A Box of Books
"It's really heavy! I wonder what it could be."
It smells musty, Florida smells emanate forth, and the scratches of my brother's handwriting pop up on the reused box edged in silver duct tape.
With my good scissors I slit open the top, no note, to meet a Degas picture, outlined in red. Just an old address book, addresses of people my Mother knew and loved. It's been ten years since she died. People move all the time, at least every five years. Chances are none of the people are there anymore. Then there's the Rembrandt book, in German, from her ballet school in Germany, a small Degas booklet, a large book, "Margot Fontaine", and a "Peoples illustrated Bible" from Blanche Zurl.
A fascinating red book, dated 1939, has an inscription,
To Anneliese, on the occasion of her birthday, January 22, 1951, From Gibson.
( Gibson was her sister, Barbara's, husband.)
It is a wonderful book about her ballet teacher, Nicolas Legat. Of Swedish descent, he lived in Russia, then moved to London where my mother took class from him. In St. Petersburg he was personally close friends with Petipa and Johannsen, giants in the ballet field, and of course, his father handed the knowledge of ballet down to him.
Tyll is at home, when I call to thank him.
"I am getting another box ready to send. I am looking for that huge costume encyclopedia she had. I will find it and send it!"
"Thanks," I say, " and thanks for the Zeitenmuhle."
It is a special copy of a very old German rune "clock" that my Grandfather had on the mantle wherever he went. It had special meanings that only adult minds would understand. We were always interested and curious. It still becomes a topic of conversation when we get together.
I won't see Tyll this time while he visits Florida from Honduras. Maybe next time. Wish I were there, in Florida, to see, smell and feel the ocean air against my skin.
For now the box of books and the smells it brings will have to do.
It smells musty, Florida smells emanate forth, and the scratches of my brother's handwriting pop up on the reused box edged in silver duct tape.
With my good scissors I slit open the top, no note, to meet a Degas picture, outlined in red. Just an old address book, addresses of people my Mother knew and loved. It's been ten years since she died. People move all the time, at least every five years. Chances are none of the people are there anymore. Then there's the Rembrandt book, in German, from her ballet school in Germany, a small Degas booklet, a large book, "Margot Fontaine", and a "Peoples illustrated Bible" from Blanche Zurl.
A fascinating red book, dated 1939, has an inscription,
To Anneliese, on the occasion of her birthday, January 22, 1951, From Gibson.
( Gibson was her sister, Barbara's, husband.)
It is a wonderful book about her ballet teacher, Nicolas Legat. Of Swedish descent, he lived in Russia, then moved to London where my mother took class from him. In St. Petersburg he was personally close friends with Petipa and Johannsen, giants in the ballet field, and of course, his father handed the knowledge of ballet down to him.
Tyll is at home, when I call to thank him.
"I am getting another box ready to send. I am looking for that huge costume encyclopedia she had. I will find it and send it!"
"Thanks," I say, " and thanks for the Zeitenmuhle."
It is a special copy of a very old German rune "clock" that my Grandfather had on the mantle wherever he went. It had special meanings that only adult minds would understand. We were always interested and curious. It still becomes a topic of conversation when we get together.
I won't see Tyll this time while he visits Florida from Honduras. Maybe next time. Wish I were there, in Florida, to see, smell and feel the ocean air against my skin.
For now the box of books and the smells it brings will have to do.
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