house for Mother, how he built this house with electricity and indoor plumbing, how he worked the land, how he earned his own way and didn’t rely solely on his father’s railroad inheritance, how he invested, how he served his country, and how he died. He and Mother’s stones are kept polished where they’ve rested for decades, there under the great oak tree at the foot of the mountain. Now, their stones, their graves, are enclosed in a small circular fence made of iron and painted white, surrounded by flowers and a circular concrete walkway. And, in the front of a small entrance to the circular fence is another plaque discussing more of Father and Mother’s triumphs and their life together.
Though these small rooms in which I usually remain still feel like home, so many changes have occurred to The Oak. I hope Father would approve. I suspect Mother would be proud.
Do you remember how we would grasp the knob of each front door, opening them simultaneously and walking through as if we were entering a great ball or walking on to a stage, giggling the entire time at our games? Those doors are still as opulent as ever, standing guard at the front of the house with the strength of aged oak and the inviting manner of a shade tree, the tops of the doors far above the heads of those who enter.
The house still appears massive when one comes up the drive, two stories with tall ceilings. The attic is still situated evenly over the front doors, comprising a partial third story with a roof that seems to spread out its arms toward the lower two stories in a protective stance. I used to lay in the grass and trace the outline of the house, up one side, sideways across the top floor, over the triangular roof of the attic, then across the other side of the house, and down again.<>
The stone angels, some draped in vines, still sit in their homes of wood above every window, beside the doors, and on an inserted platform in the attic overlooking the drive. Mother loved those angels, thinking that they protected the house and the family inside. Did they?
The house has grown older, its bones creaking from time to time as if stretching to relieve a cramp. The oak walls, still smooth and grand, still hug the light, reaching for it like a favorite doll and cuddling it until the light fades away. In the cooler months, the walls reflect the light of the flames of the fireplace as they flicker, teasing the walls with playful conversation. Sometimes, on an easy day, the walls seem to smile, offering a comforting and contented expression, almost as if they were whispering, “Good day,” to passers by.
Our family portraits still hang in the parlor. Mother’s favorite paintings and statues decorate the house, a reflection of her personality here and there. Father’s favorite sketch of The Oak has been moved from his office, where I usually stay, down to the sitting room. The grandfather clocks that tick away time sit positioned in their locations of royalty while smaller clocks, some of which belonged to our grandfathers, sit on shelves and mantles. And pottery, well, it seems that some of Mother’s favorite pieces, some from lands far away, are in every room.
It is so easy to determine which rooms were decorated by Father, with darker, masculine colors, leather fabrics, and his hunting trophies on the wall, and which rooms were decorated by Mother, with tapestries of rich colors, soft fabrics, mirrors, comfort, and a feminine quality. Mother’s formal dining room still houses her china with pretty flowers around the edges, silverware, and crystal; all sat upon Father’s oak table and surrounded by enormous high-back chairs covered in soft cushions with pretty patterns of flowers and vines.
Visitors still marvel at the house, a simple loveliness blended with privilege that created a home that was regal but livable, grand but comfortable and welcoming, warm and gracious.
But, mostly, I stay in our old bedroom and Father’s old office, up here on the second floor. There are memories of us all in these two rooms, memories of how Mother and Father would talk and laugh in his old office as Mother would sit on the sofa to sew and Father would sit at his desk to work on his books. There are memories of you and I laying on the floor or sitting in the chairs while we would read books from Father’s collection and then discuss what we had learned with him and Mother. It was in this office where Robert asked Father for permission to marry you. I know because I overheard. It was in this office where Father’s will was read and, later, Mother’s will. Decisions that have changed our lives forever have been made in Father’s office, some of which I remember with a sense of satisfaction and gratitude and some of which I would forget if I could. Sometimes, in life, we do what we want, sometimes we do what we can, and sometimes we simply do what we have to do.
Night is falling, like a blanket wrapping the Earth protectively, soothing the Earth into a restful sleep until daybreak. Through the window, I see the sun set, with blazing reds and yellows and blues streaking the sky; the day is not yet prepared to surrender to the night, still wanting to play outside like a young child not yet ready to sleep.
But unlike the day, I am prepared to rest for the night.
Good night, my Sister.
Always,
Christina
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