Such Silent Service

Lying recumbent upon the bed, his exposed feet protrude over the edge. We stand on the other side, brandishing Q-tips which have been soaked in a deep red Mercurochrome-like medicine. Lazily we paint his suffering soles and I ponder the circumstances which caused the deep fissures marking his skin. The nails resemble those found on animals, not people. A greyish cement color permeates each one. No nail lies flat against the skin but rather each is raised and pointed as if some thunderous action lifted them from their former spaces forever.

He arrived on Easter Sunday 1910, just ahead of Halley's Comet. Born in the bedroom of a farmhouse where he'd live his whole life and draw his last breath at seventy. The fifth child and third son in his family.




Years later, he'd chuckle in retelling the story of his mother's doctor who encountered a rare automobile coming toward he and his horse as he reached the farmhouse to attend the impending birth. The frightened horse dislodged its rider and the unfortunate doctor flew through the air, landing on a large bush and seriously tearing his trousers. From that day forward, the doctor proclaimed that the newborn infant owed him a pair of pants. Country medicine has its price.

The baby was named for a maternal uncle and given his mother's maiden name as a middle name. Though his birthdate occurred in the early twentieth century, he always seemed like someone who might have been more comfortable living fifty or even one hundred years in the past. The farm was his paradise. He cared not for comforts and never seemed to notice heat, humidity, the lack of indoor plumbing, or the incessant dirt and grueling work involved in coaxing food from the land. He reveled in overseeing an array of animals who provided sustenance or bolstered the family's finances through the dairy operations.

Through the decades, he remained single and lived at home with his widowed mother as his siblings married and established their own residences. Farm work was combined with toilsome hours at the laundry and dry cleaners he owned with his brothers. This halcyon life might have continued indefinitely had not the world erupted in countries far from his eden.

An older soldier, honed by physical exercise and privations, and smoking incessently, he's volunteered for this omminous task. His rank's the lowest available but he's content to be mostly unnoticed.



Precious letters to two of his sisters survive. Each is unconditionally positive. He asks about their children, sends hugs to the little ones, inquires about a brother-in-law who's also serving, acknowledges his gratitude for much appreciated packages, inquires about the health of another sibling. Just once he casually mentions that he's working hard, but no further description is provided. He's almost eerily mute.





Training is exhaustive and must have been exhausting. He begins in a military camp near enough to his hometown to allow sporadic visits with his family. After some months, he's transported to the Mojave Desert, subsisting in tents where the enemy is torrid heat, endless sand, and dangerous scorpions. He'll next glimpse this bleak landscape three decades into the future.





Once he's thoroughly trained in desert maneuvers, those skills are no longer needed when Rommel's army is routed and the sand his soldiers conquered is once again safe. Guarding German war prisoners in Georgia delays embarkation and he meets the woman who becomes his wife.



The venerable Queen Mary is transformed into a troop ship and on June 6, 1944, he's among thousands of soldiers, sailing from New York harbor, bound for battle. Did they know of the events unfolding that day across the Atlantic? Did they hope that the conflict would be over before they reached Scotland?

Tidworth Barracks in southern England is a staging area. The men all know they're leaving this protected place, just not when. A quarter century later, I'm standing at nearby Stonehenge and notice British fighters streak across the sky. I'm overwhelmed with a feeling that he's with me. Does some of his spirit remain in this now peaceful place? At the time, I didn't know the location of his English camp. Returning home, I fail to share my experience and never ask him any war-related questions. I learn about Tidworth while researching his unit.

Within two months, the order is received. France is the initial destination for our farmer. The 7th Armored Division marches through the countryside, liberating small villages, pushing back the invaders, becoming beloved by the residents.



He continues to write his wife, mother, and sisters. Packages arrive sporadically and are gratefully accepted. Though losses escalate and months of inhospitable terrain must be endured, his determination to survive never wavers. Letters, heavily censored, barely hint at unimaginable circumstances. A postcard to a beloved young niece contains these cryptic words, "All the children here wear wooden shoes." He's unquestionably in Holland.






Inexplicably, he is able to send monogrammed Christmas cards from the carnage. He cannot fortell that it is almost his last Christmas.



Stories shared from these horrific months are sparse. One treasured tale captures hope and disappointment very clearly because it transpired away from battle. His unit walked through a small town and saw a cherry pie in the window of the local bakery. With only routine rations where dessert was always chocolate bars, the men longed for other sweets. Overcoming the language barrier, they offered candy and cigarettes for the coveted pie. With one bite, the soldiers knew the folly of their trade. The pie contained not one ounce of sugar, a very scarce commodity in wartime.

It's winter and provisions are inadequate to staunch the cold. An epoch battle rages. Snow covers equipment, roads, and shelter. Communication is erratic and men must rely upon their own wiles to outlast the enemy and prevail in the frozen forest. The Bulge has begun.



The feared telegram is delivered. It reads, "Missing, presumed dead." He's lost. Not with his unit. Can't be found in the vast whiteness, sprinkled with comrades' blood. The family waits, worries, imagines the unthinkable.

Another message arrives. He's been found and transported to a hospital in Paris. His injuries are serious. A burst eardrum. Frozen hands and feet. Recuperation is lengthy, arduous. But he's safe and after five months, the Queen Mary, now commissioned as a hospital ship, will carry him back to New York.



Army scrip, printed in France, continues his meager military wages. He's alive and will return to his beloved hometown to father me and my brother.



Older male cousins have said that he occasionally talked of his wartime experiences. I believe he wanted to spare his children from knowing the depths of his suffering and so he stayed silent with us.

We recognized his sacrifices. We'd painted his feet. They spoke loudly about our Daddy.

Leaves and Branches

I'm surrounded by brown. It seeps down from the mountains and creeps across lawns. It infuses the palm trees that provide scant shade but some shadows. We have two seasons here--hot and less hot. Neither encourages leaves in bountiful colors. Fall envy envelopes me each year and I yearn for the unique sound of crunchy variegated leaves beneath my feet. Not having to rake, pile or burn these fallen beauties, I'm prone to almost euphoric musings.



Perhaps it is silly, as my dear husband remarked, to be excited about leaves and to capture far too many of them in photos. I think not. I can't get enough of them. We've arrived in Virginia and are lodged near Dulles Airport for a few days of visiting family and exploring the region.

Near the airport, there's a gigantic auxiliary to the incredible Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. Set in the countryside, the building contains historical aircraft from this country as well as others. Visitors can ascend to the museum's tower and view planes arriving and departing from busy Dulles. One floor below, there's a mock air traffic control facility which provides insight into these critical functions. We're awed by the enormity of the space shuttle Enterprise. Consumate technical genius was required to create something so large that could soar through the heavens safely and return its human cargo to this planet.




There are Russian MIG jets whose provence is clouded in cold war history. We ponder experimential planes, view uniforms from multiple conflicts, and notice the number of foreign visitors who are strolling around the building. They, too, are swayed by the significence of the achievements prominently displayed.



The air is cool, the wind mild and jackets are welcome. My leaves are changing rapidly. We're meeting Penny and Jeff for dinner at the Pines of Florence in Arlington. A white tablecloth restaurant with few pretensions portends delectable Italian food.

Penny is my cousin. We share a long ago multiple great-grandfather, Albert G. Penny, whose surname now serves appropriately as a given name for his female descendant. She and I 'met' through a genealogy message board when I answered her post inquiring about my great-grandfather who married one of Albert's daughters. Interestingly, Penny and I grew up only 90 miles apart but we knew nothing of each other or our connection until our love of family history brought us together.

She and Jeff are genuinely gracious people. Deeply devoted to each other, they share a love of travel, reading, politics, and family. Our conversations are replete with the names of ancestors, stories about our respective children (now adults), potential future visits. Though we see each other rarely, there is no awkward transition. We are family from the same branch.



After dinner, we adjourn to Penny and Jeff's condo. It is teeming with books. I'm especially intrigued by the exhaustive genealogy collection. Multiple volumes of Baton Rouge Catholic diocese historical documents yield marriage records for three different couples in my family tree. I am thrilled. There is so much more to explore but time is limited. Penny shows me a photo of Albert Penny's daughter, Eleanora, her great-grandmother. She is a nineteenth century beauty. I bring home a copy of that image for my files. There is talk of Penny and Jeff joining us next May when I address the family reunion. What fun it would be to introduce her to so many previously unmet relatives.

The next morning we drive to Richmond where first cousin Jeanelle lives with her husband, Gene. Their house is just around the corner from that of their daughter, Jeanine, and her family. The grandparents' house is rife with young voices and the children's activities crowd their schedules. Jeanelle is devoted to the local Ikebana Society, remains active in the Episcopal Church, and dotes on Gene, her spouse of 46 years. I was a bridesmaid at their wedding and I sometimes think it was only last year.



Henry and Will, the nearly thirteen-year-old, are exploring mathematics. Will's an outstanding student and he grasps complex concepts easily.



My admiration of Jeanelle is deep rooted. Though she didn't live in my hometown, she visited regularly. Once I was old enough, nearly every summer, my parents took me to a nearby town and put me on a train to her house. There, I settled into the Presbyterian manse where her family lived and reveled in day after day of bacon/lettuce/tomato sandwiches, washed down by frothy Coke floats. I'd sit on the swing situated on the screened in front porch and blissfully while away the afternoon. Sweet Jeanelle, four years my senior, never treated me like a kid. She included me in all her events, introduced me to her 'cool' friends, took me out for donuts doused in butter, a local delicacy. I was also the lucky recipient of all the clothes she outgrew. My closet blossomed with adorable dresses by Jonathan Logan. I attended her high school graduation and was a member of her wedding party. Our bond is potent, never strained by decades of living too far apart or having lives that demanded our attention and allowed for little interaction. Her strength at the funerals of my sweet Brother and Daddy continued our inseparable allegiance.



Intermixed with leaf viewing and family visiting, we've discovered several Chick-fil-A locations and dined with delight. The grilled chicken sandwiches are seriously scrumptious. Equally tasty is the carrot raisin salad. I planned to indulge in one of the chain's sinful shakes, but I miss that opportunity. Probably a good thing in retrospect.

Shopping isn't neglected and I'm able to compare west coast merchandising at Nordstrom's with their stores in suburban Virginia. And, I'll admit, those in Florida. Purchases proliferate and some are destined for Portland. No photos of these forays.

Sunday is the perfect day for ambling through the 95 acre Meadowlark Botanical Gardens in Vienna, VA. A part of the Northern Virginia Regional Park Authority, this protected space abounds with brightly dressed trees, lakes, fountains, paved and mulch trails, a butterfly garden, meadows, multitudes of flowers (mostly dormant in the fall), wildfowl galore, and a special turtle, maybe more.













Our last day in Virginia offers even more natural beauty. We discover Riverbend Park in Great Falls and are able to walk to the shore of the Potomac and gaze across to the forest which abuts the river. The weekday visit attracts few others and we can absorb the surroundings without sharing.





We're actually searching for Great Falls National Park and meander through neighborhoods where colossal houses seem simply too large for any single families. Trees intersect across winding roads to form canopies of color. They must be sheltering the enormous mansions and their inhabitants from the economic plight being experienced by the rest of the country.

Great Falls is glorious! Grey rock formations create showy waterfalls as the Potomac rushes forward. Signs mark high water crests and it is difficult to believe that the relatively low flow could increase so dramatically. Today there are kayakers intrepidly fording the falls. Their colorful blue and red kayaks are buffeted as the men paddle furiously. Eventually we see two of the brave, or foolish, souls climbing the rocks with the boats on their backs. Wetsuits are no protection from the perils of the Potomac.




We climb a few rocks ourselves to view the water and its temporary occupants. It's late afternoon and only a few people lean against the railing, reluctant to relinquish the view.





Near an overlook of remarkable beauty, we meet Norma and Ned. They live in McLean, VA and visit the park often. She's Bolivian but has lived in this country for many years. Married for over forty years, the couple is bright, informed, well-read, energetic, charming, engaged in conversation. Norma is a writer who worked for the Associated Press, United Press International and the Voice of America. She's an inveterate reader, a soulmate. We discuss books and yelp over discovered favorites. I suggest more titles to her. She does the same for me. Henry and Ned talk about politics, investments, Treasury purchases, rental properties. We take photos, exchange e-mail addresses. They may come to Palm Springs in the winter. We've so enjoyed meeting them and hope to continue the connection.



Somewhere in this visit, both of us are nearly felled by a respiratory infection. The usual complaints ensue and flying seems like an impossible task. But, we must go to Florida. JetBlue is spacious with its leather seats, individual monitors, and expanded legroom. There's the true luxury of no fees for the first piece of luggage as well as reasonable fares for its many destinations. We are miserable and happy too. Dulles is an impossible airport with very long lines through security and then a train to ride to the designated gate. We endure and mostly collapse into our seats for the trip south.

There's additional discomfort awaiting. The ladies (term loosely applied) in the adjoining room of our hotel are celebrating loudly in the middle of the night. Two phone calls from the front desk only heighten their voices. We sleep little and might just succumb to our respiratory condition. The next morning, Henry talks to the manager who 'comps' our room for the night, provides a complimentary breakfast and moves us to a quiet space. We are grateful and exhausted. Time to enjoy the peacefulness of Dania Beach.





The afternoon is spent with Bill and Sue. He's Henry's classmate from Yorktown. In August, the two men collaborated to honor a fallen colleague by placing a memorial plaque near the street sign that bears his name. Their branch links back to fourth grade and remains inviolate today. Bill was a sports hero in his hometown whose records were unrivaled. He won a scholarship to the University of Connecticut and further distinguished himself there. His career as a high school English teacher is all the more remarkable because of the profound influence he had on so many students. Many of his experiences working with broken youth have been captured in his novels. They deserve a wide audience and hopefully will reach that status someday. Bill's a kind and caring man whose devotion to peace permeates his being. He and Sue have been married for forty-four years. She's an exuberant lady who admits to loving the gaudy and glitzy. On her, it looks great and appropriate. Totally dedicated to saving cats and kittens, she works tirelessly in this effort to great effect. They are an amazing couple with two accomplished children and a bevy of five grandchildren.

I'm still suffering with my malady and a bit of an allergy to the two long-haired cats who share the home. Sue tucks me into the guest bed, shuts the door, and I slumber peacefully. It is only when I awake that I discover I'm not alone. Cat napping with me is a dark black beauty. So much for escaping from any dander.

In the evening, Bill joins us for dinner at a local Italian restaurant which is owned by yet another high school classmate, Lynne and her husband, Jerry. She is also a first cousin of the young man whose tragic loss we commemorated in August. There are no sad stories this time, just laughter and sharing of ancedotes from a New York life that I never lived. Lynne and Jerry are wonderful hosts. Each of us gorges on the delicious cheese bread. Maybe it can cure the respiratory problems. Pasta is light, Chicken Marsala is perfectly prepared. We are stuffed with food and friendship.

Our days are dwindling, the infections are receding. There are malls to measure against previous sites and casinos to survey. The Hard Rock Casino is owned by the Seminole Tribe. It is classy, filled with rock and roll memorabilia. I'm intrigued by the tan corduroy pants, now filled with large holes, worn by Elvis in 'Love Me Tender.' Shoes which adorned the feet of a Pointer Sister, Madonna, and Lady Gaga look very uncomfortable and garish. I try the triple slot machines and quit when I've lost about $5. Henry, naturally, does much better. There's a Blue Plate Diner where we find comfort food in the form of hot turkey sandwiches. Another potential cure?

Wherever we go, in hotels and restaurants, there are large glass cylinders filled with water or iced tea. Sprinkled in the liquid, without exception, is some variety of fruit. I see watermelon, canteloupe, oranges, lemons, limes. Each adds a unique flavor to the drink. A Florida tradition, I suppose.

As I troll for possible items to post to Portland, I spend a considerable amount of time in the Nordstrom BP (Brass Plum) departments. Encased in a dressing room, the occupants of adjacent compartments don't know I am nearby nor my age demographic. Maybe they wouldn't care anyway. Two high school seniors talk animatedly about their lives. They attend large schools and are somewhat anxious about college next year. One will major in Psychology, the other Chinese. The latter student is enrolled in her fourth year of Chinese and thinks she'll be able to get a good job with this special skill. Her friend isn't so sure. Their conversation is salted with swears. I'm not shocked, maybe just disappointed. If my daughter were with me, she might pop out of the dressing room and admonish them not to talk that way around her mom. I can handle it. Truly.





We're up before the sun and all packed for the trip to the airport. It's been a memorable journey. I'll recall Jeanelle's story about taking her grandchildren to the cemetery in my hometown and giving them a list of ancestors to locate. She carefully explained the relationship of each person to the young descendants. I'll cherish Bill's retelling of his experience when he visited the Navajo reservation and after sharing a his tribal affiliation with a resident, was thanked for bringing the rain. I'll smile when I think about the tall, thin young woman who sat in First Class with her clay colored pug snuggled quietly in a carrier beneath the seat. I'll remember the expansive music store in an otherwise totally closed mall in Florida where Henry bought a book of The Doors sheet music which he's played every day since we arrived at home. I'll muse about the historical marker and gravesite for Laura Ratcliff, a Confederate spy, who lies totally protected next to the parking lot of the Marriott Suites Hotel in Hearndon, VA. I'll chuckle when I use my booty from Sephora, carefully selected in concert with my own personal beauty advisor, dear Sue.




Leaves and branches connect us all.



Additional photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/51916128@N03/

Adult Only

Freshman girls harbor flower fantasies. In February, these feelings magnify as the 14th approaches and all around there are dorm mates who discuss at length much anticipated bouquets. Young ladies with current male companions are rarely disappointed. Though I hoped to be so remembered, I knew that the guy I longed to call my very own wasn't the flower buying type. And yet, I received a message.

"Delivery for you at the desk."

I scurried to claim my present. A bountiful bouquet of red and white chrysanthemums, beautifully arranged in a heart-shaped vase. Scrolled in gold across the front were the words, "You are my Valentine." I tore open the envelope and found no card inside. Convinced that the sender must be my much admired male friend (not yet having attained the status of 'boyfriend'), I checked the name of the florist shop and walked immediately to its location.

Once inside, I pleaded with the staff to reveal the origin of the flowers. If only I learned from which city the bouquet had been ordered, I'd have my answer. At just eighteen, I could be very persuasive. I may have shed a few tears for effect. Finally, I knew. No college boy had spent his money on this tribute. My sibling, still a high school student, was the source.

At twenty months, I'd welcomed him into my life. I couldn't master his name and began addressing him as 'Bubba.' Quickly the name metamorphosized into 'Brother' and never changed again. I was his 'Sister' always. Quaint, but quintessentially Southern.



He was a gentle person, handsome from birth. Cotton colored hair darkened to a rich brown. Always hirsute, his exhorbitant eyebrows framed an attractive face and years later, a coarse beard required attention multiple times a day. With a radient smile and deeply colored brown eyes, his countenance caused him to be noticed constantly.



As the only son, there were expectations. Living on a farm proffered opportunities to explore the pastures and ponds, mingle with livestock, and appreciate the endless availability of fresh fruit and vegetables. What he couldn't embrace was the life of a farmer. Daddy handled this relevation with dignity and championed a son whose adult interests centered upon fine dining, antiques, opera, elegant clothing and city living.

With all this physical beauty, my brother lacked physical agility. His numerous accidents were almost legendary in the family. I cringe to remember that I once shot him with a BB gun. We were visiting our Georgia grandparents at Christmas time. He'd received the gun as a gift and a group of cousins was outside testing its accuracy. One by one, we aimed at a large paper box near the edge of the yard. What I didn't know, due to darkness and my own neglect, was that my small sibling had crawled into the box. Why he sought refuge in that space remains a mystery. The only good part of the story is that I was a terrible shot and the BBs landed in his chin. They were quickly removed by an adult but shooting practice was suspended permanently.

Another time, Brother was playing with a kid who lived on our farm. They were setting up a tent behind the house. Something happened and a squabble erupted. The friend threw a tent stick and it entered the right eye. Again luck, or poor aim, caused the nail at the end of the stick to pierce the white part of the eye and thus minimize potential damage. I wish I had a photo of the rakish look created by the white eye patch which Brother wore for many weeks.

There were more scrapes including an incident where his foot got tangled in the large wooden barn gate and as it swung wide, bones were broken. Coming home on the school bus one day, he leaned forward and put his face on the iron frame of the seat in front of him. The bus stopped suddenly and a front tooth cracked immediately. For years, this tooth could only be repaired on a temporary basis until his face reached its growth limits and a permanent tooth could be set in the space.

Despite these many traumas, Brother remained a jovial individual. His natural sociability, coupled with that transcendent smile (now slightly altered), ensured a broad circle of friends. His appeal was universal and he was equally comfortable with contemporaries as with those many decades his elder. Somehow he knew just what to say, how to listen cogently, and when to employ his exquisite manners. I envied his suave decorum, gentle demeanor, and ability to laugh with abandon.



Yes, we fought sometimes. Siblings do. I thought I was his protector, he thought he was mine. We were both right.



Our mother began a school photo collage which captured our transforming faces, fashions, and haircuts through the years. Decades beyond these dates, the small pictures have begun to fade slightly. The era's memories remain significant and the oval table which encases the collection sits securely in my guest room.




He tries college and finds it exhilerating. Such freedom unchecked. He fails all his classes, even ROTC. Back home, he works at the family's dry cleaners and laundry. His winsome personality is totally effective in convincing customers to pay their bills. They even seem grateful for having been asked to satisfy these debts. His charm is captivating. One night, he and a group of friends seek some excitement. Walking along the river bluff, they arrive at the town's fountain. Someone must have suggested that adding soap might create a diversion. No problem. He knows just the source. A quick trip to the family's business and he's prepared with industrial strength detergent. Pour it into the fountain, watch for a little while and leave.

This prank might have gone unnoticed and anonymous except that the curious friends decided to return and view their mischief. Unfortunately, they arrived to find the local police coping with a massive mess. The family phone rang in the early morning. It was Brother calling from jail. He needed to have a bond posted for his release. The punishment was a fine to be used to clean the fountain. Lesson learned.





I've graduated, left the farm and the state. He does the same after some years, and finds himself, truly finds himself, in New Orleans. Surrounded by history, music, manners, and magnificent food, he flourishes. Friendships expand as he returns to college and this time, he gets his degree. A new career promises satisfaction and substantial remuneration.



I have a new life and he drives my parents to the west coast to meet my recently acquired family. The three of them are anxious, not sure I've made the right decision. Their concerns are quickly allayed once they see my joyous face and meet my husband and his precocious six-year-old. We are a family, reconstituted, but very real.



He's a busy man, enjoying living in a shotgun house on LaHarpe. On Mother's Day, he visits the farm and helps vaccinate the animals.



And then, he's gone. I'm an only. Bereft of my Brother, broken to my core. The sorrow seeps into my daily life though he left us 32 years ago. I was thinking the other day that I've spent nearly half my years without him. And yet, he's always here. I have only to remember our daughter who carries his name and realize that his legacy is intact.

As a talkative toddler, she'd ask her Grandmother when Uncle Carter was coming back from heaven. She expected him to ring the doorbell at any moment. As an adult, she's intensely proud to share his name and has heard his stories continually her whole life.

I wander around my house and see his possessions. Against the window is a 19th century gateleg table that once resided at his home.



On a shelf, a collection of his antiques add beauty to the room.




When family or friends gather at our dining room table, Brother's china and silverware sparkle. I feel as if he's supping with us still. There are moments when I'm in an airport or a stadium and I hear a deep Southern voice or notice a particularly fine head of coarse dark brown hair, and just for a moment, I imagine that it is he. My mournful mind confuses me and then I realize that the longing lasts forever.

On other days, I ponder how much he would have enjoyed e-mail or digital cameras, would have wept at his city's devastation by a storm called Katrina and how he'd have been completely enchanted with his darling niece. I picture him, ever graceful in gray, yet with taut skin and that enchanting smile. I visit the place where he slumbers eternally and share family news that he's missed. I'm convinced that his spirit has remained a part of my own earthly journey. In just four days, I'll celebrate his birthday and know that somewhere he's counting the candles. And I really promise to try and temper my anger at his life unlived and find solace in being his only Sister.

Past Pantaloons

Dark sausage curls covered my moppet head with two jaunty bows perched securely in place. From my shoulders down, I was of another time and place. New clothing, made in an ante-bellum style, adorned my small body. I could have been any of my female ancestors from a previous century. Those little girls wore similar garments and most of them endured the horrors of war which took family members and changed lives forever. I question if any of those ante-bellum girls were abolitionists or ever imagined a life where slaves might be freed. Myriad long ago relatives resided in palatial homes, surrounded by mammoth fields. All this luxury was predicated upon the horrendous practice of enslavement.

As someone just past her sixth birthday, I dwelt upon family gatherings and school activities. My social conscience had yet to emerge and when my parents asked if I'd like to wear a costume and talk to visitors, I didn't hesitate to respond with an enthusiastic affirmation. I remember not a moment's trepidation about standing in front of strangers and talking. I'd already mastered the art of talking. I was, after all, Southern. And female. Just the combination needed to be a mini-raconteur.

For the month of March, I had a job. Paid in cold bottles of Coke and plates piled with sugar cookies that, even after the passage of more than fifty years, can still be tasted. Occasionally, a tourist, fascinated by the costumes and the grandeur of the setting, requested a photo of myself and my girlfriend, Poppy. Generally, we'd each receive twenty-five cents for these poses. Though the remittance was small, we felt richly compensated.



I'd been given the honor of 'receiving' at Mount Repose, a beautiful plantation house completed in 1824. The builder, William Bisland, situated his home on property that had been part of an original Spanish grant in the 1780's. Throughout the intervening years since its construction, the venerable old home has continued to be owned by Bisland's descendants.



Because of my scant years, finding just the appropriate assignment for me must have been a challenge. As befitted my naivete, I began 'receiving' in the nursery. This comparatively small room was conveniently located adjacent to a commodious bedroom. Perhaps a night nurse slept in the room with the children while the parents slumbered undisturbed next door.

I recall the contents of the room vividly. An adult volunteer spent time with me and assured that I could recite an informative introduction to the lovely childhood artifacts which surrounded me. I was not to deviate from the prepared address. I believe that I did. Regularly. A six-year-old gets bored repeating the same words over and over, so I improvised. Not wildly, but creatively nonetheless. There's always been fiction in my veins and sometimes it just erupts.



Poppy, my colleague pictured here, was much better behaved. I'm confident that she never deviated from her script. She also had better manners and wasn't ever reprimanded, as I was, for consuming an excess of those divine sugar cookies already lovingly described. Sweet Poppy, with the angelic voice, became a successful Julliard-trained soprano. She sang at Carnegie Hall and beyond. Her self control and determination was already evident during her tender years.

A reminiscent panorama of Mount Repose's nursery reveals a beautifully carved crib in which a vintage porcelain doll sleeps peacefully. Diminuitive chairs, perfect for small bottoms, are scattered about the space. Along one wall, there is a set of Blue Willow china, child-sized. One of my tasks was to share the fable of the Chinese lovers who were changed into birds. I don't recall the specific details of the story but I can visualize the dishes precisely. Against another wall, a nineteenth century print showed a beautiful young girl descending a staircase. Below, several of her sisters awaited her arrival. When I reached this part of the room, I shared a portion of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1860 poem, "The Children's Hour," which reads in part, "...grave Alice and laughing Allegra and Edith with golden hair...." I believe the girl descending the stairs was Edith.



The owners of Mount Repose, Dr. and Mrs. Shields, attended our church. Back in 1807, our two families became intertwined through marriage. As a matron, Mrs. Shields wore her dress sweeping the ground. Not even a hint of the pantaloons underneath emerged but you can be sure they were there. The fabric of the dress, a very dark blue, was silk and she completed her costume with a lacy cotton square crowning her silver white hair. Born just after the Civil War, she could have learned hoop skirt protocol from her mother who wore the real thing.

Younger ladies had to earn longer skirts. My first dress was tea length and rows of lacy pantaloons peeked beneath the hem. I quickly learned that sitting on hoops resulted in a painful bop on the nose. The correct etiquette involves gently lifting the sides of one's skirt, careful to grasp the hoops at the same time, and then seating yourself, encircled by the fabric and metal. I practiced curtsying endlessly and after a while, I seemed almost graceful. At least I didn't fall on my face by entangling my feet and tumbling hoop over hoop to the ground. Not once.



After about five years, I migrated to a new room. The den or office was less attractive to describe, but it represented a new challenge. I recall that a huge black safe dominated the chamber. It was studded with metal knobs and must have had an historical provenance. Each time visitors entered the room, I told the story, now long forgotten, and then proceeded to use a complex series of motions to open the safe. Even the cookies were losing their allure. My days of 'receiving' were waning.

During that same time period, my hometown hosted a movie production crew. As a lifelong film enthusiast, I relished hearing my daddy say that the laundry he owned with his brothers was responsible for washing Elizabeth Taylor's dainties. She was on location, along with Montgomery Clift, shooting scenes for the movie, "Raintree County."





The already doomed, but oh so talented, Montgomery Clift is John Wickliff Shawnessy in this overlong period piece. Elizabeth Taylor portrays Susanna Drake, the conniving Southern belle, whom Shawnessy marries. Set just before, during and after the Civil War, the story wraps family and madness with merciless mayhem. Mount Repose provided a mossy environment in which Clift's character finds a signpost for the asylum where Taylor's deranged persona has retreated.

Having never known that stage fright existed, I benefitted vastly from my 'receiving' experiences. Whenever school events or classroom assignments necessitated speaking before groups, large or small, I responded with aplomb. I was a seasoned performer and truthfully, considered myself in possession of a bit of aptitude for the craft.

As my school days dwindled, I agreed once more to get in costume and greet visitors. The venue was new but also family related. Mistletoe, built in 1807, had been constructed as a wedding gift for Peter Bisland and his bride, Barbara Foster. She was my great-great-greatgrandfather's daughter. The relatively small dwelling can be best described as a planter's house. Its dimensions seem accurate for a young couple beginning life together.



Sadly, after twenty-one years of marriage, Peter was found at the bottom of a cistern. Ill and gravely weakened, he'd wandered outside during the night, looking for water. In this pursuit, he'd fallen to his death.



Last March I visited my hometown. It hasn't changed much since my moppet days. The old houses are older still. The little girls are gone, replaced by their granddaughters. Hoopskirt finesse remains an art and correctly executed curtsies are expected. That war is so remote in the past that its relevance is questioned. Generally, citizens recognize the value of humanity, albeit the color. We are all, hopefully, past pantaloons.

Dissonance and Harmony

A two-part memory lingers. Erroneous notes and charming frocks co-mingle in futile pursuit of sublime consonance. I believe I always knew the truth. I just didn't feel or hear the sounds, the possibilities of melodic bliss. I responded with rote reactions and perhaps vainly imagined that a prodigy would emerge.

My parents, with no exposure of their own, wanted their children to triumph in this tuneful world. Lessons seemed the right pathway. My brother and I began the journey early at Mrs. Kuehnle's School of Music. Piano would be our instrument. Not a profession, merely a personal gift. I was about nine, he just twenty months younger. Each lesson cost less than a dollar. About right for small town America, situated deep in the South in the mid-fifties.

At our farmhouse, a used upright piano appeared. It reposed, majestically, just behind the front door in our commodious hallway. In deep black hues, the instrument promised wonderment, but its students never conquered the keys. Yes, we did practice routinely, but without our selves actually being involved in the process. Lessons continued once a week for about eight years. Recitals punctuated each spring. We dutifully learned the pieces assigned and performed them. Our parents sat proudly in the audience. I'm not sure they realized how poorly we played.

I do know that we looked good. My sweet brother always wore proper Sunday trousers, a nice white shirt, a jacket and tie. His beautiful face charmed everyone and his endearing personality made him a favorite of all who met him. The audience most likely concentrated on his magic and ignored his less than polished playing. As an adult, he was enthralled by opera. Perhaps a musical legacy.




My outfits were carefully selected. A favorite hometown department store, Cole's, offered many choices. Some years, the attire could have easily been used for flower girl status or a fancy party.



For this particular recital, I had the misfortunate to perform with an extraordinarily musically gifted friend. Marian needed few lessons. She was infused with music and not only played the piano better than our teacher (ironically named Mrs. Horne) but also sang with absolute purity. Years later when we were in high school, she won the lead in every school play and was voted 'Most Talented' our senior year. Marian definitely deserved all the accolades.

Thankfully, there are only black and white photos capturing the annual performances. No one seemed to own a movie camera and even if they had, it would have produced a silent film. Maybe that would have been better anyway. Now, far into the future, modern day parents arrive at such events to chronicle every moment with a camera phone, digital camera or videocamera. Some may resort to tweeting family and friends to exude about their child's profound musical prowess. Photos are downloaded, edited and posted for all to admire. YouTube is the recipient of myriad moments, proudly displayed by euphoric parents. If I were a child today, my recitals might be relegated to 'America's Funniest Home Videos.'




The color was pale yellow, almost lemonade. Full length, it hid a scrawny body. My hair was tucked into a dainty bun and sprayed with half a can of Aqua Net. It didn't enhance the concert even slightly.

I think I may have chosen a part-time job at fourteen as a way to relinquish my lessons. Clearly I was not improving. I never developed a desire to sit at the piano and simply play, losing myself to the beauty being created. My primary pleasure lay within the pages of books and magazines. It was there that I could soar, vanishing into the lives of characters, relishing the art of word usage, expanding my historical repetoire. Reading was, and remains, my singular talent. I could not transfer that natural endowment to ivory keys.





This is probably my final recital. I perceive a look of determination and destiny. The lilies may herald the death of lessons. My blouse was a sateen cotton in a pallid blue. Its coordinating skirt included an overskirt of white lace. My shoes are the earliest of heels, very low and easily worn. I know I'm finished at Mrs. Kuehnle's.

For many years, I'd occasionaly sit at the piano when I visited my parents. I'd play, rather pitifully, the only song I remembered. I could hear the piano sigh. It sat silently for so long until one day Daddy decided it should be sold. I only hope the next owners demonstrated much more finesse.

My departure from the ill-fitted musical world was not complete. No, I was destined to marry someone for whom music is a mantra. His enthusiasm for the incomprable beauty of lyrics, the awesome ability of musicians, the supreme satisfaction of daily playing, and the recognition of how music intertwines with his life has profoundly impressed me for more than three decades. He's an exhaustive source of music trivia. Listen to a few notes and he'll proclaim the artist, year recorded, and maybe replicate the sound on his keyboard. I rarely answer these queries correctly. I'm able to sense how he nearly mourns for his music as we travel. Stopping by a mall, he gently fingers a few fabulous pianos on display. Is he wistful and remembering his own niche with piles of sheet music from which to choose? With a father who played professionally, worked at resorts in the Catskills, and recorded several records, he has impressive musical heritage. It is evident every day.





Having a son-in-law who's been a DJ, has his own recording studio at home, writes music and sings marvelously, provides my husband with a close confederate. Watching them perform together is endearing entertainment.

Our daughter tried the flute in fifth grade. Other instruments did not appeal and at the end of the school year, the flute, too, was abandoned. Its replacement was a guitar which went to college and eventually was packed for relocating to the northwest. Though the guitar tantalized with potential, life was just too momentous during those late teen years and her early twenties. Then she discovered Ladies' Rock Camp. A chance to perform without judgement. Just girls making music. Their music, created by the 'campers' themselves. What's not to love?




As she relates, something sensational happened. The guitar lost its temporary glory and a voice was found. She can, and does, sing. Loves the experience and has become a karoke aficioanado. Get her to a bar or simply hand her a microphone and she's instantly 'on.' Inhibitions are cast aside and the voice emerges. She has stage presence and a beautific smile. More than enough. And now she's a music journalist, chronicling performances for a blog.






I believe I've found harmony in my life. Music centers those whom I love the best. I have a mellifluous role as the audience. Mrs. Horne might be proud.