The Noon Hour

Children's shouts echo as a dozen or so run down the street, some with hoops and sticks, two girls with a game of Graces split between them in their hands. Women bustle in and out of shops, passing each other with bits of gossip. An apprentice steps out of the mercantile with a broom in his hand and waves as the children race by. Heavy thuds sound as a young man throws bundles of paper into a waiting wagon and then waves it on. A shout arises from the wagon's driver as the children scamper in front of it, crossing over to the town greene. Horses shod hoofs clop down the cobbled street, the red coated riders looking regal as they pass by. Men and a few women cry out their wares, "Fish! Fresh produce!" The bell in Independence Hall rings out the noon hour and the delegates come streaming out, leaving their heated argument behind. The game of Graces begins, lunch long forgotten.

Thoughts for Thursday

“Imagine yourself a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on: you knew that those jobs needed doing so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of—throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were going to be made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace.”

~CS Lewis, Mere Christianity

Remembrance

This is a descriptive narrative I wrote in January. It is one of my favorites and it is a tear jerker. I came up with the idea from the title word actually. I like the word and by pondering on it this idea kind of evolved. Enjoy!

The young lady knelt before the locked trunk in the dusty, old attic of the white house with blue shutters that she had played in so long ago.
She slipped the key out of her pocket and unlocked the trunk. She opened the lid and let it fall back with a thud. She stared into it and lifted out the top item—a pair of baby boots. The lady smiled and put them on her fingers.
She laid the boots aside and turned back to the trunk. There were two matching christening gowns and a bunch of child's drawings tied with a piece of string. The lady stared fondly at the top drawing, remembering the proud look on the face that received it many years ago.
She laid them down to her left, intending to come back to them.
There was an old primer, with the binding falling off and an old composition book that the young lady snatched up.
Inside were pages of handwriting practice, spelling lists, and towards the end a few verses adorned with drawn leaves, and little illustrations in the margins.
She laid it aside and picked up a packet of letters tied with a green ribbon. “Love letters” the lady whispered, with a touch of amazement in her voice.
Not wishing to pry but still curious she put the letters on top of the drawings.
There were news clippings, but only one held her interest.
“Mr. Joseph Byrd engaged to Miss Ada DuPont, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. William DuPont. Wedding to be held in the Spring.”
She shook her head. What was the significance of a wedding announcement? It was the wedding that holds the significance. But as she began to slip it into her pocket, her fingers caught in between the small pages. There was her wedding picture attached to the back.
There was a small doll and the young lady gasped. “That's where that went to,” she whispered.
She held it in her hand and smoothed out the worn dress. The doll was wearing one of her Christmas dresses, the one the lady had never put on her, on account of it being too “old fashioned.” Now she regretted her words. The dress had been given to her out of love and the hope of striking her fancy.
She remembered the day she finished the doll. Her mother had been right, she had enjoyed sewing a “real thing” instead of a sampler. She detested sitting and embroidering fire screens as her in-laws expected her to do. Dolls, dresses, and upholstery were much more fun.
The young lady laid the doll on top of the letters and drawings, and turned back to the items in the trunk.
There was a tattered hymnal with her grandmother's name on the front . She lifted the cover and it fell open to the hymn that she had heard sung almost every day she spent in the rambling white house. The one her mother sang to her every night, till she was begged to stop. “I'm too old for that now, Mama,” she had said.
The young lady unconsciously began to hum the tune as she closed the hymnal and set it down. She looked back into the trunk and saw a knotted and twisted piece of blue crocheting and the lady stopped humming in surprise. It was her first attempt at crocheting and which she had proudly presented. Later on, she thought it was ugly—compared to her newest piece and had wanted to throw it out but couldn't find it. Seeing it lying there brought on a new meaning and she wrapped it around the doll.
Then she caught sight of a red photograph album with “1893” engraved on the cover in gold thread.
The young lady picked it up. “1893?” she whispered questioningly and opened the album. Then she remembered. “Our last family vacation—before I went on my way.”
She looked through the pages, smiling at the people and faces in the photographs. Even though it took a few seconds to take the pictures the people had as pleasant a face as they could get. Except for herself; though it wasn't stern, it smiling like those standing beside her.
Tears glistened in her eyes. Deep down she had enjoyed the time spent with all her relatives, though she wouldn't admit it till now. But there was no one to admit it too that would truly understand.
She finished looking through the album and picked up the next volume in the trunk, assuming it was another of the same. It was her childhood Bible. The book with the illustrations she had poured over as a girl and avoided whenever possible when she was older.
The young lady's tears began to flow down her cheeks as she opened the book. As she read some lines she heard the voice that had read them to her ring in her ears. The voice that was now silenced forever; the one that read, “David went to the stream and picked out five flat, shiny stones” and the one that called after her when she ran out of the room “Ada, dear, come back!” The one she had helped silence.
The young lady couldn't hold it back anymore and she moved away from the trunk and stood in front of the window to compose herself.
She looked out on to the lawn where she ran about as a girl, munching cookies, drawing pictures, and picnicking with the servants.
The item she had originally come up for lay exposed at the bottom of the trunk, but held seldom interest for her now.
She turned back to the trunk and stared at the wedding dress laying at the bottom. How she remembered being a little girl examining every inch of the dress with her eyes, for she was not allowed to touch it. How many times had she said she would wear it at her wedding and when the time came, she hadn't even thought of her mother's dress tucked away in the trunk. Oh, how much fancy things had held her attention when she was little and how now surrounded by them she found little joy in them.
Her mother had saved everything, down to her first sketches. How much pride her mother had taken in her work, as much as if her mother had made it her self. How much pain she must have caused her when she went her own way and was glad to do it.
The young lady picked up the photograph album and the hymnal and placed them back in the trunk.
A little girl the image of the young lady came up the steps and walked over to her.
The young lady looked up. “I'm almost done,” she said, not wishing to break the spell of the tender memories lovingly placed inside the old steamer trunk.
She put the last few things in the trunk, closed and locked it.
She gathered the Bible, the drawings, the letters, the piece of crocheting, and the doll into her arms and took her daughter's hand.
Determined not to forget the moments if front of her mother's remembrance trunk, she walked down the attic steps.

Welcome!

Welcome everyone,

Thanks for taking time to read. I am planning to post short stories and other little things I write, mainly to get them out there and to get more feedback on them.

I hope you enjoy them and please let me know what you honestly think of them, and any improvements you can think of or anything that was unclear.
Hope you enjoy them!
~Ruth