Once we stopped coughing and tearing from the dust, we folded back the muslin lining the trunk to reveal a carefully preserved christening gown, layette, baby quilt, much loved stuffed bear, letters of congratulations and a framed death notice which began,
James Alexander Gilbert
April 3, 1894 – June 22, 1894
All in Brighton
I remembered seeing a bunch of boxes and trunks in the attic before I bought the house and decided to go investigate today. Other than all of the dust and spiders, the attic was mostly empty. It is nearly a full story and looks as though it may have been a playroom at some point. Shreds of cut-out alphabet characters still cling the upper walls, tawny with age. Each of the six pillars in the room have the faint outlines of nursery rhymes long-ago painted around their bases. It really most have been a magical place to play as a child.
So the flight back was lame; no witty repartee, no leather seats, no hot towel, no upgrade.
It is nice to be "home" though. Even if the place is still a bit of a mess. I spent the morning in the yard tying down burlap over the azaleas and lilacs for the winter. Then I tackled as many of the leaves as I could stomach for one day.
Olie, being a man of his word, was up bright and early. 7:30am! I agreed to leaving at 9am which means sleeping until at least 8:30am, but apparently what Ollie didn't disclose last night was that leaving for the track meant leaving Bojangle's for the track not leaving the house for the track, which would include a stop for biscuits on the way. It's worse than dealing with my father who prides himself on being able to get one over on people purely through semantics. It is the kind of thing you can't even get upset about, because you are the fool who didn't ask the right questions upfront and assumed that you were dealing with a normal, rational human being.