Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated November 7

November 7
Katrina,



We must have been six or seven, Sister, when Leroy allowed us to sit around him in chairs made of hay while he taught us how to attach one board to another so that a bird could live safely and securely within its abode. It was Father who approved of letting Leroy show us the secrets of these small, yet important, constructions that we so cherished, Mother seeing this as information completely unnecessary to a female child. And Leroy, who seemed to me to be the oldest person on Earth, was pleased to share his knowledge with the two young souls who treasured the birds as much as he.



There, in the sanctity of the barn, Leroy carved end pieces of wood with a knife, gently blowing off the shavings now and then and speaking of the importance of making certain that the end of each piece of wood fit snuggly into a hole carved into an adjoining piece of wood. A cool spring breeze blew through the barn at times, punctuating Leroy’s tales of life and how they related to the birdhouse as if the breeze was agreeing with him, empowering him, and trying to convey to us the strength of the message. Each piece of wood in the birdhouse, Leroy explained, like each person in the world, has a role to fill; each piece of wood becoming stronger in its own right by supporting the other pieces of wood; multiple sticks of wood working together to assist each other in being more, in being better than what each could have been alone.



I remember Whiskers sitting there with us, sniffing and scratching at the hay, rolling about and then giving himself a bath, and then stretching to fall asleep at our knees as Leroy talked about strength. It was Leroy’s father and grandfather who had taught Leroy how to build a birdhouse, encouraging, gently redirecting, and applauding Leroy’s efforts as he learned and failed and improved until the goal had been reached. Inner strength, Leroy explained, of a piece of wood or an animal or a human, doesn’t begin within but from without.



Inner strength, that undeniable confident voice within that reminds us that we are capable, is a seed that must be planted early by others working together to strengthen the one. No seed planted in the field, Leroy explained, can grow without the aid of the Earth and the Sun and the rain. And, in return, like the pieces of wood of the birdhouse, the seed will be nourished and encouraged from the outside until strong enough to nourish itself and, in gratitude, will plant seeds of strength within others and nourish them. All working together to empower each individual, each plant, each animal, will result in a harvest of blessings.



Humans are like that, Katrina, interconnected like the pieces of wood in the birdhouse and dependent upon each other for nourishment and strength until we are strong enough to stand on our own and, even then, requiring assistance to maintain strength. The subtle clues of encouragement, or the lack thereof, will create the structure of the life to come. For all to survive, for all to be nurtured and to learn to nurture others, humans must feel that we all are valuable enough to encourage and worthy enough to help with actions instead of merely pretty words, for those who experience lives without true nourishment suffer a fate worse than physical death.



Oh, Katrina, do you remember how The Oak was so open when we were young, the windows risen to allow the breeze to dance through the house, cooling rooms and carrying aromas about the house, bringing to us on its waves the sounds of the birds, the sounds from the fields?



Memories often return in dreams, Sister. Do you remember when you learned to ride a horse, frightened at climbing aboard the animal with a body so much larger than your own? But you did it that summer day at only five years, beneath a blue sky free of clouds and the sun beaming down. With Mother keeping her hand on your leg and Father holding on to the reins, you tucked your skirt beneath your body, sitting side saddle, of course, and slightly lifted your face towards the Heavens. Slowly at first, until you became more comfortable, easing into each step as you rode in circles with Mother and Father’s help. How proud everyone was when you were comfortable enough to hold the reins and lead the way around the tiny enclosure all by yourself, yelling back to Mother and Father that you were riding! I remember it like it was yesterday, Sister, but I can’t remember where was I at the time. Sister?



Yes, how I remember those wonderful days, days filled with hope and learning, the days of two children, sisters, running through fields of wildflowers on sunny days in our perfect little world with Whiskers by our side. I revel in these old memories, a comfort to me in my old age. It’s like that wonderful sensation of waking up on a hot summer night for a glass of water and feeling the coolness of the kitchen floor beneath bare feet. It’s wonderfully inescapable, this history of ours, and somehow bittersweet.



Sisters,
Christina




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