The House that Held Time

She needed inspiration.

Winter had piled its misery upon the state over and over; mounds of white that were better suited to the insides of a paper cone, joyfully topped with a sticky syrup of sugary reds, blues, greens, and purples, not left week after week to turn into the nastiest shades of dog poop brown.

She was restless and wanted to head back West where her heart lived. That was a complicated backstory, one she did not feel the need to share. Suffice to say, money was the only thing holding her here.

Today the unrest poked her brain, digging their bony, craggy fingers deeper in her grey matter.

Do something it taunted

She hopped into her Jeep and just started driving.

Only semi-familiar with the surrounding towns; her work had taken her to the same seven locations each week and those she knew well enough.

Choosing one of those routes, the frigid air snapped its fingers in her face repeatedly as the Jeep puttered down winding roads snake-shaped, curving themselves into sharp bends.

She was still trying to find beauty in East coast terrain, vastly different from her West coast majestic mountains, vistas of rocks piled high as far as the eye can see, canyons swooping down onto the cerulean Pacific ocean punctuated by towering palm trees.

Those palm trees never got old.

Never.

Ever.

She could look at them every day seeing the spectacular exquisiteness in every single glorious verdant frond.

As she drove, serpentine rivers flowed against the backdrop of dense stripped trees, dead leaves, stumps, and stone walls, all impressive and pretty in their own way but lacking that certain je ne sais quoi. A feeling that defies words.

Magic

As she drove her mind floated between the stark cold day at present to the reverie of her recent past.

Sprawling, hazy, warm sandy beaches, bike paths along the ocean, every conceivable type of food, bakeries, cafes, coffee joints, hole-the-wall bars, shady Asian pedicure spots that doubled as something entirely different; but gave the absolute best foot massages, Rodeo drive packed with luxury, theme parks, pole classes, writing groups, male strippers, smoky jazz clubs, poetry readings, dog parks, meet up groups, horseback riding under the moon; all bustling with life. Frenzied, too much traffic, overpopulated city chock full of possibilities. Glorious little gems at every turn, art galleries, dives with flaming shots done on the bar, clown-themed girl strip clubs, art on buildings, famous people ducking in and out of the least likely places to the most likely, hidden on every street. A proverbial carnival for the senses.

Her lips quivered mostly from the icy air but also the memories. She felt the sun's hands upon her face as it had decided to slip out of hibernation for a wink. She inhaled a long deep breath of fresh cold air, drawing it in as if it were the sweetest drag of a forbidden cigarette at fifteen.

The jeep halted at the solid red light. It was a Y intersection and directly at the center was an incredibly old, large Victorian house. The years etched on it like the face of a ninety-year woman who had basked in the sun her whole life. The paint peeling back exposing various stages of time.

This was something.

Click

Green.

Go.

She turned right and pulled into the driveway looking for a sign.

Bam

Her eyes slid over the letters.

"Angels Lost"

"No fucking way!", she mouthed in disbelief. It was a harbinger of where she was supposed to be at this moment in time. She was just tearing up on the drive remembering her life in Los Angeles.

Los Angeles translated as the city of lost angels.

She read below the name, "One man's trash is another man's treasure".

On the door, "Come in".

She felt the strangest push as she moved into the dilapidated building.

Stepping back into another time instantly as she crossed the threshold. A sensory overload as the smell of old hit her nostrils. Musty and cardboardy like stale beer. Piles and piles of stuff. A cursory pan of the first room and she almost couldn't process it. As her brain searched each area, it clicked in like a computer.

Books.

Drawn to them, she was sucked right into the pages. Devouring the titles and disarray, it calmed the internal noise. She was transfixed by these books and the lives they had lived. The stained pages, curling into different directions after being scooped up by distraught family, as they were sent off, an entire existence, to be sifted through by strangers' hands; lives discarded in cardboard boxes.

With each page turned she fell deeper into a creative trance, the words painted with bold brushstrokes inspired her.

She wanted to write a book. No, books. Always had.

Cheerfully she filled her arms with book after book, forgetting all about the dismal gray, frigid day outside.

As she nonchalantly moved from room to room in the giant, dusty Victorian house, her eyes surveyed a stack of worn red books perched upon an old, tattered wood chair.

"Buddy at Pine Beach" by Howard R. Garis, copyright 1931, was the first one she cracked open. Inside the cover, it said: this book belongs to Francesca P Draper 1931. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. This book was in the hands of its owner ninety years ago! Pulling up another red book that looked like a duplicate, she quickly realized it was a series with the same inscription behind the covers.

Francesca P. Draper.

Each book surprised her with paper clippings about stocks, ghost stories, and recipes. She was completely enthralled with these little diamonds in the rough. A glimpse back in time. She giggled, feeling like a naughty voyeur.

The stack of red books also had one little black leather notebook tucked in between them. It was worn but the leather looked expensive. Slipping it open, she let out a delighted gasp. It too belonged to Francesca and it looked like a diary. More clippings, art scribbles, poems, letters, and a flower bookmark. It was a treasure full of creativity!

Fifteen books and a little black notebook later, all for the price tag of $15.50, she hopped back into the Jeep smiling. That was the best-spent money she concluded. Headed home, her mind raced with amusement-park excitement. Snowflakes splatting on the windshield, which normally upset her, did not even make her grumble.

She made one more stop, a newer bookstore, running in quickly and purchasing two black notebooks like the one now tucked in a cardboard box with the books, on her back seat.

The drive was fast, little-kid Christmas intoxication brimming to get her hands back on the diary. It was just what the unrest had prodded her to do.

Once inside she poured a glass of wine, sat on the floor legs sprawled out, she always preferred that to a couch, stacked the books around her, and examined the diary. Poems, beautiful hand-sketched art to accompany them, private thoughts, clippings... a trove of creation.

Her heart was full.

She felt privileged to read something so very private.

She continued reading, “I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.” Edgar Allan Poe. The bottom page was folded up. She pushed it down and something slid out.

Her eyes opened wider than a good scare at a haunted house.

Twenty, 1,000-dollar bills.

She was still.

Her heart thumped, she felt blood rushing to her ears. Was this real?

She felt a little wave of dizziness.

She knew 1000-dollar bills had been in circulation until 1969 but sitting here staring at them on her floor, she was aghast.

Laying slowly on her back, she took a deep breath. Arms and legs splayed out, spread eagle. It began to sink in. A smile crept across her mouth.

Choices

The West and writing books: not so distant anymore.