We never lived, just the two of us, in the house. When we moved in, so long ago now, we had a weeks-old infant in arms, so the focus was never on how to make the plain and modest structure into a home. Whatever happened, happened as it became first home to a child and a new family.
The hearth fires burned brightly for a time, but time is subject to change, must change. What once seemed permanent became only a space in time.
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Revenge of the Manuscript, Volume 1 Issue 2
The Walking Wounded
My name is Sinclair O'Reily. I am a freelance reporter based in Richmond, Va. I've been following various generals from the North during the whole Civil War. Today I visit a Union hospital ward.
I meet a doctor named Roger Flushing. He was born in Vermont, relatively close to my birthplace in Connecticut. We briefly speak of the scenery and the cities of the area.
I follow Dr. Flushing into a tent. Inside are some of the most sickening sights I have ever seen. Men---not men but boys: dead, dying, sick, thirsty. The sick air of death envelops me. I almost speak but Dr. Flushing sees my struggle and says sternly, "This is the critical tent. The worst ones are brought here." He whispers to me, "All these will die soon."
We leave that canvas of doom and enter another tent adjacent to the last. Inside a few pristine beds are set in the corner. Here the sounds of moans and coughs do not invade your ear with vicious swords as in the other tent.
Dr. Flushing tells me this is the stable ward. I peer around and notice a few soldiers are missing limbs. Others have broken bones or large gashes. Dr. Flushing, looking around the room, says to me "These will live; some will even go back to the field."
We retreat from that tent and I notice that two nurses are carrying a bag filled with the wasted lot of a boy soldier. Amidst this death, however, there is a feeling of acceptance. The soldiers in these tents know their fate, and sleep with either the sweet or sour secret buried in their brains.
As I leave Dr. Flushing, I notice he is bleeding. I try to tell him but he melts into a solution of people. I begin to leave when I am startled by a voice behind me. The voice introduces himself as Pilgrim. "Don't bother with titles, " he says. "Makes no difference, right? I'll show you out." I vaguely nod my head in agreement.
As we exit the camp, I say, "Geez, it's awful in there." I don't expect any response. I only say it to fill an awkward void of conversation.
He stares at me through a rough face; however, his eyes do have a softness to them. Not an innocence but an introspectiveness. We cut through a grove of apple trees and there, almost supernaturally, stands a legion of soldiers. Pilgrim leads me toward them.
He says, "These are the so-called lucky ones. You see, Mr. O'Reily, the ones back there, they know they'll die, now or later. Here, on the battleground. it is uncertain. Look at them. What do you see?"
I see five perfect lines, about one-hundred fifty deep, of perfectly still soldiers. Their shoulders strong. Their confidence high. I tell Pilgrim this.
"Let me show you something." We walk to the soldiers. They do not notice us, not even when I bump into a rather burly one.
Pilgrim leads me to one soldier. "See this one?" Pilgrim points to the man's foot. "He has a small cut on his big toe. He will develop gangrene in three weeks and die."
Pilgrim points to the next soldier. "He will develop a mental disorder after the war. He will jump off a bridge in a terrible fit."
We continue down the line and every single one of the men is wounded. Some have infections while the others are already dead on the inside.
"Mr. O'Reily, these are what we call the walking wounded. There are thousands, millions, of them. Most of the walking wounded haven't even been on a battlefield. Their battleground is your town, your school, your churches and your country."
I stop to ponder this for a minute.
"Why don't we heal them?" I ask.
He answers, "The walking wounded conceal their wounds under bandages and clothing and skin."
I want to say more, but Pilgrim cuts my voice with a nod of his head. I walk away, not stopping until I reach the apple grove. I see that the apples, moments ago bright and red, are now brown and decaying. I want to look back but I know no one is there anymore. I slowly walk back to the camp. I'll sleep well tonight.
My name is Sinclair O'Reily. I am a freelance reporter based in Richmond, Va. I've been following various generals from the North during the whole Civil War. Today I visit a Union hospital ward.
I meet a doctor named Roger Flushing. He was born in Vermont, relatively close to my birthplace in Connecticut. We briefly speak of the scenery and the cities of the area.
I follow Dr. Flushing into a tent. Inside are some of the most sickening sights I have ever seen. Men---not men but boys: dead, dying, sick, thirsty. The sick air of death envelops me. I almost speak but Dr. Flushing sees my struggle and says sternly, "This is the critical tent. The worst ones are brought here." He whispers to me, "All these will die soon."
We leave that canvas of doom and enter another tent adjacent to the last. Inside a few pristine beds are set in the corner. Here the sounds of moans and coughs do not invade your ear with vicious swords as in the other tent.
Dr. Flushing tells me this is the stable ward. I peer around and notice a few soldiers are missing limbs. Others have broken bones or large gashes. Dr. Flushing, looking around the room, says to me "These will live; some will even go back to the field."
We retreat from that tent and I notice that two nurses are carrying a bag filled with the wasted lot of a boy soldier. Amidst this death, however, there is a feeling of acceptance. The soldiers in these tents know their fate, and sleep with either the sweet or sour secret buried in their brains.
As I leave Dr. Flushing, I notice he is bleeding. I try to tell him but he melts into a solution of people. I begin to leave when I am startled by a voice behind me. The voice introduces himself as Pilgrim. "Don't bother with titles, " he says. "Makes no difference, right? I'll show you out." I vaguely nod my head in agreement.
As we exit the camp, I say, "Geez, it's awful in there." I don't expect any response. I only say it to fill an awkward void of conversation.
He stares at me through a rough face; however, his eyes do have a softness to them. Not an innocence but an introspectiveness. We cut through a grove of apple trees and there, almost supernaturally, stands a legion of soldiers. Pilgrim leads me toward them.
He says, "These are the so-called lucky ones. You see, Mr. O'Reily, the ones back there, they know they'll die, now or later. Here, on the battleground. it is uncertain. Look at them. What do you see?"
I see five perfect lines, about one-hundred fifty deep, of perfectly still soldiers. Their shoulders strong. Their confidence high. I tell Pilgrim this.
"Let me show you something." We walk to the soldiers. They do not notice us, not even when I bump into a rather burly one.
Pilgrim leads me to one soldier. "See this one?" Pilgrim points to the man's foot. "He has a small cut on his big toe. He will develop gangrene in three weeks and die."
Pilgrim points to the next soldier. "He will develop a mental disorder after the war. He will jump off a bridge in a terrible fit."
We continue down the line and every single one of the men is wounded. Some have infections while the others are already dead on the inside.
"Mr. O'Reily, these are what we call the walking wounded. There are thousands, millions, of them. Most of the walking wounded haven't even been on a battlefield. Their battleground is your town, your school, your churches and your country."
I stop to ponder this for a minute.
"Why don't we heal them?" I ask.
He answers, "The walking wounded conceal their wounds under bandages and clothing and skin."
I want to say more, but Pilgrim cuts my voice with a nod of his head. I walk away, not stopping until I reach the apple grove. I see that the apples, moments ago bright and red, are now brown and decaying. I want to look back but I know no one is there anymore. I slowly walk back to the camp. I'll sleep well tonight.
Friday, October 23, 2015
In Dreams
Dreams seem so real when you are in their moment, but so absurd when you wake up. Lately, what happens in the dream state is more detailed and emotionally significant than the events that happen when I'm awake. Maybe because dreams bypass age and isolation.
We were all getting ready to leave for Kingston, some of the family already in the car. We remembered the dog at the last minute so I went back inside to feed Cosmo. He was very hungry, and kept trying to eat the food before I could put it in his dish, so it took a little longer than expected. Dorothy came in from the car, and told me she felt bad about bringing up the subject of Cosmo and making Dave sad over the loss of his dog. I tried to reassure her, as I continued to put food in his bowl, that we knew the life expectancy was only about ten years.
Dorothy went back out to the car, and before joining them I decided to wear not a parka, but a really nice gray wool coat. I knew it might be a little less comfortable to travel in than my usual jacket, but I compromised by leaving another article of clothing unhooked.
We were all getting ready to leave for Kingston, some of the family already in the car. We remembered the dog at the last minute so I went back inside to feed Cosmo. He was very hungry, and kept trying to eat the food before I could put it in his dish, so it took a little longer than expected. Dorothy came in from the car, and told me she felt bad about bringing up the subject of Cosmo and making Dave sad over the loss of his dog. I tried to reassure her, as I continued to put food in his bowl, that we knew the life expectancy was only about ten years.
Dorothy went back out to the car, and before joining them I decided to wear not a parka, but a really nice gray wool coat. I knew it might be a little less comfortable to travel in than my usual jacket, but I compromised by leaving another article of clothing unhooked.
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Product Placement
With all the nostalgic reminiscing about items and objects from the past "good old days," I've yet to hear or read of anyone's commenting on one of the most iconic products of its time, and I don't mean the familiar packaging of Pall Mall cigarettes or Coca Cola. I refer to the personal product that started with the letter K.
I used to work in Sara's store, a building attached to my house, so I have first-hand knowledge of sales in that line. The K product was kept in a glass-fronted cabinet along the wall, on the bottom shelf, visible only to those in need; no one had to refer to it by name; the customers, almost always women, could help themselves without the embarrassment of having to mouth the words. At the time, the K brand pretty much owned the market, the one and only choice; the M. product surfaced a little later.
Though ostensibly keeping a low profile, K was packaged in such a way that it silently screamed its name. Nothing else came close to the shape and size of the box. It was mostly blue, rectangular, about 14 inches by 10 inches by 4 inches deep would be my estimate, and contained about maybe twenty or so of the items. Now the box itself would be signal enough, but in an attempt to maintain discretion even further, the distinctive box would be deposited in an even more distinctive paper bag. The bags came with the K, since the box with its unique shape would not fit in any ordinary grocery bag.
The paper sacks or bags were made expressly for the size and shape of K. They could not have held any other item sold in the store. And besides, each box of K required a corresponding bag. I can see, and even feel, that bag. It was of quite thin, faintly striated paper, pale beige in tone, with a single seam along the bottom. Just strong enough to hold only the box of K and almost strong enough to prevent a sharp corner of the box from poking through, which only occasionally happened.
I think when I started to work in the store, a box of K cost 35 cents, then 39, 45, and 49 cents. After the customer paid for their purchase, they were free to retreat in peace if it was a good day. But some days, and remember this was often a spontaneous purchase, the unfortunate customers had to run the gauntlet----the group of pre-teen and early-teen boys swigging from soda bottles and smoking cigarettes who hung out in front of the store. There was nothing the women customers could do other than just press forward, feigning ignorance of the testosterone-fueled comments and leers that were triggered by the sight of a box in a bag. That was then, in the early 50's.
I used to work in Sara's store, a building attached to my house, so I have first-hand knowledge of sales in that line. The K product was kept in a glass-fronted cabinet along the wall, on the bottom shelf, visible only to those in need; no one had to refer to it by name; the customers, almost always women, could help themselves without the embarrassment of having to mouth the words. At the time, the K brand pretty much owned the market, the one and only choice; the M. product surfaced a little later.
Though ostensibly keeping a low profile, K was packaged in such a way that it silently screamed its name. Nothing else came close to the shape and size of the box. It was mostly blue, rectangular, about 14 inches by 10 inches by 4 inches deep would be my estimate, and contained about maybe twenty or so of the items. Now the box itself would be signal enough, but in an attempt to maintain discretion even further, the distinctive box would be deposited in an even more distinctive paper bag. The bags came with the K, since the box with its unique shape would not fit in any ordinary grocery bag.
The paper sacks or bags were made expressly for the size and shape of K. They could not have held any other item sold in the store. And besides, each box of K required a corresponding bag. I can see, and even feel, that bag. It was of quite thin, faintly striated paper, pale beige in tone, with a single seam along the bottom. Just strong enough to hold only the box of K and almost strong enough to prevent a sharp corner of the box from poking through, which only occasionally happened.
I think when I started to work in the store, a box of K cost 35 cents, then 39, 45, and 49 cents. After the customer paid for their purchase, they were free to retreat in peace if it was a good day. But some days, and remember this was often a spontaneous purchase, the unfortunate customers had to run the gauntlet----the group of pre-teen and early-teen boys swigging from soda bottles and smoking cigarettes who hung out in front of the store. There was nothing the women customers could do other than just press forward, feigning ignorance of the testosterone-fueled comments and leers that were triggered by the sight of a box in a bag. That was then, in the early 50's.
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
What Lies Beneath
I never paid too much attention to the contents of our basement. I mean in terms of the necessities, relating to heat water, electricity, and the various motors and components thereof. For quite a few years, nothing needed much care or attention, aside from scheduling an annual furnace cleaning.
But time does move on, and everything needed something done, not exactly all at once, but within a certain time span. When we have replaced one of the significant elements, someone always asked who did it for us and how much did it cost. Once the bill is paid, neither of us remembers when, or who, or how much. So I'm attempting to clarify, mostly for our own interests.
11/08/1995 Roland J Down installed Oneida Royal Oil Furnace for $1, 985.00
11/11/1999 Classic Construction--Install basement windows, door $1, 025
*12/21/2005 Wiley Bros.--Water Tank $ 318.09
12/15/2013 Gene Barton----275 Gallon Fuel Tank, pipes, etc. $1, 565.56
11/21/2014 Jay Speanburgh--McDonald Submersible Pump, etc. $1, 626.60
*3/30/2015 Mike O'Brien---Bradford White 50 gal. Hot Water Tank $ 975.00
Other:
Exterior:
8/12/2003 Drain Care Septic & Sewer Service $273.33
9/30/2005 Hopeck Roofing----Install 3 ft. of shingles; Drip Edge $1900
11/09/2005 Hopeck Roofing-----30 Year Architectural Shingles $4950
8/5/2006 A+ Seamless Gutters 55 ft. + 26 ft. Downspout $350 9/22/2006 Stan Cooper Asphalt Driveway $1500
10/19/2010 Wiley Bros. Eaves repair Rick Boyce $64.40+325 $389
12/05/2009 Window World, 6 Stimulus Energy Pkg. $1974
11/30/2010 Window World 8 Windows $2632 8/25/2015 Phillips Home Solutions exterior door, installed $2585
Interior:
7/16/2002 Nathan Herrington, Greenwich--Tub surround $1410.21
2/3/2006 Benjamin's Flooring "Install owner's ceramic tile" $513.6
4/26/2008 Home Depot Kitchen Countertop (Butterrum Gr. $549.78* * Materials only. Joe T. installed
We have replaced our roof at least one other time, the June that Danny was taking his SATS, and we woke to the sounds of hammering. That roof didn't last very long---shingles were by Armstrong, I remember.
I thought we might be finished for life (ours, that is), but looking at the dates, anything before 2006 or so needs replacing anyway.The gutters seem okay, and I hope "30-year shingles" is not just a euphemism. *The water tank from 2005 was spewing flames and frightening the technician John Ray sent to offer us a tuneup, so that was replaced last year, after only 10 years with us. Seems so young to burn out---all it did was hold water.
I can't think of anything else in the basement, but there is something down there that looks kind of sketchy, and I can't even think what it is.
But time does move on, and everything needed something done, not exactly all at once, but within a certain time span. When we have replaced one of the significant elements, someone always asked who did it for us and how much did it cost. Once the bill is paid, neither of us remembers when, or who, or how much. So I'm attempting to clarify, mostly for our own interests.
11/08/1995 Roland J Down installed Oneida Royal Oil Furnace for $1, 985.00
11/11/1999 Classic Construction--Install basement windows, door $1, 025
*12/21/2005 Wiley Bros.--Water Tank $ 318.09
12/15/2013 Gene Barton----275 Gallon Fuel Tank, pipes, etc. $1, 565.56
11/21/2014 Jay Speanburgh--McDonald Submersible Pump, etc. $1, 626.60
*3/30/2015 Mike O'Brien---Bradford White 50 gal. Hot Water Tank $ 975.00
Other:
Exterior:
8/12/2003 Drain Care Septic & Sewer Service $273.33
9/30/2005 Hopeck Roofing----Install 3 ft. of shingles; Drip Edge $1900
11/09/2005 Hopeck Roofing-----30 Year Architectural Shingles $4950
8/5/2006 A+ Seamless Gutters 55 ft. + 26 ft. Downspout $350 9/22/2006 Stan Cooper Asphalt Driveway $1500
10/19/2010 Wiley Bros. Eaves repair Rick Boyce $64.40+325 $389
12/05/2009 Window World, 6 Stimulus Energy Pkg. $1974
11/30/2010 Window World 8 Windows $2632 8/25/2015 Phillips Home Solutions exterior door, installed $2585
Interior:
7/16/2002 Nathan Herrington, Greenwich--Tub surround $1410.21
2/3/2006 Benjamin's Flooring "Install owner's ceramic tile" $513.6
4/26/2008 Home Depot Kitchen Countertop (Butterrum Gr. $549.78* * Materials only. Joe T. installed
We have replaced our roof at least one other time, the June that Danny was taking his SATS, and we woke to the sounds of hammering. That roof didn't last very long---shingles were by Armstrong, I remember.
I thought we might be finished for life (ours, that is), but looking at the dates, anything before 2006 or so needs replacing anyway.The gutters seem okay, and I hope "30-year shingles" is not just a euphemism. *The water tank from 2005 was spewing flames and frightening the technician John Ray sent to offer us a tuneup, so that was replaced last year, after only 10 years with us. Seems so young to burn out---all it did was hold water.
I can't think of anything else in the basement, but there is something down there that looks kind of sketchy, and I can't even think what it is.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
NXIVM Intrigue
I subscribe to the Albany Times Union for weekend delivery only, and for the last several months have been reading the reports investigating the events surrounding NXIVM. Maybe because I missed some of the other reports, I am not able to form a perspective on the story. I just don't understand it, is what I'm trying to say. NXIVM is a secretive organization which has been investigated for the last 2 years by the State Police. There are countless millions of dollars involved. NXIVM is charging several of its former employees with computer trespass. Dealings extend into Canada and Mexico, at least, and there are ties to major companies, and government employees as well as representatives and massive inheritances, and child pornography, all this amid attempts to lure women to Mexico to have them imprisoned.
A special prosecutor has been assigned, but will not comment, according to T.U. reporter Brendan J. Lyons, who seems to be the only one commenting on the story as far as I can determine. It sounds like a story on the cusp of a major breakthrough. I need to figure it out.
A special prosecutor has been assigned, but will not comment, according to T.U. reporter Brendan J. Lyons, who seems to be the only one commenting on the story as far as I can determine. It sounds like a story on the cusp of a major breakthrough. I need to figure it out.
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
"Remembrance of Things Past"
With tribute to Marcel Proust, I think it might have been the scent that triggered what occurred. The scent in this case being a sachet, or the traces thereof. For as is usual, when I pack away my winter clothes for what I hope is a long summer, I place an air freshener, or leftover sachet or empty perfume bottle in the drawer. Last night was chilly so I reached into the drawer to find a warmer top to put on over my nightgown. As I started to fall asleep, I noticed the smell of the cloth, lightly infused with a faint odor. I thought of getting out of bed to change my shirt, as scents do not sit well with my sinuses, but instead I fell asleep.
Something woke me up. I awakened in the upstairs bedroom of my house, where I was sleeping alone in my old bedroom, the room with a doorway in each of its four walls. I heard a sound, as of someone breathing. I needed to find where the sound was coming from. I got out of bed and looked into the doorway of what used to be my brother's room. It was empty. I stood there, realizing, and these words came to me as on a banner, tangible and real: "THERE ARE NOT ENOUGH PEOPLE WHO SLEEP HERE ANYMORE." True. My father was gone, and my sister and brother had left, as had Uncle Joe, Aunt Helen, the Bartholomew sisters, Judy and Patty, and the kids my mother used to watch from Sunday night to Friday evening.
I knew my mother would be there though, so I changed direction and walked through the doorway to her room. For a time, after my father died, and my sister had married and left, I used to suffer from some kind of night paralysis where I would wake up unable to move or to breathe. When I was able to get my breath back, I would go to my mother's room and climb into bed with her, and so be able to go back to sleep.
So last night on the very verge of feeling that old night terror, I went to my mother's bedroom. Her bed was against the wall which faced the stairway, and she was asleep. When I first entered the room, I noticed some article of clothing which was hanging on the doorknob, kind of furled up and touching the floor. It was black with a white attachment of some kind, unrecognizable to me, as it didn't seem like anything my mother would have worn. It didn't really disturb me: it was just a slight distraction.
I went to the side of the bed where she was asleep, preparing to climb in beside her, as I used to do. But I hesitated because the bed seemed narrow, and I didn't want to disturb her. And as I stood there, the bed seemed to look even narrower, too narrow to hold me I was thinking. I moved closer and could smell that same scent as of the times I crawled in with her. I used to refer to it as a peppery smell. It came to me, just before I woke up in my own bedroom, that the scent from my dream was the same as that from my nightshirt.
Something woke me up. I awakened in the upstairs bedroom of my house, where I was sleeping alone in my old bedroom, the room with a doorway in each of its four walls. I heard a sound, as of someone breathing. I needed to find where the sound was coming from. I got out of bed and looked into the doorway of what used to be my brother's room. It was empty. I stood there, realizing, and these words came to me as on a banner, tangible and real: "THERE ARE NOT ENOUGH PEOPLE WHO SLEEP HERE ANYMORE." True. My father was gone, and my sister and brother had left, as had Uncle Joe, Aunt Helen, the Bartholomew sisters, Judy and Patty, and the kids my mother used to watch from Sunday night to Friday evening.
I knew my mother would be there though, so I changed direction and walked through the doorway to her room. For a time, after my father died, and my sister had married and left, I used to suffer from some kind of night paralysis where I would wake up unable to move or to breathe. When I was able to get my breath back, I would go to my mother's room and climb into bed with her, and so be able to go back to sleep.
So last night on the very verge of feeling that old night terror, I went to my mother's bedroom. Her bed was against the wall which faced the stairway, and she was asleep. When I first entered the room, I noticed some article of clothing which was hanging on the doorknob, kind of furled up and touching the floor. It was black with a white attachment of some kind, unrecognizable to me, as it didn't seem like anything my mother would have worn. It didn't really disturb me: it was just a slight distraction.
I went to the side of the bed where she was asleep, preparing to climb in beside her, as I used to do. But I hesitated because the bed seemed narrow, and I didn't want to disturb her. And as I stood there, the bed seemed to look even narrower, too narrow to hold me I was thinking. I moved closer and could smell that same scent as of the times I crawled in with her. I used to refer to it as a peppery smell. It came to me, just before I woke up in my own bedroom, that the scent from my dream was the same as that from my nightshirt.
The Chicken Challenge
Day 3 and what's for supper is beef stew. Yesterday was haddock and Monday was spaghetti and sausage. I'm not a big fan of spaghetti and I dislike fish, but beef stew is okay, as long as it is topped with dumplings. Tomorrow, I don't know. Maybe meatloaf, kind of blah as that is.
I'm trying to go a week without having chicken on the menu. I like chicken and usually cook it multiple times a week, maybe too often now that there are only 2 of us eating it. Last week I bought a nice roaster chicken, and we ate it 3 days in a row, and then I froze what was left, an entire half breast. Chicken overdose, at least for me.
I guess we could have pizza on Friday, but that doesn't thrill me much. This time of year, cooking is boring and for that matter so is eating. What to do...
Update: Spaghetti, fish, beef stew, then leftover beef stew, then pizza, followed by hamburgers, and today, Sunday was to be roast pork. But we went to the Olive Garden, and partook of the offerings from their exotic menu. Tomorrow, Columbus Day, should be the roast pork. So there we have it--a chicken-free week.
I'm trying to go a week without having chicken on the menu. I like chicken and usually cook it multiple times a week, maybe too often now that there are only 2 of us eating it. Last week I bought a nice roaster chicken, and we ate it 3 days in a row, and then I froze what was left, an entire half breast. Chicken overdose, at least for me.
I guess we could have pizza on Friday, but that doesn't thrill me much. This time of year, cooking is boring and for that matter so is eating. What to do...
Update: Spaghetti, fish, beef stew, then leftover beef stew, then pizza, followed by hamburgers, and today, Sunday was to be roast pork. But we went to the Olive Garden, and partook of the offerings from their exotic menu. Tomorrow, Columbus Day, should be the roast pork. So there we have it--a chicken-free week.
Sunday, October 4, 2015
Secluded
When I was little, our main contact with the outside world was through listening to the radio, mostly in the evening. Whenever there was a tragedy or serious misfortune of some kind, the afflicted family was reported to be "secluded in their home." Depending on the nature of the tragedy, police officers were often posted outside to insure the family's privacy. For certainly no afflicted person would want to be subject to public scrutiny. Not back then.
I used to wonder what it was like inside the secluded house. I pictured a blazing fireplace in a spacious home, making it seem warm and protected from the coldness and bitterness of the horrible thing that had happened to them. I knew the house would be filled with family members and relatives, and close family friends, all walking throughout the house, seeking each other out to offer comfort, and make them feel better. I couldn't think what was said though. I understood they were talking, almost constant conversation I assumed, but what words did they use? I tried to imagine being secluded in my own house, with security outside insuring our privacy, but I had no idea who in our family would do the comforting and what in the world would they say anyway?
I used to wonder what it was like inside the secluded house. I pictured a blazing fireplace in a spacious home, making it seem warm and protected from the coldness and bitterness of the horrible thing that had happened to them. I knew the house would be filled with family members and relatives, and close family friends, all walking throughout the house, seeking each other out to offer comfort, and make them feel better. I couldn't think what was said though. I understood they were talking, almost constant conversation I assumed, but what words did they use? I tried to imagine being secluded in my own house, with security outside insuring our privacy, but I had no idea who in our family would do the comforting and what in the world would they say anyway?
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