Circles within Circles

Circles within Circles

Tom looked over the gnarled fruit trees. God, he loved this place. The weather was cold, but the sun was out and valiantly trying to bring the temperature up to bearable. Frost lightly steamed in the morning sun, and then evaporated. Spring wasn’t far away, and since he hadn’t had time to trim these trees up last Fall, now was the time.

By noon he’d managed to get through most of the small, opportunistic branches that had cropped up last Summer. The harvest had been good and the weight of the fruit had been a heavy burden even the sturdiest trees. This year he had time to do it right. He would cut out almost half of the branches so the fruit wouldn’t risk splitting the trunk. It would cut back on their sales some, but the trees would be happier.

The older, mature branches were too much for the pruning shears, even the long handled ones. So, he put his gloves on and reached for his favorite, silvered saw. Tom was on the sixth and final tree of the day when he noticed the sun was westering.  Tom looked around with a deep contentment. Okay he thought, one more branch and then off to dinner, suddenly realizing how hungry he was. He set the blade, the saw bit clean and moved swiftly through the green and fragrant wood.  It wasn’t hard work, just constant.

Most of the way through he paused to tug on the branch, to see how close he might be to cutting through. He stopped. He'd seen something shining in the wood. Shining? He might have ruined the saw if it had been closer to the trunk.

He finished cutting the limb free, then cut away the next six inches to take back to the house.  His curiosity was peeked. What on earth could it be. Well it wouldn't take long to dig this thing out and Deb loved small mysteries like this.

After dinner he and Deb settled on the deep porch of the old house. Tom had inherited it from his grandfather Ezzedine, who had received it from some other distant Taylor ancestor. The house might have been as old as the family deed. Who knew? No matter, the house was full of history and pictures and journals. In the attic, boxes were crammed into every nook and crannies, holding hints of family long past. Tom loved it all. The porch, though, was a favorite. It provided shade and was set to catch even the faintest summer breezes. In the winter windows could be set in to hold warmth for early morning shared cups of coffee, and late night talks. At the moment, it was a perfect place to sit while digging the metal out of the apple branch.

The dremel worked best in the end, allowing him to peel away the wood without nicking anything. So complete was his concentration that he didn't notice when Deb pulled her chair up close, and later when she brought him a fresh cup of coffee. He sipped without thinking about it. He wanted to bring that golden thing out in one piece.

What emerged under Tom's swift sure hands left both Deb and Tom a bit stunned.

When he was done two rings sat on the table. Intertwined, one large and the other small. He could see where the larger ring had been cut and then roughly rejoined after slipping the smaller ring through. Wait, there were inscriptions. He had to get a magnifying glass.

' John, Beloved' read the inside of the larger band. The smaller bands inscription read "Emma I love you'' in script, and scratched after that, as if with a nail or knife, was the word 'always.' Deb touched the rings lightly. Tom could see she was wearing that misty look, the one she got when she read those two pound romances she so adored.

"Tom, were these family members?" she asked. Tom shrugged.

"Dunno. We can look in the old family bible," he said. As much as Tom had enjoyed excising the rings, he now felt odd, like he was being too nosy. He found himself a bit reluctant to pursue the mystery. The way they twined together, it was - personal. That's how it felt.

The next day Deb got down the bible, but didn't find anything. She resorted to the attic in her quest for answers on the two lovers, surely, she thought. It would have been a grand love, not young or silly, but enduring. There'd be something in the attic. Several days later she had worked her way to the far end of the attic, where the small eaves housed small round windows, these always reminded her of ships windows. They even opened like them, as well. Underneath one of the windows, set much like a seat would have been, was a small chest. Inside she came across what she had come to see as normal contents of these chests.  odd pieces of lace and hair clips, clothing so old she was afraid it might shred as she lifted it carefully out. A bonnet, its decoration long since crushed or crumbled. at the bottom she found a small box that contained a locket. Inside that were 2 small paintings; a lady on one side and a man on the other. The woman's face was young, and strong, not pretty by today's standards, but a woman who knew how to look straight at things, including the artist. The man as well, was not handsome, but there seemed to be a hint of laugh lines, and kindness around his brown eyes. Underneath the box that held the locket she came across a small diary, written according to the cover sheet, by one Emma North. Deb smiled and settled on the chest to read further. Emma had written the diary while she was travelling to meet, for the first time, her fiance' John Taylor.

The diary spoke of their letters, and their hopes, and a sincere desire to marry, arisen from those same letters. Over the next few evenings Deb read through the letters. They had been tied into bundles. One holding the letters from John, the other from Emma. The letters revealed the courtship from the first tentative beginnings. John set forth who he was, and what he had to offer. His writing was forthright and formal, a bit stiff Deb thought, as if it had been hard to set all this down on paper. However subsequent letters had lost that stiffness as he slowly began to speak of his hopes and dreams. Deb could see the farm through his words, emerging from the wilderness, yet complementary to it. The words indicated a knowledge of and appreciation of the wild trees and plants, not only for the uses he could put them to, but also for their very wildness and their right to rule the world he was joining. His letter indicated he had started  the farm and Deb made a note to actually check that deed to see if John's farm and this one were the same. He spoke of the weather, the wildlife, the house that he was building, and the beauty of the land. He also spoke of its remoteness and the measured pace of the seasons. It took him a day to get to town from his homestead. That explained why each letter went on for several different days she thought.

Emma's letters were of her family, in a small town south of Boston. Her father was a baker and her mother his assistant. She spoke of her sisters who had already married and settled and her young brother who was beginning to learn the baking trade. Emma herself had learned to bake at both her mother and fathers knees, but Emma was not content to remain in the small town. She wanted to see the west. To experience the frontier. The city left her restless. Her letters spoke of the skills she had learned, of housekeeping, baking, weaving. they also spoke of her desire for a large family. They spoke of her lack of fear of the solitudes John had written of. Towards the end the letters began speaking of love, and marriage and finally, of setting travel arrangements. Deb was a bit surprised at how matter of fact these letters were. After all Emma was only 17 at best guess, while John was somewhere over 22.

Where was all the fuss and the parental gnashing of teeth? Where, as well was all the angst and the fears and hesitance so prevalent in today's world? Life certainly was different back then. The last letters set the dates, and that is where they ended and the diary took up the story. The diary spoke of personal things. The slowness of the travel, the sights she witnessed, her impressions of people and of the openness of the country, from the open plains to the deep forests that seemed to swallow the coach she was in at that part of her journey. The diary ended as the trip did. The last entry speaking of meeting her future husband face to face for the first time and describing the simple ceremony that very day. There it ended. Try as she might, Deb never found anything else, though she continued to root through the attic on and off for months.

Eventually she and Tom named the house Two Rings, after the couple she now believed must have lived and loved here before them. Tom made a small plaque they put outside on the corner of the house under the deep porch. He also made a beautiful little wooden display box for the rings and the diary. Somehow that found love story strengthened them as well. They were able to make that year's payments, and over the years they were comfortable, not rich, but OK.

On the downstairs mantel the small box sat. And for the rest of their lives they shared the story with family and guests. It became family lore, and John and Emma lived again through the stories. At each telling the love was stronger, and more perfect, and, through the story they became immortal.

Word Count 1712