Chapter 2
It was one of those crisp fall days when the air smells so sweet and the colors of the leaves were at their peak. The sun pouring through the small half moon shaped attic windows caught the dust motes in its rays making it look smoky. Every corner was filled with evidence of passing generations making me believe that time stood still and it was the 19th century again.
Old wicker baby carriages, porcelain dolls, rickety chairs, massive picture frames, their subjects thickly covered in dust. Odd pieces of china stacked in wooden crates wrapped with newspapers dated 1893. This was Aunt Lib’s attic and now it was Betty's. Betty and I were here to explore, to go back to the 19th century together. She loved every little teacup, every tattered old doll, because these were the things that were loved and cared for by all those that came before her. Aunt Lib was Betty’s Great Grandmother, the third generation to live in this wonderful old house. Most of the things in the attic hadn’t been touched in countless years. Betty likened mice to horrific monsters that live in your nightmares, so she would never come to the attic alone. I had to climb into the attic first and stomp my feet to scare them away. Only then could she come up with the same excitement that I had, ready to discover all the secrets locked in her own attic.
It was a wonderland of yesteryears. Everything we touched we wondered who held it last and what were they like. Was it someone dressed in Victorian style whose tintype picture we had seen in the thick velvet album? Who was it that collected the calling cards packed neatly in a wooden box? Was it Aunt Lib? Did the family really know President Grant, whose picture was revealed under dusty glass? Everywhere we looked there were relics of a forgotten time just waiting for someone to touch them again, to bring them to life.
Whispering as though we would wake the dead, one of us would call the others' attention to a newfound piece of yesterday. Statements full of wonder were exchanged. "Oh look, a beautiful piece of china!" It was fine china, translucent, delicate in pattern. Or "I wonder what's packed in this old trunk." It contained a black velvet bonnet tied with satin ribbon as well as a beautiful cotton nightgown covered with embroidery, white on white. Digging deeper we found men’s shirts, with upright collars and large blousy sleeves with tiny oyster shell buttons, fragile little baby clothes, a fur muff and button top shoes so tiny it was hard to imagine an adult ever wearing them.
Tucked under an eave was a box that held odds and ends made of wrought and cast iron, including a slightly rusted tea kettle. After looking at coat hooks, pieces of old iron stoves and a tiny flat iron, I then picked up the tea kettle. Like opening a present I lifted the lid. Tucked inside were letters, some in tiny ivory colored envelopes, others a pale blue paper folded to show an elaborately quilled address on the outside. Filled with excitement I called to Betty so that we could read the letters together. I gently lifted one piece out of the kettle and unfolded it in the dim light. The penmanship was quite elegant, also written with the flourish of a quill pen.
Indianapolis, July 21st 1849.
Dear Aunt Lib,
I write to you, hoping that you will favour me with an answer. If you do so, I shall be exceedingly happy to keep up the correspondence if not I shall take the hint and never trouble any of you again. It is to be lamented that as families grow up and separate there should be as little communication between them that because it will give a half hours trouble to sit down and write a letter which will gladden the hearts of the ones to whom it is directed, months and years roll by without a word passing between them as if apparently every bond of connection had been severed because separated by a few hundred miles and because a few minutes labor in each week would be necessary to keep up that connection. But I hope that you and I may deem it a pleasure to write to each other and that the correspondence which I now endeavour to commence may be kept up until losed by death, and when that hour comes it will be a pleasure to us in looking back over our life to know that in this respect at least we have endeavoured to do our duty to each other.
Your affectionate nephew,
Theodore
So began my fascination and many years of dedication to preserving a tea kettle full of letters, letters to Aunt Lib from a courageous young man who told of his quest, his passion to journey to California for the gold rush. Theodore, a young man of 18 who followed his dream, an educated man, a man of virtue, and a man who became a part of my life, a part of my heart.