An Unknown Loss to Winfield, Kansas

The story told in the following post is true. Full names have been omitted for privacy.]

In 1973, Winfield, Kansas, celebrated its Centennial Year with festive occasions and high hopes for the future. Construction began on the new courthouse and new high school, and Strother Field was repurposed  for municipal use. (It had been a training camp for the Air Corps Cadets during World War II). Tours at the Winfield Crayola plant were more popular than ever, and all seemed bright for the county seat of Cowley County.       

That same year, a little four-year-old girl moved to Winfield. It would become her hometown for more than half-a-century. Her name was Linda. 

Linda never stepped foot in the new high school (nor any school for that matter). She never strolled down Main Street or played at Island Park or toured the crayon factory. You see, Linda had unthinkable limitations. She could not walk… or talk… or focus on the view beyond her window in a four-story fortress that towered on the outskirts of town.

Cloistered in that eerie structure, Linda and hundreds of others with other types of issues were unseen by the 11,000 people in town (except by those who worked there). This isolation was no reflection on the good people of Winfield. The same sad but necessary reality was true of hundreds of other towns in states across America where such institutions once existed. 

When the main building of this sprawling facility was first erected in 1887, it was officially called "The State Asylum for Idiotic and Imbecile Youth." Much more cruel were the unofficial names commonly used for such places. In 1909 the name was changed to the "State Hospital for the Feeble Minded." Various other euphemisms ensued until 1957 when the name "Winfield State Hospital" was adopted. That was the name used in the address on Linda's paperwork in 1973,

Were it not for a few employees, Linda lived unknown in that maze of long corridors and barred windows until 1984. The extent to which she was virtually unaware of her surroundings was a blessing. Eventually, Winfield's State Hospital was closed and the entire facility became the state correctional facility it is today. By the time Linda moved to a new group home in town, she was fifteen, but other than the changes that come with age, her severe physical limitations remained. As a ward of the state, she was totally dependent on those in charge of her care. 

It’s hard to know whether the more homelike setting helped Linda remember that she had once lived in a house with siblings of her own. The circumstances that removed her from that home, after her life-changing head injuries had been sustained, also removed all three of the other children.. As the result of a wise judge’s order with the help of Child Protective Services, Linda's siblings were placed in separate adoptive families all across the state. They had lost all contact with each other for decades, including with Linda whose condition made such placement impossible. Thus, the state hospital became her home and Winfield her hometown for the rest of her life. 

Linda experienced more tragedy as a child and an adult than any one person should have to endure, and yet Winfield was also a place where she was deeply loved by angels seen and unseen. 

“Caregivers” we call them because they bring caring kindness to an otherwise lonely existence; the strength of their arms lift a body at rest that must be turned; their legs walk behind the wheelchair; their hands apply the balm of Gilead; their eyes show the love meant to come from a mother; and above all, their voice gives answer to the age-old question… “Who cares?” They care, the “caregivers," those earthly angels who care for the "least of these." (Matthew 25:40)

Through the decades in Winfield, Linda was blessed to have such angles watching over her. Some did so for many years at a time. THANK YOU. Thank you for caring for one so much in need of love as life around her passed beyond her control but not her notice.. Linda never sang a song or danced a dance or tapped her foot to a bluegrass tune, but she did know the essential rhythms of life: like breathing in and out; the beating of her heart, and the blinking of eyes through which she saw the kindness of caregivers. It was that care and not the turning of calendar pages that gave Linda's days meaning.

 

To those reading here who may wonder why a sister of Linda chose to share these thoughts with strangers. It is for the same reason she chose to place a large headstone at her sister's final resting place in Winfield. It is not unlike the reason thousands gather each year to honor the Unknown Soldier's tomb in Arlington. That monument reads: "Here Rests in Honored Glory an American Soldier known but to God." Linda's siblings feel something like that: It is altogether fitting and proper to bless an unknown soul with the gift of human remembrance. 

If you someday see in the cemetery this angel holding a heart, know that is a tribute to Linda's lifelong caregivers to whom she was not unknown.  [Last name omitted from photo for privacy.]

Linda passed away in Winfield, Kansas, on Monday, April 7, 2025. She was fifty-nine. She is survived by five siblings some of whom, in recent years, learned of her whereabouts and were able to reunite with her.. One of them was an infant at the time of the court-ordered disbursement of Linda and her siblings. Upon learning of Linda's plight, her "little sister" became an advocate for providing the best possible living conditions for Linda.. She and one of Linda's brothers were with Linda at the time of her passing. Romans 12:15 encourages us to " Rejoice with those who rejoice, and to weep with those who weep." Thank you for sharing in our sadness from that April day, and in the hope that comes with spring through Him who makes all things new.

Note: I am a brother-in-law of Linda's younger sibling mentioned above. In 1980, I married into the family that adopted her as an infant. On the afternoon of Linda's passing, my sister-in-law was heavy-hearted and asked if I might write an obituary for her sister Linda. I was honored to do so, but the circumstances of Linda's life (some of which were too horrific to include in this post) made writing a typical obituary very challenging. It is unusual for an obituary to consist of the things an unknown person could not do. As I reflected on Linda's life, and on the many changes that came to Winfield and hundreds of other towns that were once home to state hospitals, I thought a retrospective on how America once treated "the least of these" and a tribute to true CAREGIVERS  might be of some comfort to those who may have similar stories to share.

To My Dear Friends and Family who sent FB Birthday Greetings

Bookmark

Sorting through some attic shelves
(in search of something else)
I came upon a book
I’d left half-read some summer past.
A memoir of a life it was
that evidently held
less interest than my own
once the clock began again.

In truth it seemed not long ago,
and though I do not know
whether I passed time
or time passed me,
dust is a kind reminder
that some things settle on their own.

And as I brushed away the proof,
my finger caught the corner of a bookmark,
a photograph I must have used
to hold my place those many years ago.

How strange to find it there—
a snapshot I’d forgotten
of a memory all but lost
until…
I took the bookmark in my hand
and, happily, it took me back
and made me laugh again.
© Copyright 2007, TK, Patterns of Ink

Sanctuary

[Written before dawn on High Lake near Traverse City, Michigan]

There are in northern Michigan more lakes than can be counted on a map.

Cupped hands that hold the overflow of secret springs or creeks and rivers 

stretching across the mitt like life-lines ‘cross an open palm. 

Once surrounded only by towering pine and mighty oak 

and intermittent lines of white-washed birch—

a vertical throng of reverence to the holy sky.

Once unseen but for eyes afoot in moccasins awake at break of day. . .

to worship in the still reflection of the dawn amid the praise 

of a distant woodpecker tapping time to the tune of thrush and robin 

and the coo of mourning doves whose song is sullied 

by the gibes of an incessant jay.  Each to his own . . .

as the red sphere peeks above the trees 

where just the night before a loon 

was sighing lonely salutations to the moon. 

(C)2013 Tom Kapanka

A Brief History of Birchbark Canoes in Michigan

I have a hobby that, until now, I've not written about here at POI: I enjoy making miniature birchbark canoes. The designs I use pay tribute the Ojibwa/Ottawa Indians of the Great Lakes Region. 

Each hand-crafted model takes about four hours to make using hand-cut, steamed, and sewn materials from Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. As was true of the large canoes that once whispered across Michigan's lakes and streams, each canoe is different in color and detail. For decades, these small models have made unique gifts for Michigan historians, folk-art collectors, and sportsman. (In my case, I wanted one as a souvenir on a camping trip, but couldn’t afford it. So my dad made my first in 1964.) 

Each canoe is signed and dated (never know, in 100 years they may be collectible on “Antiques Road Show”😉) Each canoe rests in a small stand made from bits of a deer hide from my father’s 1965 hunt in the U.P.. 

Watch some of the process on my YouTube channel: 

Woodlands Indian tribes in our region were different from those depicted in American “Western” movies in that they relied more on fishing, hunting, and the fur trade with early settlers than did their western counterparts. Because of this interdependence with Michigan’s great outdoors, particularly with rivers and lakes, the Ojibwa/Ottawa tribes became master craftsman of birch, and for centuries birchbark canoes and birchbark teepees lined their villages.

White birchbark is strong and somewhat flexible when fresh. It sheds water and resists rot. It can be harvested from felled trees in lengths 10’ or more. When removed in full thickness it is similar to rawhide or shoe-leather. A model canoe requires only a sheet the size of 8.5x11 notebook paper, but a real canoe began with the "skin" of  two large birch trees with seams sealed with pine tar.

Expert craftsmen continue to make full-sized birchbark canoes in the Great Lakes region. The skills and techniques now used actually exceed what was possible for Native Americans in pre-colonial America.  An example of such an artisan’s work from beginning to end may be seen at this link.    

Miniature birchbark canoes, however, can be made from smaller thinner patches peeled from the outer layers of bark. Removing such samples does no harm to the living tree which routinely “sheds”the outer layers of bark over the course of many years. Birchbark used for miniature canoes can also be harvested from  fallen birch trees commonly seen near water sources in Michigan woodlands.

Birchbark is also a source of medicinal oils once used by indigenous tribes and still included in “essential oils” today. The oil in the bark makes it resistant to moisture, insects, and rot. It is interesting to note that the birch wood itself is much more vulnerable to decay. This is why hikers often observe that the bark of a fallen birch retains its shape long after the wood inside has turned to pulp. 

My fascination with miniature birchbark canoes began in 1964 at Black Lake State Forest near Cheboyban, Michigan. '

I was eight years old that summer, and my family was tent camping (as we did each summer for twenty years).  I had seen an 8”  birchbark canoe at souvenir store in town, but it was priced way beyond my souvenir budget. When I put it back on the shelf, Dad said, “I’ll bet we can make some of those from that birch log we saw by the dead porcupine yesterday.” (We had seen a dead porcupine on a hike the day before, but I had not noticed the birch log. I was far more fascinated with the length of the porcupines quills.) 

When we got back to the campground we retraced our steps down a path into the woods. The dead porcupine was gone, but sure enough there was a birch log I’d paid no attention to the day before. Using his small hatchet and knife, Dad pulled off two patches of bark about the size of a handkerchief. The bark was still moist and came off with little effort. I later learned that birchbark can also be harvested from living trees without harm—so long as you make only vertical cuts and remove only the “outer bark,” leaving the “inner bark” (called cambium) in tact.   

I still have that first birchbark canoe from 1964. You can see it in the video link at the end of paragraph one. To this day, I remember sitting at a picnic table beside our tent with my dad and siblings. . . doing the best we could to make souvenirs with a few crude tools. What we lacked in craftsmanship we made up for in time well spent. That little canoe symbolizes a father spending one of his hard-earned vacation days with his kids in Michigan’s great outdoors, putting natural resources to enduring use, strengthening family bonds, and creating a connection between present and past. It is in that respect, that my first birchbark canoe and all those to follow pay tribute the Ojibwa/Ottawa Indians of the Great Lakes Region. 

The Hope of Fallen Earth

 

In the Valley of the Shadow 

beneath the linen fold

a quiet hand stopped holding back

what was not ours to hold.

Gone the glow of fading days

and waves left whispering to the shore.

Ahead the hope of fallen earth

heaping time on time no more.

Sweet the taste of sorrow's tears

Soft the eyes from crying 

when all that's left of all the years...

that life that follows dying.

(c) Tom Kapanka 2-4-2022

Late Wednesday night, my wife Julie was reading quietly aloud "... Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me..." the fourth verse of the 23rd Psalm. Her voice was calm and comforting as she read on to close with "...Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever." 

We were in the ER of Mercy hospital... that was our valley of the shadow of death. 

Three hours before we had been sitting at the small dining room table in the "apartment" we had created for her mother in our home's favorite room. It has a fireplace, a kitchenette, a private bathroom, living room and spacious bedroom, and Mom has enjoyed living there with us since last summer. It was a typical evening other than the fact that we were all tired and started saying our "G'nights" around 8:30.  Prayer time began with a review of those we pray for every night and a few others who had come to mind while sitting there. "How's Ruth? Mom asked, referring to a dear friend of ours who had gone through her own "valley of the shadow" just a few months ago. And so the prayer time included Ruth. This was all as routine as Mom's other bedtime rituals. In fact, she was brushing her teeth when I said my "G'night, Mom" through the bathroom door. "G'night, Tom," she replied, and I went upstairs. 

Two or three minutes later, Julie heard a load scream unlike any sound we've ever heard in our home before. "Tom, did you leave the TV on in the family room?" She asked. "No. I'm sure I turned it off." We ran down the stairs to find Mom on the carpeted floor at the foot of the bed. 

"What happened, Momma," Julie cried. "I don't know," Mom moaned, as her hand motioned to her face. She was trying to explain the unbearable pain n her head. "Please call an ambulance." 

I made the 911 call and stayed in conversation while EMT was in route. About eight minutes later four EMT's were surrounding mom, but she was no longer able to answer their questions as she had ours just moments before. When she tried to speak only a moan came out. Her blood pressure was unthinkably high (245 over something), and her eyes prompted one of the men to whisper to another: "brain bleed?" (Later this was confirmed, but the term the doctor used was hemorrhagic stroke.) 

Fast forward, and we were sitting beside Mom in the ER where Julie was reading the 23rd Psalm from her phone. Mom was non-responsive but her breathing was steady. The reading was for us as much as for her, but we have always been firm believers that non-responsive people at that point in time are listening to what we say as if hearing someone talking when we feel trapped in a dream before waking. 

When Julie was done reading, I played the following video clip softly into Mom's ear. Her eyes were barely open, still and unfocused on anything, but I believe her ears were alert. You see.... this video clip is one Mom often played at night since the last day in August when her husband of seventy years had passed away. It was from their 50th Anniversary gathering in Waverly, Kansas.

By this time, our daughter Emily had arrived and was holding her grandmother's hand beneath the bed linen. Each of us would do the same in the hours to come. Our other two daughters would be their shortly. (The fact that Security allowed five guests in the small ER room when Covid restrictions allow only one, confirmed that all of the staff on the floor knew what the doctor had told us in the moments after we'd arrived: "All we can do is make her comfortable.") 

As I played this song to Mom, her posture changed. She relaxed, her breathing became calm and quiet. I had absolutely no doubt she heard it and perhaps took hope in being on the brink of a reunion she so often spoke of. That very night at the end of prayer time, she looked at the picture of her husband on the nightstand and said, "I miss your Daddy so much. He was the love of my life. I want to be with him." Julie replied as she always did, "I know, Momma. We miss him, too, but we're so thankful for the wonderful memories we have until God calls us home." The exchange was common, and we'd speak of happy things to come... of births and birthdays and Dad's memorial gathering in June (a big reunion of sorts). Mom would smile and nod, but using her phone, there in her bed, she would watch this video that we had digitized from VHS last August. We could hear it through the door.

Wednesday night, she heard Dad singing the song again, two or three times as I played the clip over and over. 

Kim and Natalie arrived and we spent the next two hours telling stories and talking as if Mom could hear every word. The girls left after 1:00AM, and the ER staff moved the three of us to a more private room, where we thought we'd be until they moved us upstairs after 9:00AM's scheduled meeting with hospice, but at 5:23AM, Mom's calm breathing slowed... then stopped... and she joined the love of her life and The One who gives life everlasting.

 

Author's Note:
The line in the poem: "Gone the the glow of fading days / and waves left whispering to the shore..." came from the evening captured in this video of Mom viewing a Grand Haven Sunset last September.
In the line "Ahead the hope of fallen earth..." fallen had originally ended in "ing" in reference to the last act of graveside procedures, but I changed it to fallen as in the state of this world without the hope of what's ahead "...heaped like time on time no more..." contrasts the resettling of earth's sediment (the grave) upon the life no longer restricted by time.

In the two days since that night in the ER, we have been counting blessings that mingle with grief. Here is one of the last videos we made with Mom. It was her first time with her new Granddaughter who had been born exactly one month before in the same hospital where we were that night.

Just Before The End

I’ve changed some since before all this--

before sense gave way to the global scare

of something in the air...

Before our smiles were veiled

and strangers snarled if we exhaled 

within two outstretched arms.....

before our eyes could cast aspersions 

from behind the magic masks

as if peeking through drawn curtains

at shadows in the yard.

And now that it has passed 

(or in this pause between two storms),

I’ve learned to value strangers on the street

and treasure recollections of those I meet

in the same place where they were before.

It started weeks ago, when my wife and I,

in hopes of seeing something just the same,

ventured to a diner where we sometimes went

and though it had a different name, 

we went again.

(It had never gone to pitching tents outdoors.

Instead, it closed for a year or more

before the new owner mustered up the nerve 

to open for business again.)

Across the room was a waitress 

who through the years 

had topped my coffee off in passing. 

I did not know her name nor she ours

but we were "regulars" enough to catch her eye,

and her distant glance and smile seemed to say,

"You're back. I remember you. So glad to see

you're still in the cast of this play we’re in again."

We later spoke, of course, 

but the gist of what we said was that.

Such glances seem to happen everywhere I go.

I'll see someone I don't really know

and smile at them as if I do,

and they do the same to me on cue. 

A mother and child out for a walk...

The man at the hardware store...

The cashier at the grocer, smiling behind glass

like a teller at the bank.

Strange that simply seeing faces makes me smile--

unexpectedly--because they are not loved ones

or friends from long ago.

They are the “extras” in the movie of my life

as I am an extra in theirs.

(No matter who we are, at some stage, in some setting,

in someone else's script...

we're all of us merely extras--bit parts... passers by

without whose presence the story is not real.)

Till now, we extras went unnoticed and uncredited,

but now, after all this, unwittingly and unrehearsed

we're in supporting roles with perfect strangers.

The throw-away lines and greetings 

once lost in the ambient noise

now somehow suddenly matter…

the words matter… the people matter… 

the going on matters…

as our unmasked faces show again 

a glimpse of whose image they bear.

So here’s to the vaguely familiar faces

we see again each day. 

Here's to the extras and nameless pedestrians

simply going on their way 

as the last scene slowly widens

and the streets and buildings blur

to the long and gradual bend

of the horizon

that slowly fades... just before 

The End.

It has now been 18 months since our state first closed its schools. Most everyone I know admits to going through phases during the pandemic that began to spread around the world in 2019. The first phase was disbelief: "How could this be?" Even as we watch with pity as Italy sang through the night, it didn't seem like it would happen here in the U.S. But it did. 

The second phase was survival mode and we all walked a tight rope between faith and fear, characterized by extreme caution on a dystopian movie set of empty streets and shuttered storefronts. For months, we worked from home and rarely went outside as delivered groceries sat for 24 hours on our porches. Then, as if handling nitroglycerine, our gloved hands sanitized the paper bags and individual containers (Paper bags, we were told, were safer than plastic.)

The third stage was confusion.  We had been told that common masks were ineffective and not needed. Then they were mandated indoors and out. By the seventh month, some schools were determined to open (as we did), while many states began a long year of "distance learning" for millions of students. Unemployment soared. A sense of isolation and lost hope began affecting people's mental health, and the suicide rate began to escalate even as the number of actual deaths from the virus began to decline. Businesses remained closed, many went under and never reopened. Some restaurants began serving limited menus in make-shift clear tents or shanties. 

In many major Democratically-controlled cities, massive protests and riots were allowed to go on virtually unimpeded by law enforcement (officers of which were, in fact, the subject of the protests). Historic statues and monuments were torn down and defaced. The nation was torn along political lines, and the fact that so called "red states" were handling the pandemic quite differently than "blue states." This political divide led to distrust as the pandemic was used as the reason to allow untested "mail-in" voting for the 2020 presidential election. The aftermath of that controversial process continues to play out in America to this day. And in places like Australia, even more dystopian Marxism has taken control.

By June, 2021, 14 months after the closures, and several months after the non-FDA-approved vaccines were made available to all who chose to get it, most of America was reopen again. By this time, there was a deep sense of doubt in anything that the "experts" had to say about our health status. By then the source of the virus (Wuhan, China) was no longer in doubt even by those who had denied the most obvious facts for more than a year. The only thing that unified "both sides" seemed to be that masks were no longer needed (and once again proclaimed ineffective in blocking the virus). 

Seeing a masked face has now become the exception rather than the rule. One can go days without seeing a mask. Faces and smiles are all around. It is wonderful, and it was when this window of "normalcy" first opened that we ate at a Grand Haven diner (formerly called "Delite"). It had been completely renovated into a 1950's motif. It was attractive but entirely different with many new young staff and though it was late June in a tourist town, there were many empty tables. It was then we saw the one person we recognized from the years before. Those thoughts prompted these lines.

I'm a big fan of old movies, and I like the ones that end without answering all of the questions, but the director's choice to end the story with a wider and wider shot until the viewer is seeing a more omniscient perspective reminds us that all is in God's hands... from beginning to end.

Note: Just one of the studies done on how masks make communication difficult.

"No Splash": A Screensaver Sonnet

 

Traipsing down a path that each day seems

the same, he came upon a sight he'd never seen:

the swimming hole of all his boyhood dreams.

Could it be real? This place he’d never been

but forever yearned to be?  He rubbed his eyes

and filled his lungs with the misty air

that vanished in the warm sunrise.

A stone's throw away, a waterfall washed care

and stress from a cliff to a rippling pool,

and though he was not dressed

to swim, he dove headlong toward the cool

fount like an arrow, but his finger pressed

the button by mistake… and POOF! it was gone.

No splash as he stared at his email inbox with a yawn.

© April 22, 2021

A Case for Love

(This story is reposted from the October, 05 and February, 2007 and now here in 2021.) The name of the street was Lovejoy, That was really the name, and the house stood proudly at the top of the street’s long hill. No two houses on the street were alike, and shade trees lined  both sides —the way streets used to look. It was a classic two-story built in 1922 with great lines and two strong columns on the porch.  We loved it the moment we saw the realtor sign in the yard, and we made arrangements to see it the next day.  As we stepped through the front door, the Realtor let us wander on our own, letting the house speak for itself. Each nook and archway seemed to whisper that this was a home where memories had been made and where they lingered still. There was a corner nook beside the fireplace that seemed built especially for a Christmas tree, and though it was only June, that feature alone put a sparkle in our eyes that rang true to the street’s name. Our two Christmases there confirmed that this was,  indeed the most enchanting home we would ever own. The front room fireplace crackled and cast a glow on the tree in the corner. Sitting there in my winged-back chair, I lacked only a pipe to hold smokeless in my mouth. I do not smoke a pipe, and never have, but it was the kind of house that prompted fathers to smoke pipes back in the day.  I had envisioned seeing my girls grow up in those charming rooms—birthday parties in the family room, prom pictures on the entry stair—and all the points of passing time such pictures hold in memory. But a different kind of change came, and two years after moving in, we were moving away.  With the interior touches we’d done, we listed at 30% above what we had paid and marketed it ourselves by making a brochure and hosting our own "Open House.” “What if no one comes?” We whispered as we watched the clock that morning, but when we opened the door, the traffic of lookers was non-stop and very encouraging. Some we knew were there just to check out a house they had no intention of buying. We knew such people existed because Julie and I often did the same thing ourselves. Still it was fun to know that our efforts might pay off. After two hours, as a hint for people to leave, we began putting away our signs and brochures, offering cookies from half-empty plates, and thanking people for stopping by.  Eventually all the guests filed out the front and side door of the house—that is, all but one gray haired lady who remained on our porch smiling at the others as they left. She was a sweet lady, and behaved as if she were part of our family invited over to add to the ambiance of baked cookies and lit candles, but the fact is... we  did not know her.  I had first noticed her about an hour before, taking a self-guided tour through every inch of all four levels from basement to walk-up attic. Two buyers were coming back that evening, presumably to make an offer. Was she going to beat them to the punch? She was dressed like she could afford our asking price, but what would she do with such a big house? She must have read my puzzled eyes.  "I wanted to wait until the others were gone," she whispered politely. "My name is Charlotte Bascomb, and I lived in this house for twenty-five years. Our two boys grew up here and went off to college from this doorway." "Oh, come in," we begged, "and do tell us more about it."  My wife and I love learning the stories behind things we own, whether it's a hundred-year-old chair or a house, and up until that moment we had only imagined how the years must have passed in this storied home through the Roaring Twenties, the Great Depression, WWII, the fifties, and so on. As it turned out she had lived there from the late Fifties through the early Seventies, but to our surprise, she said their story had ended badly. We were surprised at how stoically she told of her last years in the house, and how her husband, who was a lawyer, had become an abusive alcoholic which led to a divorce and, in the end, to his untimely death. She told the account as if it had happened to a neighbor and not herself. We soon learned why the details seemed so distant.   "After that, I stayed in the house for a few years. The boys had taken jobs out of state. and I didn't like being here alone, so I bought a smaller place. I was alone when the moving van pulled away with everything I owned. I walked through the house one last time from basement to attic—to see if I'd forgotten anything but mostly to remember... things... you know..." (We nodded without a word).  "I ended up in the attic and was just about to leave when I thought I saw something way back in the corner. I walked across those rickety floorboards toward a shadow that looked like a little suitcase. You know how bad the lighting is up there." [She was right, but I had added two fixtures.] "By the way, you have the attic so cute. I saw the pictures of your three girls in the hallway, and when I went up in the attic, I thought 'Well, this looks just like Little Women up here.' The way you have that dress-up room and all those antiques and things. I bet the girls love it."   "Oh, they do," we smiled, "and you're right, we often call them our 'little women' when they spend the day up there, but you were saying something about a little suitcase...."   "Oh, yes. That. Except it wasn't a suitcase at all. It almost frightened me the more I stared at it. I was afraid to reach for it in the dark, but soon as I touched the worn leather handle, I remembered what it was, and I brought it out to the window to see it in the light. The case was a dusty mess, but the clasps flipped up, and inside it was just as bright as I remembered it... beautiful red velvet. It was my son's saxophone. He played in the marching band at the high school. I hadn't seen it for years—who would've put it so far back? And then I remembered something that bothered me. This wasn't really my son's saxophone—it was the one he used alright—but I remembered that it actually belonged to an old family friend. You see, my husband played in a jazz band in college, and he and his buddies kept rehearsing for years afterwards even though they rarely actually performed anywhere. Things were good then…. Well, anyway, years later, my oldest wanted to play in the band and Howard—he was the friend—said we could borrow his sax. So all through school, John—that's my son—used it, but I had no idea we'd left it there in the attic all those years. It's a miracle I even saw it that day...in that dark corner. It was the only thing I carried out of this house the last time I was here."   "Wow. That's quite a story," I said. Her eyes glistened as she looked around the interier of the house once again.  "And you almost left it here." Julie said half wondering what else to say.  Mrs. Bascomb was clearly not ready to leave. We stood awkwardly in the entry way. I gestured toward the living room and asked if she would like to stay longer. "No. I really need to be going. I just wanted to meet you and tell you how wonderful it was to see that this was a happy, beautiful home again. I really can’t stay…” There was a long pause, and then she smiled like she had a secret to tell. "This will only take a minute," she said. "There's more to the story." "Are you sure you don't want to come in and sit?" Julie asked. "No. I shouldn't, but I do think you should know... After things settled a bit—a year or so—I called Howard. He'd moved out east a long time ago, but I finally tracked him down. He laughed when I told him I found his saxophone, but he told me to just give it to Goodwill. I told him I couldn't do that—it wouldn't be right—and it wouldn’t, you know, not after all that."  (We nodded in wholehearted agreement.)  "Howard and I talked for the longest time. His wife had passed away a few years prior. That was too bad. It's hard to live alone." She meant the words and knew them to be true, but there was also a twinkle in her eye as if she had very few people to tell this story to, and she was savoring every tid-bit. "Poor Howard... All alone. He was semi-retired but was getting ready to fly to Europe on business the next day. So we had to get off the phone, but he did ask for my number. Which... I thought was nice, you know... old friends and all—but since he didn't want the sax, I wasn't sure I'd ever hear from him. Well, about two weeks later who do you think called?"   Our eyebrows rose with unconvincing suspense, "Howard?"   "Yes. It was Howard. We visited a bit and then he said, 'You know, Char—he never called me Charlotte—I've been thinking about that saxophone, and you're right. I think I need to come and get it. Will you be home this weekend if I fly in?' Well, I was speechless. Of course, I'd be home. Where else would I be? But I didn't know what to say. I offered to send it UPS, but he said, 'No, I think I need to come and get it myself.' And that's just what he did. We had a wonderful time that whole weekend—he was always such a gentleman—but then he went and forgot the sax so he had to come back the next week. Well you probably guessed it... He kept coming whenever he could, and never took home that saxaphone. We got married later that year, and I spent the happiest 12 years of my life with Howard. It was wonderful right up until the end... cancer."  The word abruptly punctuated her thoughts but had no effect on her smile, and her eyes still held the joy they found in those unexpected happy years. "It's been four years—just me again, but at my age I can't complain. I had a second chance at love and it was wonderful—just like our street sign says 'Lovejoy.'"  There was another pause, but this one needed no words. It was my eyes that were glistening by then as they are now even as I type these years after hearing her tell this red-velvet story that makes such a compelling case for love.  "Thank you for listening to an old woman's story and for making me feel welcome in my home—your home, I mean. I really do need to be going. I want to call my boys and tell them where I've been."   "The pleasure was all ours," we said, stepping to the porch and helping her down to the front path. Half way to her car she turned and took one last look at the house then cast a glance up at the attic window.   "I still have that saxophone in my closet at the apartment— be sure to check the attic corners when you leave." Her hand held back a laugh, but her shoulders shook a little as she smiled and turned toward her car. © Copyright 2005, TK, Patterns of Ink  (I was moved by this lady's story when "Mrs. Bascolm" [not her real name] told it to us in June of 2000. Hearing it made it even harder to accept the fact that we were moving. But we were also very happy the next day when the house sold to a Doctor with a young family. He and his wife couldn't wait to move in. Whenever we or our children travel back to that town in Iowa, we drive by "the little blue house" on Berkshire [which has since been painted yellow]. We lived there for 13 years. We also drive by this wonderful home on Lovejoy, where we lived for only two years before moving to Michigan. We love it here, but the house is newer and the seven years have passed too fast it seems for stories. [It has been my experience that the stories closest to home take the longest to crystallize into something you can hold up to the light and say, "Wasn't that beautiful."]) My daughter took this picture of us with her when she went to visit our former home town. She then carefully lined up the snapshot with the actual porch. I will never forget the night we moved away. It had taken all day to load the moving van and our two cars, and it was dark by the time we were ready to roll. Ready that is but for one missing item. It was not a saxaphone. It was Emily (the daughter who took this picture). I found her up in the room just beyond the windows at the top of the porch roof. She was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall. She didn't have to say a word. It was one of the hardest moments of our shared life. She was completely supportive of the move, and like all us, she has no regrets (nor do her husband and three children who would not exist were it not for the move), but it was a hard home to leave behind. If you're in the mood for another story about a second chance at love, read this one about my Mom's wedding cake (and what happened fifty years later).