The Irony

I found the following on one of many abandoned scratch pads:

I woke up afraid of death.

And through the course of the day I realized that age is a powerful thing. It can control you, defeat you, tempt you, and lead you astray. It is a commander and a charlatan all in one.

The dance of life is not knowing what lies through that door, and taking a journey that will, in many ways, never end.

When did I write it? What was I going for? Was I finished? Losing my vision of a piece of writing defeats the whole purpose of blogging.

1904

Before flight and before cars, when trains held the romance of luxury and style. Mustaches and proper skirts, hats and canes and buttons and boots.

To be born in such a time, and be a little girl with a family legacy spread across the rail stations of Germany. To be so young and think, Spangenberg! A paradise for children with a mountain of hair pins to play with.

She had a dozen siblings and four generations of family were safeguarded in her stories. Her ability to recall precious details defied her slowly failing memory, and even to me, an interloper, she clasped her hands and said "You must always remember the family."

Now that she is gone, who will tell us about Adalbert and Peter, get them mixed up (family names stay family names) and then offer us butter cookies and tea? Who will be our anchor to the old world, to bring common ground to the relatives that never left? (For "Tante Guste" means the same in both languages.)

There will always be German ladies who collect lace and ceramic birds, who hang photos of the rolling pastoral landscape in their cozy living rooms, but there was and will only ever be one Auguste Schilling.