Short Story: “Honeysuckle”

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Honeysuckle
by Jessica Jewett
© 2012 

Granny always said a house was a keeper of secrets, and Amy hated that old house the minute she took the tour guide job for extra money during summer break. Three weeks into it, she seriously considered walking away. They didn’t know! How could they? No one else wanted to close up at night. The historical society suits always sacrificed on the altar of escaping before dark.

“Night, Amy!” shouted the new girl as she swung her purse over her shoulder and bolted for the door. Even the new girl understood.

With the latch of the front door, isolation pressed on her as if nothing else existed. She wondered, as she turned off display lights, how such a cavernous 19th century house could feel so claustrophobic. A fleeting thought of being trapped in the darkness of a coffin jolted her so violently that she dropped a feather duster.

“Shit,” she cursed under her breath.

Clearly, the house wasted no time with despotic control. She rushed through sweeping, washing fingerprints off windows and display cases, and climbed a rather overly theatrical curved staircase to the second floor. Really, the architectural drama in those old-fashioned houses amused her. She couldn’t envision a family laughing with each other in such melodramatic surroundings. Whenever she thought of that old family, they looked like a sad painting in a museum. She gave herself over to those mindless ideas to combat the domination of that damned house.

Amy rushed so thoroughly that she nearly missed a series of crayon marks on the floor in the second bedroom. It had been the nursery in its day and people often left their kids there so they could enjoy the tour without distraction, but kids constantly left damage. Irritated, she crouched with a bottle of floor cleaner and a rag. Even if the house was melodramatic, that didn’t mean little brats should be left to ruin original floorboards!

Irrational, overpowering waves of rage spread through her veins with every heartbeat. Somewhere a shadow of rationality peeked from the back of her mind but a new wave of rage obliterated it. Crayon marks long since disappeared but she couldn’t stop herself from scrubbing harder and rubbing her fingers raw with cleaning solution. Stop, her thoughts screamed. Stop! But she couldn’t. It always happened that way. Every bit of damage to the house pushed her into depths of fury.

Only the whiff of sweetness broke the moment. Floral air rolled past her nose, pulling her away from the oppression. She awoke, blankly peering at her hands. The palpable awareness of her quickening heart brought sweat to the surface of her skin. The perfume hung in the air, even bringing the pungent cleaning solution into submission.

“Hello?”

Amy laughed at herself and dropped the rag. She reprimanded herself for letting her fear get the best of her. Five groups of school field trips were enough to make anyone a little insane by the end of the day.

Still, the aroma of honeysuckle hung in the air.

Fresh air awaited her on the hallway balcony. She flipped off the light but immediate regret stabbed her. She should have left but a creaking floorboard begged for attention. If she had been in her right mind, the cliché development would have been funny, but she turned to face the interior of the room with foreboding.

Blue-gray shadows undulated and lifted from the floor like a water fountain coming to life. The cloud blocked light from the window. A head formed, then shoulders, a waist, and finally, a billowing skirt faded into the invisible world from where it came. Muted color bled into the feminine figure and Amy recognized the dress from a century past. The honeysuckle perfume became so overpowering that she feared she might suffocate. Everything in her body told her to run.

“Do not walk away from your duty! Finish what you started!” The voice filled the nursery as demanding as it was angry but the elegant woman’s mouth never moved.

Amy’s eyes narrowed. Offense at being ordered around like a housemaid actually overrode her fear. “You don’t live here anymore!”

The figure morphed from an elegant lady to a creature Amy couldn’t identify. The face melted into an elongated, grotesque version of itself and the mouth went so black that she feared it would reveal the doorway to hell. Her eyes darkened and as she floated closer, Amy found her legs again. She ran. She stumbled on the stairs and flung herself out of the front door.

Poor Amy never set foot in that house again, nor did she make fun of the melodramatic oil painting of a family that lived in that house a century ago.

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My literary genetics

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I think it’s interesting how sometimes there are certain talents or interests that can run in families. I come from quite strong creative energies on both sides of my family. My mother’s side is both literary and artistic while my father’s side is quite artistic and musical. My brother and I came out with a smattering of talents from both sides of our genetics. I may talk about our artistic genetics in a future blog but for right now, I’m going to talk about our literary genetics.

The Great Unpublished Writer

Nellie Newell (nee Rulon), pictured at left, was my great-great grandmother. She was my mother’s mother’s mother’s mother if that makes better sense. Born in 1870 in Monmouth, Illinois, she is a bit of a legend in my family for being tough but maternal and a woman with unfulfilled passions for the written word. When she was a baby, her parents took a steamer on the Mississippi and she was kidnapped by a fellow passenger. The captain announced that nobody would be allowed to disembark until she was safely returned to her family, and a few hours later, baby Nellie was found on the deck by herself. Nellie was raised in a home filled with music and creativity, in a family in which women were taught to think and act for themselves, yet still remain feminine and dedicated to family. Her mother, Jennie Rulon (nee Ross), wrote poetry sometimes and played the piano and sang, but little Nellie was the one who showed real literary talent. Nellie also played the piano, organ and guitar.

My great-great grandfather, Benjamin, married her in 1890 and their marriage was quite modern for the times in that he supported her interests outside of raising children. She continued to write through her marriage after they set up their new family in Denver, Colorado (now you see how I was born in Denver). For the most part, she was drawn to poetry and songwriting, probably due to the influence of her mother. Later in life, Nellie wrote a song called “Beautiful Colorado” and her son-in-law, Bob Galbreath, was a patent attorney and had a copyright drawn up. The song came back with a letter attached that said because the song was written by a woman, it would never be published. Nellie was heartbroken, as it took months for her to compose the song, and she tossed it into the kitchen fire. Her dreams of being published went up the chimney with that song and she never saw her own work in print.

I grew up hearing this story throughout my life and when I began publishing my own poetry, I decided to fulfill Nellie’s dream for her by including her poetry in my book. You can see it for yourself by checking out the title Mist of the Mountains at http://www.jessicajewettonline.com/books

The Great Published Writer

You may know my cousin better than you would my grandmother. I’m related to Sarah Orne Jewett through my mother’s father, who was a Jewett. Sarah was born in 1849 and was much more successful with her literary career. Her father was a doctor, which is still a career tradition in the family, and Sarah accompanied him on house calls throughout her childhood. That introduced her to many of the people and places in coastal Maine that would later heavily influence her literary development. Sarah’s first important published work was at the age of 19 in the Atlantic Monthly, which was a popular magazine at the time. She continued steadily publishing short stories and novels for the rest of her life, including A White Heron, A Country Doctor, and The Country of the Pointed Firs. She counted most American literary figures of the 19th century as her friends, such as Willa Cather, Mary Ellen Chase, William Dean Howells, Henry James, Rudyard Kipling, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Alfred Tennyson, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Mark Twain, Sarah Wyman Whitman, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Lydia Maria Child, Charles Dudley Warner and John Greenleaf Whittier, as well as Edwin Booth, brother of John Wilkes Booth. In 1901, she was given an honorary degree from Bowdoin College, an institution that would not even admit female students until well into the 20th century.

Although Sarah always came home to Maine, she also lived in Boston for different periods. She never married and there has been some speculation about her sexuality in modern times. The speculation comes from living with her best friend, Annie Fields, in what was known as “a Boston marriage” for most of her adult life. Boston marriages were the polite way to describe likely lesbian relationships at that time. There is no real concrete evidence either way but it was always accepted among my part of the Jewett family that Annie was basically her wife. Both women were rather forward thinking, favored “women’s emancipation”, and they were also quite philanthropic. Their relationship’s particulars are not so important as the work they did together in their lives. Annie was a source of inspiration and encouragement for Sarah, who might not have worked so hard at perfecting her craft without that influence.

Like my grandmother Nellie, I also grew up with stories from Sarah’s life. Her books were always in our house, although I never read them, and I was constantly reminded that I was “going to turn out just like Sarah.” The comparisons ran deep enough that as I plumped up in puberty, my grandmother started telling me how much I look like Sarah, which I always took as the highest compliment. Sarah’s influence has hung over my literary life so much that she was a big reason why I chose to publish under the name Jewett instead of Jones.

I suspect that as a dig more into the detailed lives of my family, I will find more writers. For now, it’s enough that I come from such strong women who had the courage to live by the courage of their convictions.

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Review of Joshua L. Chamberlain: The Life in Letters

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The complete title is Joshua L. Chamberlain: The Life in Letters of a Great Leader of the American Civil War by Thomas Desjardin and I just finished reading it. It took a while. I read over half of it a week after it was published but then life got in the way and I had to let it sit for a little bit. Tonight I finished it just in time to watch the women’s gymnastics Olympics competition without distraction. I think Chamberlain would want it that way, said tongue-in-cheek.

I avoided reading reviews of this book for the most part because I don’t like to be influenced by other opinions when people want mine to be unfiltered. Given my history with the Chamberlain story, it’s better for me to avoid armchair historians anyway. We’ll keep my history out of this review though and approach it as an historian on the family in my own right. I believe I have earned the right to be called a Chamberlain historian given the fact that I have spent many hours climbing around different libraries, Chamberlain residences, places of employment, and historical societies in Maine to research the actual things he wrote, the things he owned, and so forth. We’re talking white gloves, protective sleeves, librarians giving me strange looks over their glasses and all. In other words, I know a little more than the average bear, so my review of this book is meant in the utmost respect as someone who has spent more than a decade doing similar research (although I didn’t have an all access pass like Desjardin did!).

Joshua L. Chamberlain: The Life in Letters of a Great Leader of the American Civil War is a collection of previously unpublished letters held by the National Civil War Museum in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. There are over 200 unpublished letters in this book, although many are not in fact written by Chamberlain himself. The letters came to the NCWM by way of artist Don Troiani, who acquired them from Chamberlain relatives (mainly descendants of his sister), which means these were things that he probably kept over his lifetime. He would not have kept most of his own letters, obviously, so it’s a little inconceivable that this book would contain a large number of things written in his own hand. Most of the letters in his own hand were addressed to Fanny, who progressed from friend to fiancee to wife over the course of the book, and she would have kept them, allowing us to see them today.

This is not to downplay the things he wrote, however. The collection begins while Chamberlain is a college student. We are allowed to see a few of his papers, which show a somewhat awkward writing style that had not yet developed into the writer we know in history. As the book progresses, so too does his relationship with Fanny (alternately spelled Fanny and Fannie, which everyone did to her, not just him). The intimacy in their relationship relayed through letters was a necessity for them as they were often separated by great distances. Historians interested in Chamberlain the army leader or Chamberlain the politician are going to struggle with the first half of the book as it focuses on his love life, local happenings, and family matters. I disagree with the idea that these aspects of his existence are somehow less important or less than worthy of study because every part of his private life influenced what kind of man he was in the various incarnations of his professional life. A study of a man must encompass the entirety of his being, not just cherry picking the glory and the disaster.

One aspect of the book that I found quite important was the multitude of letters from Fanny, which is not something Chamberlain historians are used to seeing. That has made her a bit of an enigma at best and a minor footnote in mediocrity and a cold-hearted villain at worst. Letters from Fanny in this book reveal a woman very much in love with Chamberlain nearly from the beginning of their acquaintance but almost fearful of its depth and magnitude to the point of recoiling sometimes. I believe the publication of her new letters disproves the idea that she was a cold fish who never loved him. She was plagued by insecurity, family hostility, and living in a world where women were not equal to men no matter how progressive men were (like her Chamberlain). People interested in what was going on in Fanny’s mind would do well to read this book as a companion to Fanny and Joshua: The Enigmatic Lives of Frances Caroline Adams and Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain by Diane Monroe Smith, which is the one other book that gives Fanny fair treatment.

There is some suggestion in the first half of the book that Chamberlain’s relationship with his cousin Annie was an actual affair while Fanny was in Georgia during their engagement. It was speculated in the Smith book but more letters concerning their relationship surfaced in this collection. It should be noted that none of “the affair” letters in this collection were penned by Chamberlain but instead we get a glimpse at 11 letters from Annie. I found her to be increasingly dramatic, obsessive and possessive as time passed. Once Fanny came into the picture again, he appears to have all but ditched Annie entirely, creating almost a scorned and isolated woman, exiled by her own father for having the affair. She would not take no for an answer, even asking him for a rendezvous just before his wedding. I believe there are pieces of his side of the story, so to speak, in the Smith book. Again, these things are important if we are to study the entire man and what made him tick. I have many more impressions about “the affair” but that’s a whole other blog.

The letters Chamberlain wrote during the Civil War are probably going to be the most interesting to the average fan buying this book. Comparatively, the war makes up a fairly small portion of the book but the letters are mostly written by him and full of interesting content. There are insights into his frustration with the army, the government and making sure things are secure at home. Of course, there are his usual eloquent descriptions of army life, loneliness and combat as well.

In the last portion of the collection, there is almost nothing from his four terms as Governor of Maine. Those things have already been largely collected and published, or, at the very least, accessible in state archives. The final portion of the book is largely made up of letters he collected praising his work during the Twelve Days state crisis in 1880. I did not find very much of value in these letters as most of them read like fan mail but it is important in the context of showing the instrumental role he played in restoring order without bloodshed. He certainly kept those letters of praise as anyone naturally would and I find no fault in it. They simply didn’t hold my interest as much as the first three-quarters of the book because of the lack of his own voice in the matter.

As to the overall importance of the collection, I do believe there is significance to this book but it’s hit and miss. That’s hardly the fault of the author, however, as some have insinuated. Chamberlain material has so largely been collected, published and examined that finding anything new is a revelation. The significance of this book is further developing the truth in this man as well as dispelling myths about some of the people who populated his life. Studying the man means studying everything about him – the good, the bad, the love, the hate, the hardships and even the seemingly trivial. The importance of this collection is adding to what we already have and know. I’m not entirely sure that it could stand on its own as a book about Chamberlain, meaning I wouldn’t give it to someone with a new interest in him. This book is easier to read if you have a working knowledge of his life. I suggest it as a companion to the Smith book primarily but some prefer other biographies. In other words, this is not a beginner’s book for aspiring Chamberlain scholars but it serves its purpose of fleshing out a rather complicated man surrounded by rather complicated people.

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