Letters in Time, Reiss Susan [read me a book TXT] 📗

exhausted by the heat. It wasn’t the kind that you waded in to catch salamanders. The creeks of the Chesapeake Bay region were sometimes wide and deep enough for a twenty-foot sailboat and the rivers were two miles across or more.

The land on the far side of the creek was once an island but was now joined to the mainland by a one-lane road to make it easier to farm the acreage there. I was happy to see that one of my fondest things from childhood still lived on the island: a large… no, a huge oak tree known as The Lone Oak. Its stately limbs were impressive. The lower ones had welcomed me to climb, swing, even stretch out and lean against the trunk to read a favorite book. My mother was terrified that I’d fall and break my head, or at least an arm, but when she wasn’t around, Uncle Jack let me be a kid.

During those days with Uncle Jack, we’d spend hours together. At the end of each day, we would sit quietly and watch the sun sink in the west. The moment it disappeared, I believed there should be a sound. We’d try out different pops and glissandos as we made our way inside the Cottage.

I gazed out the window into the growing darkness and whispered, Here I am, Uncle Jack. I wish you were here.

I didn’t want to wallow in sad thoughts, so I gulped down a sandwich for dinner and went back to my new writing den. I couldn’t identify the different woods used to create its natural richness of tone and pattern. Why had Uncle Jack banished this beautiful piece of furniture to the garage in the woods?  That was one of many questions that would go unanswered. Fortunately, the moving men had found a rag and some furniture polish to wipe away cobwebs and the thin layer of dust. I don’t think I could have managed it by myself and I didn’t want to wait until the housekeeper came. I was too excited to make this desk my own.

I opened the large doors above the writing surface and my breath caught. Cubbyholes and shelves waited for my things. Could there be a hidden compartment or two? I decided that no bills or medical instructions would be kept there. Only notes for the book and drafts. Vertical slots would keep file folders neat. I dragged a box of office supplies over to the desk and dove into it to find places for ballpoint pens, places that had once held quills. There were cubbyholes for a stapler, scissors, and a ruler. Drawers for stashing away thumb drives and chargers, all those things that take up space until you need them. A couple of shelves could accommodate a few books, including the one about punctuation a friend had given me, because I never used commas in the right places.

The challenge would be to remember where I put everything. Supplies were incidental until you needed something. I checked the bottom of the moving box and found a stack of white printer paper. I decided it could sit on the corner of the writing surface until I found the printer. That clean white paper was begging for words to appear. I was tempted to take a pen and start scribbling, but prudence and caution prevailed. I needed what energy I had left from a long day to get upstairs to my bedroom. But first, I had to put my mark on my new home.

I reached back into the box and retrieved a small pile of origami paper. Origami—creative paper folding-- was a favorite pastime. It didn’t take long to do and it could put the whole world on pause for a few minutes while I made something lovely and meaningful.

I chose a square of Wedgewood blue paper to signify the open sky and water of this area, but what form should I fold I wondered, then smiled. It only took a few minutes for me to create a delicate blue butterfly, the symbol of change and growth. A caterpillar had to change to become beautiful. That's what I had to do--change to become self-sufficient and independent again.

I set the butterfly on the edge of a cubbyhole, to remind me of my goal and a way to mark my creative space. This desk would be an inspiration.

I straightened the stack of paper sitting on the writing surface, ready to record my new story starting tomorrow. Tomorrow. The beginning of my new adventure.

It was time to put the Cottage to bed as Uncle Jack always called the nighttime ritual. I turned out the lights one by one and checked the windows and doors as well.  City ways died hard, even in a beloved cottage in the country.

Now that the Cottage was tucked in, it was my turn. I stood at the bottom of the staircase and stared up at the top step that looked miles away.  What was I thinking, leaving a modern, one level condo and moving to a historic old cottage with two floors?  I reached up to my neck to touch a necklace, a gift to celebrate a major accomplishment. I always wore it to remind myself that I could do tough things. But it was no longer there, lost in the emergency response to save my life.

This was your idea, I lectured myself.  So, you better haul your sorry body up these stairs or you’re gonna sleep on the sofa without a soft pillow or blanket.

I grabbed the banister with one hand and jockeyed the crutches around with the other. Who would have thought that shifting my 120-pound body would be so hard? Panting from the effort, I began the climb that I