Once upon a very long time ago, I walked with my grandmother down the dusty dirt road of her coastal North Carolina home place. The road was little more than a path lined by deep ditches and cattailed canals. Frogs plop-plopped from masses of lily pads into the murky water as we passed by. Beyond the ditch banks rose the woods, so thick and dark on both sides that crickets sang all day, thinking it was forever night. The sun beat down on everything, yet a breeze seemed always to be sighing, shhh ssshhhhh ssssssshhhhhh, in the dark, leafy depths of the forest. Early in my childhood, I understood that the forest is a living thing.
The old houses, however, spoke of dying. In various stages of falling down, the homes of Grandma’s neighbors spoke of times past, of living and loving over and done. The long-abandoned, dilapidated houses should have haunted me and perhaps they did, in a way. I wasn’t scared. I wanted to know about the people, what they were like, what their stories were.
Grandma knew them all. The people, the stories. That day we when stopped at the fork of the dirt road, I pointed to the lone sepia-toned house nestled in the crook and asked, “Who lived here?”
“The Rosses,” she said, launching into their history, which I didn’t hear because all I could think was I want to see inside.
“Grandma, can we go in?” I blurted.
To my surprise, she hesitated. I was pretty sure she’d just say no.
“They’ve all been gone for so long,” she said, almost to herself, staring ahead. I knew she wasn’t seeing the sad little frame leaning slightly to one side or the brown weatherboard siding. She was seeing it as it once was. The people that once were.
“We’ll go to the door and peep in, but that’s all,” she finally decided. “It’s not safe to go inside.”
So up the rickety steps we went, and, with the scrape of soft wood against soft wood, Grandma pushed open the door.
An overpowering musty, mildewy smell.
I coughed, blinked.
Stairs. Windows. A bit of old curtain, still hanging. Floorboards, some curving up at the ends, and . . .
“Letters! Look, Grandma!”
Before she could stop me, I was in the foyer, bending over a stack of dingy envelopes at the base of the staircase.
Someone had addressed the envelopes with elegant penmanship, in ink faded to the same sepia shade as the house itself. The envelopes looked to have been ivory or cream once. Now tinged and mottled brown, some still contained letters while other envelopes were empty, their creased handwritten contents scattered throughout the layers underneath.
I grabbed one and began to read: “My Dearest— oh, Grandma! Love letters!”
Grandma’s hand on my own stopped me.
“These aren’t meant for us to read,” she said. “These folks may be long gone, but this is their business, their story. Not ours.”
I put the letters down and followed her out of that silent, colorless setting back into the bright, hot sun.
That’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
Across the years, I’ve remembered those letters, wondered who exactly wrote them to whom, and why they were left like that in the abandoned house. Why Grandma chose to let them be, when the people are dead and past caring. Stories that are now lost to living memory, that will never be known.
Oh, to go back in . . . !
But even as I wish that, a movie scene comes to mind. Another old, sepia house with another girl. If you watch The Wizard of Oz closely, you can see exactly when the Technicolor kicks in on Dorothy’s back just she goes to open the door to a world nearly too fantastic to believe.
So, for me, the image of an aged farmhouse door forever invokes story. It’s first an invitation to examine one’s own framework, the living, loving, and breathings written on one’s own heart. The going in. And then the going out to collide with vibrant colors of everything beyond oneself, to absorb, to get a sense of infinite contours so far above and beyond what we can fully see and grasp. Endless discoveries, always, whether going in or out.
I might as well say the old wooden door is why I write.
*******
Today the door opens on the Slice of Life Story Challenge with Two Writing Teachers, a post a day in the month of March.
lit bits and pieces 
Love this slice – “Endless discoveries, always, whether going in or out.” All because of the old wooden door.
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Thank you, Ramona!
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My favorite phrase here is, “times past, of living and loving over and done.”. But there is so much more. The way you wove together the descriptions, the anticipation, and the purpose is masterful. I wish I could go back with you and walk through that door so we could read those letters together. But perhaps your grandmother was right, and they are not ours to read. So I’ll read your wonderful stories instead.
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You are ever gracious – thank you so much for reading and for this lovely response.
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Old buildings are charming beyond words. I like how you captured so much detail in conversation and painting a picture for us by also sharing a picture.
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Thank you so much for reading & responding!
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Way to start the month with a bang! Your writing felt like a movie, I felt like I was walking into that house with you. What a memory.
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It’s such a vivid memory – I thought, OH, I haven’t written that one yet! It felt like a good one to start the Challenge with. Thanks so much, Jessica. 🙂
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THis is the kind of story I want to hug to my chest and read over and over. Beautiful start Fran.
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Oh, my! Thank you so very much for reading and for telling me this. 🙂
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I love doors! Wonderful metaphor
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Thank you, Tammy 🙂
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Oh to get my hands on that wood–and the letters! Shall we plan a little trip???
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I imagine that house – certainly those letters – are long gone by now; but yes to a trip anyway, just to verify!
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There are such heartfelt images your writing invokes. Thank you for writing and for sharing. I too often think of the change to color in the film, and it reminds of a slice I want to share soon. Happy slicing.
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Thank you and I would love to read that film color change slice you mention!
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Sorry, I am new to this. I left my comment in the wrong place. Loved your writing. I could feel the presence of your grandmother as I read. Such rich expression and you now have me wondering about those letters. Loved how you saw your grandmother seeing the old home as it once was. Tones of sepia really capture the past
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Don’t worry about leaving your comments in the wrong place – this whole Slice of Life Story Challenge is a learning/growing experience. Now, you know! I left the wrong link on TWT my first time. Thanks so much for your response; so glad to know that you enjoyed.
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Looking forward to reading a daily post again!
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I will try to make your reading effort worth it -! :O
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Powerful story; evokes such beautiful images in the reader’s mind. Thank you for sharing!
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Thanks so much for reading and for your words.
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I loved the use of dialogue in this piece. The thought of uncovering old love letters is not only romantic, but also incredibly sweet and a beautiful look into the past.
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Thanks so much! The memory remains so vivid to me.
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The old wooden door is why you write! Wow! Your words are so powerful and well chosen. I also loved the connection to the wizard of oz.
Just beautiful!
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So happy I read this amazing piece. Irishdaybreak shared this piece with me, and we are devouring every beautiful line! So many connections. Thank you for opening the door into your writing life for us all to marvel!
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Oh, my – thank you for reading and for this amazing response! I’m delighted to know you (and Irishdaybreak!) are enjoying the post. Joy to you!
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