A Portrait of the Woman as a Young Girl

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A Portrait of the Woman as a Young Girl

Postby Beernpotatoes » Wed May 04, 2016 3:09 pm

I wrote this a year ago when my great aunt died. It was a blog intended only for close friends and family as part of a tribute to her. I came across it yesterday when I was cleaning up my online stuff, and I'm happy with how it came out. So, having no one else to share it with, I'll share it with the perfect strangers that I interact with on here:

A PORTRAIT OF THE WOMAN AS A YOUNG GIRL

There were two beautiful sisters who grew up and became lovely young women in the golden age of New York City. One was ambitious, the other was a dreamer.

The older, more serious and ambitious sister married a wealthy man and had a large family. Throughout her life, she lived in fine houses and wore expensive jewelry and had many things.

The younger sister became a scholar and a writer. She spoke three languages and studied the classics. And then, one day, she married a soldier who had returned from the war and she had a smaller family. Throughout her life, she was poor and often had to borrow, sometimes from strangers.

The older sister's husband was a mean, abusive man who terrorized his wife and children. She raised her children to prize money and possessions and she taught them to place a premium on physical beauty. She played favorites and pitted them against each other. They grew up to be jealous and superficial. They were all very unhappy.

The younger sister had a rough life, too, raising her children in near poverty. But she taught them to be free thinkers and encouraged them to pursue their dreams, while enriching their lives with art and music and literature. Her children all grew up to be accomplished, professional musicians.

As the sisters grew to middle age and then to old age, the older sister and her family looked with scorn upon the poorer younger sister. She was the frivolous, loopy dingbat with the good-for-nothing husband and hippie children. The younger sister took up poetry and was published and presented with awards, but mostly she worried about her older sister... the rich sister who looked down upon her so.

The older sister lost her mind and had to be taken from her mean and abusive husband by the authorities. She was taken to a nursing home and largely forgotten by her children, who never bothered to visit. Meanwhile, the evil husband died and his children took to fighting over his estate, turning on each other with all of the vile jealousy and pettiness that they had been cultivating for their entire lives. The evil husband received no funeral or memorial service; his remains were cremated and shipped back to his ancestral home in a UPS package, and his money and his worldly possessions were scavenged and picked over by his family and strangers alike. The fine jewelry and furnishings and exotic automobiles were auctioned off.

The younger sister continued to live on, still the dreamer, still the intellectual, still poor. She lived her entire life with her head in the clouds, always worrying about those around her, never concerned for herself. Unlike her older sister, she had enjoyed few material comforts, yet she was always happy and always hopeful. It was enough for her to tend her little garden in the warm sunshine to make her feel the joy of life.

The younger sister - the dreamer - passed away a couple of days ago. Today, I drove 10 hours with my mother to attend her memorial service in Goshen, New York. The service was attended by a crowd of adoring family and friends, and the music, provided by her professional musician children, rivaled any performance in any concert hall.

The older sister lives on, her mind erased by senile dementia. She may live for years. Alone and ignored by her children, some of whom eagerly await her demise so that they can renew their bitter feud over her estate.

The older sister is my grandmother. The younger sister is my great Aunt. Her name was Laura. I never knew that; everyone just called her "Lolly."

My mother has little to do with her conniving siblings these days, and has largely shielded us, her children and grandchildren from them. She lives in Kentucky and spends her time gardening and painting. She is neither rich nor poor, but what she has, she has made do for herself and has little need for the spoils of her parents' deaths.

My mother was named Laura, after her Aunt Lolly. And that makes me happy.


++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


The Solid Oak Table

A Poem by Laura "Lolly" __________,

A dreamer and a free spirit.


The old oak table had offered, in style

To several generations a slice of birthday cake,

When abruptly one day, the snug nook which for so long

Had been called "home," grew tired of the massive thing's odd, old

Fashioned look.


Had a tag tacked onto its back, "For Sale." Soon, inside a nearby

barn, the intricate wooden underpinnings of the piece

became looms for visiting spiders, who wove ever more

sophisticated nets,

before winter passed on.


Exactly where I found the evicted table, I cannot recall.

(Out in the countryside, at spring clean-up time, all elderly barns

seem alike.)


Anyway, purchase accomplished, said table moved into our house.

Was dusted off, received a fresh cloth; and places were laid for five.

But - one, two, three - the guests were scattered.

One, two, three, a plate with matched cup returned to the shelf.

Eventually disappeared, even the master himself.


While my tear drenched cheeks were being made neat and dry,

Along came a friend carrying a consolation prize. A flower painted

teapot, just for one.

Its abbreviated ceramic form, there on the old oak table, spoke to me,

Plain and clear,

About the unshared life I had begun.
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Beernpotatoes
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