This story was inspired by the paintings of a Civil War era gentleman and a 1930 era lady at the Kentucky Museum on the campus of Western Kentucky University in Bowling Green and was written by Stephanie Kirk, Honors English IV and Writing Resource Teacher at Livingston Central High School in Smithland, Ky.
 

Alice gazed out her dining room window that overlooked the flower garden.  The zinnias held their heads high even though their leaves wore brown patches.  The sun’s northern movement casting earlier and deeper shadows onto her garden, but the hardy begonias and geraniums still offered small blooms in vibrant purples, pinks, and reds.  Stretching toward the sun’s warmth on the clear autumn afternoon, Alice’s prized roses, the Red Beauties, seemed covetous of the evening’s fading rays.  A sporadic breeze swayed the motley blooms as if to stir them to renewed life.

How John had playfully scoffed at her tender efforts to coax open their buds for a table bouquet, a niece’s wedding, or an impending social event!  “Miss Green Thumb,” he would tease.

As she pushed her peas from one side of the plate to the other, Alice ignored the new stiffness in her fingers and continued to pan the bucolic scene.  Past the garden, she spied the tranquil pastures where herds had grazed, horses had frolicked, and John had proposed.

They had postponed marriage.  John had said, “We’ll marry when we have a place of our own.”  And he had been true to his word.  No sooner had the builders finished, except for the womanly touches, than John spoke the brief words that were permanently etched in her heart:  “Alice, it’s time.”

Her response:  “Yes, John.”  And they were married within three weeks.

Great Oaks—that was their antebellum home situated at the edge of their property and the place she had called home for more than seventy years.  Alice had not thought they needed such a fine home, but she had not questioned John.  His family had been well-to-do, and his father had left John a nice inheritance—land and money.  “Land is the only constant,” he had said.  “We have that; now we need a house.  There is money enough to build us a house and then some.”  So John had contracted for the house he wanted, and she would make it home for them.

Her blue perusing eyes, now cloudy with age, stopped on the amber and crimson maple tree at the eastern edge of the field.  The tree snowed layers of leaves with each soft gust.  She noticed its shade extended over the sandstone-rock wall built to separate neighboring herds.  Before receiving the letter calling him to duty, John had worked all one spring and summer collecting rocks from the creek bed and ten stacking them solidly atop one another.  She could still see him removing his hat, swiping his forehead and face with an already-wet sleeve, taking a drink from the pail, and returning to work.

There were periods of time, however, when he was not there, but when he was, he was always busy.  Those were some of Alice’s fondest memories.  When she rang the bell for a meal, he’d canter home, like one if the pasture stallions.  She delighted in having a special meal prepared to reward him for his labors.  His favorite was chicken and dumplings with cornbread and fresh-from-the-garden black-eyed peas.  “Mighty fine, Alice,” he’d say, “mighty fine.”  She would smile.

Alice left the tree, the pasture, and memories of John.  She felt unusually tired, thought she would leave the kitchen untidy just this one, would lie down for a while, maybe take a nap.  Withdrawing upstairs to the bedroom, the diminutive nonagenarian slowly climbed the split staircase.  The lowest twelve steps were wide.  She had needed all that width as she descended the stairs on that lovely summer morning, June 30, 1860.  She had not needed such a voluminous wedding dress, one that trailed five feet behind her and encircled her small frame in billowy white lace, but John had bought it for her.  And she would never have wanted to disappoint John.

Even as she ascended the stairs, her thoughts returned to John.  (But that was not unusual, for her thoughts seldom left John these days.)  She could still see him standing at the foot of these stairs, arm raised and bent at the elbow, ready to escort her to the waiting preacher.  Dressed in his uniform with all the pins and cords befitting an officer, John was so distinguished looking.  His polished boots could have reflected his brilliant smile had it not lay partially hidden beneath a neatly-trimmed mustache and beard.  His eyes—his laughing brown eyes—were sparkling, and he even tamed his unruly brown hair for the occasion.

Alice continued her slow clime upwards.  The stairway split, the north stairs leading to the guestrooms and the south stairs leading to John’s and her room.  When the house was built, a front bedroom had been connected to the master bedroom by a walk-through closet.  That was to have been a nursery, but they had never required one.  Their time together had been too short.  The pain of childlessness had been a constant companion for years, but she rarely thought about that anymore.

The steps seemed more tiring that particular day, and Alice’s focused efforts were on her legs that strained with each step.

As she opened the door to their room, she thought, “It is just as it was when we first furnished it, John.”

The four poster oak bed, hand-hewn by her father, was draped with the patchwork spread she had lovingly quilted for their first winter together.  Alongside the bed was a walnut nightstand topped with a kerosene lamp resting on the hand crocheted doily.  At the foot if the bed was a trunk that held her wedding dress, shoes, and dried wildflowers from her nosegay.  The washstand stood in the corner, draped with John’s hand towel, emblazoned with a B.  As she bent over the wash bowl to wet a cloth, she glimpsed her reflection.  The years stared back at her—wrinkles, white hair, and sallow eyes.  She diverted her eyes, and they came to rest on the mantle.  There lay John’s broken eyeglasses, his pocket watch, and his sash.  Adorning the wall above the fireplace was his saber alongside his gun.  Friends had returned those cherished items to her.

After shuffling to the peg that held her dressing sacque, Alice decided not to undress but rather to recline in the divan.  Just a short rest, than I’ll tidy the kitchen, she thought.

Her eyes drifted to the tintype on the other nightstand.  She reminded herself again how lucky there had been that a photographer happened by on their wedding day and offered to capture their happiness in exchange for one night’s room and board.  John’s likeness revealed his vitality and strength, but his stoic image belied his zest and enthusiasm for life.  Towering above most men, John’s stout frame stood at 6’2”.  His full beard may have disguised his gentle and kind nature to strangers, but his friends and comrades knew him as a compassionate man.  They say the eyes are the windows to the soul.  Alice agreed, remembering how his playful brown eyes would dance whenever he saw her, how he would sweep her up and swing her around until she was dizzy.  Unable to stand, she would fall into his unfailing arms.

“John, you’re so naughty!” she chastised.

“I’ll catch you Alice, if you’re lucky.”

Lucky, she mused.  Lucky she had known John.  Lucky to have loved him.  Lucky that he had loved her.

Knowing she could rest more easily if John were with her Alice closed her eyes, but when she searched for his image, she couldn’t find it  “What is it?” she thought.  “I can’t see John.”  Frightened by that, she sat up suddenly and looked toward the tintype again.  Her breaths came in deep, short gasps.  Something tugged at her heart, and she grasped at it.  What was wrong?  Remaining seated, she twisted herself to the left, reached over the stuffed, worn arm of the divan and into the drawer of the table.  She carefully withdrew a bundle of yellowed letters tied with a faded, narrow ribbon—John’s letters.  She shielded them with crossed hands, clutching them close to her breast.  She had no need to open them. She had memorized them decades ago.  “John,” she whispered in relief.

How she had cried the day he left!  “I’ll be back, dear.  I promise.”  He had cupped her face in his strong hands and wiped her tears away with his thumbs before kissing her good-bye.

“My, how nice you look in your uniform, Cap’n Breckenridge!”  She forced a smile.

“Why, thank you, ma’am.  May I have this dance?”  Not awaiting a response, he had lifted Alice by her eighteen-inch waist and swung her around until she was giddy, her long brown tresses flying from her shoulders, caught in the air.

“John!” she had chastised.  He laughed because he had made her laugh.

She allowed herself one fleeting moment of grief as she acknowledged these memories with a tear that welled in the outer corner if her eye, slowly swelling, and then spilling into her cheek, marching to her chin.

Alice felt light-headed, but her heart was heavy.  She lay back down.  She closed her eyes.  She heard footsteps ascending the stairs.  John?  This time she was able to see him without opening her eyes.  He was marching toward her, wearing his uniform—the one he had donned more than seventy years ago—the day he had promised to come back home.  He was smiling, brown eyes twinkling.  John was home.  She felt herself rise and run to greet him.

Alice reached for him.

“I am lucky,” she thought as she faded into her last repose.  She smiled.
 

Stephanie
Livingston Central High