Why?

There comes a point in life, and I imagine it comes at a different time for each of us, when everything changes, and all that has come before seems to belong to a small box of memories, a time when it
feels right to give thanks for the past and to let it go. This is such a moment for me. When I still wanted to be thought of, or remembered, for my efforts and the work of my early life, it was different. Now, I know that I cannot control the way I am viewed.

I suppose this might be my star turn. No longer "The Queen"—which is what my grandparents called me—I am reduced to a final five minutes of glamour in a theatre of memory alone. I can live with this. I can put on a lavender gown, pin a lilac sprig to my chest and sing out my soul. Then, I can put it all together in a suitcase, a box, a steamer trunk, and move it to a place of peace.

I have had a beautiful life. I have had the privilege to live fully, and to love deeply. Now, I have the chance to step to the side to encourage others in their walks down the earth.

Perhaps my walk is not finished. But now, as I take my heart to the hills, I find that there is no regret. If I hope for anything, it is that I will worry less. I would like to believe, finally, that I am enough. I realize there is no one way to live this last chapter, but the time has come to release the heavy weight of burdens collected along the way, so that, in the disarray of souvenirs cast at my feet, I can review the lessons learned and pass on my findings to those awaiting their turns, or to those already in the process of living their dreams.

Martha Ann Letterman

Page 5 - Scarlet Cinders

The Set

I lived in an urban forest within the city, a setting that was predisposed to be magical. My house was a solid, well-built home typical of the 1940s.

Beautifully decorated in a simple but elegant style, the lower floors were papered with silk-flocked wall paper, with a raised layer of material which felt like velvet. There were unusual and creative wall papers in the first floor bathroom and in the children's rooms upstairs. On the second floor these papers featured exotic birds, circus animals and bubbles.

Heavy doors led to the outdoor and porch areas from the front hall, living room and kitchen. Inside, were lovely multi-paned windows with venetian blinds, chandeliers, homey 1950s appliances and decor in the kitchen, richly-colored oriental carpets covering the floors, and a Ma Bell telephone that answered to the number of Emerson 2-4795.

Gold-plated floral wedding plates were on display in the breakfront. On the buffet, an impressive silver service found a home. The dining room furniture, in the Duncan Phyfe style, had a drop leaf table and a graceful set of matching chairs upholstered in a striped fabric of green and champagne satin. Wine-red velvet drapes hung in the dining and living rooms and met the floors of gleaming oak with an extra foot of fan-shaped material.

In every corner of every room and surface there seemed to be scent. It could be floor wax, perfume, talcum powder, lemon oil, simmering stew, coffee, hot chocolate or aftershave, evergreen or holiday pine. It could be shampoo suds, laundry detergent, sizzling steak, baking bread, warming meatloaf with tomato sauce, paste from a school project, vinegar and Easter egg dye, eggnog with sprinkles of nutmeg, hot tea with tart lemon squeezed into it, sugar cookies, gingerbread or mother's barbecued spare ribs. It could be the diaper pail, lipstick, hairspray, falling snowflakes, a Thanksgiving Day turkey, a Christmas ham, turpentine, Old Spice Cologne or Shalimar Eau De Cologne. It could be cigarette and cigar smoke or lavender sachet. It could be all of these. What it was—was home.

Page 16 - Spring Valley — Corey Place