Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated October 7

October 7
Katrina,



The autumn leaves are being blown by a gentle wind outside, cascading downward outside my window like a tangible rain of bright colors. How I remember as children extending our arms as we lifted our smiling eyes up to the sky, turning and dancing, enjoying the falling leaves. I remember piling the leaves in a basket so that Whiskers could jump in, scratching at the leaves until settling on a comfortable position for napping. The fall season holds so many memories of the past, memories of childhood, each leaf outside the window seeming to remind me of them.



It was in the autumn months when the most wonderful apple recipes would be made, the house filling up with the smell of apple and cinnamon and vanilla as pies and cobblers and cakes would be made, usually being eaten in less time than the time required for their preparation.



In the fall, thick, warm blankets of soft fabrics were brought down from the attic and placed upon the beds for the cool nights. Flames filled the fireplaces with light and wonder, and logs were placed in small piles beside the hearth. In the barn, care was taken so that the animals had extra warmth, extra hay in their stalls and extra food for their stomachs, and their water troughs were removed of ice each morning.



But, except for the autumn that you wed, the greatest enjoyment of the fall season was always the fall carnival held at the edge of town. Advertised as the greatest carnival in the territory, it was truly a marvel to the two of us. Never did we attend a fall carnival without eating at least one, and often more, caramel covered apples, apples that we would wash down with orange sodas, lemonade, or hot cocoa. We would begin saving our own money, a bit here and there, in the summer so that we could buy those tasty treats in the fall.



As we enjoyed the tastes of the carnival, we would walk through the midway and from tent to tent, witnessing things we could only see at the carnival. Fire-eating men, men who could swallow swords, women who knew the future, and women who could perform ballet on the trapeze or on the bare backs of horses were always at the carnival. Snakes with two heads and roaring lions tamed so that a man could put his head inside the lion’s mouth without harm were there too, along with mummies that were supposed to have been found in countries far away. Singing quartets would perform gospel songs and clowns would walk about giving children balloons or lollipops. Contests would be held for the best pie, the best cake, and the best cookie. There would be contests to catch pigs that had been bathed in lard, and farmers would exhibit their animals as they competed for the blue ribbon, a prize to be proud of indeed. And, when it was over, fireworks would light the night sky, filling the sky with a rainbow of colors and the air with explosions of excitement.



But, my favorite memory of the carnival, Katrina, is the one we attended when we were ten years old. Do you remember?



The air was a bit chilly even though we were wearing our sweaters, but the sun was shining and the orange, red, and yellow leaves were falling down about us. It was perfect carnival weather. Father and Mother were listening to the quartet sing as we were allowed to explore what the carnival had to offer.



We sat on a bench for a while, eating caramel covered apples and listening to an elderly gentleman, short in stature with a long white beard and hair to match, tell a story of how, after a bear attacked him, he killed the bear with nothing but his bare hands. The man stood beside a stuffed black bear that stood as tall as the circus tent and as wide as a door, the stuffed bear there to serve as proof of the accuracy of the man’s story. We listened with wide eyes as the man dramatically told of being all alone out in the wilderness, being awakened by the roar of the bear in his tent, as he told of the open mouth of the bear and the teeth prepared to eat him. He told of wrestling the bear, of hitting the bear with a frying pan, of winning the match, and then, after the battle, simply returning to his tent to sleep. It never occurred to us to ask him how a bear that size could enter his tent.



Later in the day, we drank hot cocoa as we watched magic performed. The magician (an elderly man who was short in stature with long white hair and a beard to match who seemed to us remarkably familiar) wore a tall, coned-shaped hat painted with the colors of the rainbow. He carried a magic wand with an emerald at its tip, and flowing robes, he wore, of purple and gold and blue with white stars and clouds and streaks of lightning painted upon them. Remarkable feats he accomplished, floating books of magic through the air, floating a woman through the air, and restoring pieces of paper he had torn. He could make words appear on slates, words that seemed to have been written by an invisible hand, and I sat there in awe and wonder of his talent, his ability.



We heard music performed and ate until our bellies ached; we saw jugglers, men on stilts, and clowns who acted as though they could not figure out how to ride a bicycle; and that night we saw an incredible display of fireworks. But, my favorite part of the day was exploring the tent containing paintings and photographs like no other I had ever seen.



Father and Mother had both been to Europe and had traveled the world, often returning with pottery or figurines, fabrics or valuable pieces of art, souvenirs of one kind or another, but we had only heard tales of the wonders of worlds far away. Then, at the carnival that year, the world seemed to come to us.



Colorful paintings of European castles sitting high on mountaintops were seen that day, castles with towers rising high and casting shadows upon the treetops down below. Mountains and autumn trees reached only as high as the base of the castles, castles that seemed to surely be as old as the mountain itself. There were paintings of kings and queens in royal dress, appearing angry and distressed as they sat on their thrones, as they were waited on by jesters bringing goblets of wine, and when they were in the presence of knights.



And, there were photographs that appeared to be real magic, not the illusions performed by the man with the long beard. Black and white, shadows and light, depicting eyes filled with emotion, moments captured like a firefly. In those photographs, faces told the story of their history, their adventures, and their hardships. The photographs showed the life of the rich, the life of the poor, and highlighted the differences between the two. Landscapes showed the differences between the seasons, between the deserts and the towns and the forests, while other photographs showed the differences between cultures. Photographs of animals from all over the world were shown for the prideful, playful beings they are at heart.



We had been regular visitors to museums and had traveled some, but we had never seen images that sparked my imagination like these did. I wanted so badly to be a photographer, to be able to capture moments of emotion on film to be saved forever. But, those were flights of fancy, Father and Mother said, for such work was too dangerous and not for ladies. But, at night, I would dream of visiting far away locations or, perhaps, only as far as town to capture on film moments that could last forever.



I grow tired, Sister, as has occurred so often lately. Remembering the past can sometimes drain the energy from one’s body. More frequently now, I haven’t the strength to leave my bed while other days I feel strong enough to sit on the front porch in the sunlight and watch the leaves fall around me. Some days, I only go as far as this desk, either to write or to simply look out the window, across the fields of clover now littered with fall leaves, towards the lake, and at that old oak tree still growing strong, reaching its branches to Heaven.



Always,
Christina




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