July 26, 1999
Katrina,
Good morning, Sister. It is a beautiful morning with cooler temperatures and a slight breeze coming through the window.
Last night, I watched the sunset. Were you able to see it? I love to watch the sun set over the mountains. The mountains seem so tall, so dignified, that one feels as though a person could sit on the top of the ridge and put their chin on the shoulder of the sun, wrap arms around golden rays, exhale tension, and drift into a peaceful daylight slumber. It is in those moments that I realize the true grandeur of the Earth, the power of creation.
The mountains remind me of all that is truly free, naturally beautiful, simple, true, and at peace. Souls can be restored as they walk through the valley toward the steeps of dignity, taking note of the evidence of years that have gracefully passed, leaving their mark on nature forevermore. When I’ve walked through the valley, when the breeze gently brushed the hair off of the back of my neck and the sun warmed my face, I’ve lifted my eyes to the sky and witnessed the eagle’s quiet expression of freedom as it glided upon the wind. When I have walked toward the mountains, I could notice the brilliance of color as it rises up to the tree line of evergreens that bordered snowcapped peaks early into the summer season. The mountains have been my truest example of strength, the closest thing I’ve ever known to perfection and harmony, hope, God.
If one is quiet and still, between the rustling leaves, the calls of the eagle, and the occasional crackling of leaves beneath the feet, one can hear the stillness. But, silent the stillness is not. For, when a person becomes comfortable with the stillness, it will speak. In the heart, one can hear the mountain’s song sung by all of nature, teaching lessons learned from the generations, teaching how to care for the planet, teaching how to care for one’s self. The mountain’s song contains the wisdom beyond the human condition, the stories of the ages, the brilliance of Heaven, and a compassion for life that exceeds the total of all humankind combined. The mountain knows the answers to all of our questions about life and God and eternity, about healing broken hearts and repairing broken souls.
To the mountains is where I was guided when Father went to war. Do you remember that day, Katrina? I do. I shall never forget.
It was August. The day was overcast at times, but the fieldworkers said not to expect rain. I had no reason to doubt them, their sense of the weather being much more keen than my own. And, they were right for not a drop fell that day. The workers always seemed to be able to predict the weather, the rain and the droughts, a skill that came in handy for farming.
Father and Mother had gone to town earlier in the morning to obtain groceries, necessary supplies for housekeeping and, I suspect, to determine from the post master if Father’s birthday gift, his new pocket watch, had arrived. That watch was to be a surprise, Mother having told Father that she had ordered a new dress, but I think Father, in his infinite wisdom and skills of strategy, figured it out. Whether he did or whether he didn’t, no one ever really knew.
The housekeeping staff was fluttering with activity, food being readied and decorations arranged in preparation for Father’s birthday party on the evening of the next day. When the 22nd arrived, Father was to turn 40 years old. Mother was determined that the party would outdo any other party that year, including the fall festival.
You and I, at seventeen, were quite adept at social events, Mother having schooled us in etiquette and proper ladylike behavior. Well, at least, proper ladylike behavior when in the company of strangers, neighbors, or anyone not associated with the property. That may never have been so clear to Mother as when she arrived home from town that afternoon.
White cake with chocolate frosting was always Father’s favorite, therefore becoming the cake of choice for his party. Betsy, the housekeeper, had made certain that everything needed to bake the cake was in the house and set aside for this special event. How we ever talked her into allowing us to bake the cake in her stead, I’ll never know.
We did well, mixing the batter, being certain to add just enough flour so that it was of the proper consistency. Like an assembly line, we worked together, mixing, test-tasting, dividing batter into pans, and baking. Hustling about the kitchen, six layers we made for a cake that would defy a wedding cake, building layers like steps leading up to a porch. The kitchen grew hotter as they day went on; the heat from the stove adding to the heat from the weather, creating a sensation that my stomach was somehow melting from the temperature; making my head spin at times like a top that you wind up and let go. I remember the sweat dripping down the back of my dress as I repeatedly went to the window for fresh air.
Betsy came in periodically to check on us, admiring our baking and complimenting us on our efforts, our teamwork. And, as soon as she would check on us, she would be gone to deal with decorations or that extra special cleaning that people do when guests are coming.
When the layers of cake had cooled in the pie safes that we had placed strategically on the window ledge, they were retrieved and brought to the table for frosting and stacking and decorating. Again, we sorted ingredients and mixed until we made frosting with just the right amount of chocolate, tasting spoonfuls of sugar along the way just because it tasted good and because no one was watching. The first layer was put into place on a serving platter and frosted to perfection; dowels were added, and the second layer gently put into place. We frosted and tasted and frosted, added layers, then frosted some more. The smell of cake and chocolate and sugar drifted on the air throughout the kitchen and, sometimes, found the way out the window and floated out to pasture. When the cake was covered in frosting, we decorated it as much as we could with flowers that Betsy had made of sugar, adding vines and leaves of green frosting. Although quite pretty, the cake kind of looked like a flower garden, blasts of color on top of a dark background. But, it was what Father wanted.
We praised ourselves, and deservedly so. Our reward for baking in the August heat was the remainder of the chocolate frosting. As Betsy took the cake to the cellar to prevent it from melting, we put spoons to the frosting left in the bowl. The kitchen was a mess; dirty dishes from our cake baking and frosting making littered the sink, the counter, and the table. Cleaning the mess would be our next task, you mentioned right before you giggled. That’s the last thing I remember before frosting hit me in the face. So, as any sister would, I returned the favor in kind, managing to get frosting on your face and dress. Together, we giggled and threw frosting, running about the kitchen, ducking here and there, as if it would save one of us from the chocolate throws. Frosting hit the walls and the table, some of it landed on the floor, and quite a bit of landed on our dresses, on our faces, and in our hair. (Frankly, dear, what were we thinking? It’s never a good idea to waste good chocolate.)
The giggling continued until Mother walked in and was splattered on the cheek with some frosting intended for you. The giggling stopped immediately. Mother wasn’t laughing either. Betsy walked in soon after Mother, sighing as she talked about how proper ladies didn’t behave like this. Father came in next, muffling a chuckle as he saw us covered in frosting. We muffled a few chuckles ourselves when we saw him.
Then, George walked in. I don’t think I’ve ever swallowed so hard as I did when I realized that he, of all people, had seen me covered in chocolate frosting like a child. And, me seventeen! My heart sank, thinking he’d never notice me after seeing me like that. And what I wanted more than anything in the world at that time was for George to notice me, to think of me fondly, to ask me to the fall festival. After all, we were at the age to marry; you had been promised to Robert with the fall wedding already planned and George had held my heart since the first time I met him.
No one moved momentarily, until Father told everyone to clean up because news was to be shared. His expression had turned more serious.
It was August 21st when Mother stood bravely beside Father and the two of us were instructed to sit on the sofa in the sitting room. It was impossible to mistake that the house, which earlier had been busied with party preparations, had grown still and silent. A restless seriousness had settled on the air, permeating the walls that now seemed to hang their heads with worry, pushing away the sunlight that they usually embraced.
I remember Father’s derby hanging on one arm of the coat rack while his overcoat hung on another. I remember listening to the silence of the house, a heavy silence that seemed to know the past and future. I remember Father standing there, his sleeves rolled up above his wrists, the stains beneath the arms of his vest, an attempt at a comforting expression on his face. I remember Mother standing beside him, her hands placed around his arm, just above his elbow, proper, strong.
“We’ve encouraged you girls to learn of events in the world. We’ve encouraged you to be able to think for yourselves, to educate yourselves,” he began. “So, it is no surprise to you that attempts to end the war have failed.”
I remember him pausing as if he were trying to find the right words. President Wilson, he explained, had tried every opportunity to keep us from the war, but no successful manner was found. The world had chosen a goal of power and control over peace, and the cost was human life. Father tried to comfort us, to reassure us that he would find his way back to us safely, but Mother’s tears exposed her true fear of another possibility.
Father had been a career military man, sometimes keeping the farm afloat from afar with instructions in telegrams and letters. He had taught Mother all he knew and she had become as efficient at running the farm as he. But, it wasn’t the same.
Father showed us the telegram he had received, instructing him to meet with the troops to travel overseas. He was scheduled to leave at nine o’clock in the morning on August 22nd .
There was no party, a part of this old house dying on that day as if it knew a secret and refused to tell us. We said goodbyes on the morning of his departure in that same sitting room, with a few Happy Birthdays thrown in for good measure until Father, appearing distinguished in his officer dress, left us that day. As we watched him leave, how could we have known the future.
A week later, Father’s birthday gift, the watch, arrived in the mail. Mother kept it in her dresser, in her drawer filled with special trinkets, as she awaited Father’s return. Then, on December 31st, the day before our birthday, he was returned to us in a box with a telegram that said that he had been shot, killed in battle, and had served his country well. He was buried with that watch.
And, we were never quite the same. Mother seemed strong and capable when Father was away, but when she realized he was gone from this Earth her strength seemed to turn into madness, her intellect into fear. Father had always been wonderful at making Mother laugh, but after his death her laughter ceased as if it had been buried with him. By the time the treaty was signed, ending the war, Mother had grown ill and died. The doctor called it pneumonia, but I think she really died of a broken heart, of a need to be with Father.
Sometimes, in the silence of the evening hours, I still hear their laughter echoing softly through the halls and I wonder if, sometimes, they come back home to visit, coming home to their precious Oak.
During those months of Father's absence and following the news of his death, I walked up the mountain daily, sitting at the top and viewing the world below, allowing the tree limbs to guide me upward on my walk, allowing the breeze to sing a song of peace, listening to the Earth whisper to the world of the value of life. It kept me calm, it kept me going, it provided me serenity in a time of chaos.
If, when we die, we can choose where our spirit goes, you’ll find me at the mountaintop with my arms outstretched and breathing in the hope of creation. Surely, Heaven must exist on the top of a mountain, originating the winds of peace and change that blow throughout the world and whisper into the souls of every heart.
Well, the day is getting on and my eyes have grown tired. I shall stop writing for now. I miss you, Kat. And, suddenly, I yearn for chocolate frosting. And, down the hall, I hear the faint sound of laughter.
Sisters forever,
Christina
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