This isn't a ghost
story, though the event has haunted me for thirty-five years.
To understand the event,
you have to know a bit about my husband's family. Bill's father,
Walter May, died of pneumonia in the early 1940's, leaving his
widow, Dorothea, with three small children (Bill, who was six;
his brother, Dale, who was four; and his sister, Elizabeth, who
was two). Elizabeth had been named for Dorothea's best friend
in high school, Elizabeth Haywood, who had died in her late twenties.
Alvin Haywood, Elizabeth's
father, was a widower and he tried to help Dorothea, who was left
with very few financial resources. Alvin owned the town bank,
which made him the wealthiest man in Arcadia, Nebraska, though
that does not mean he was wealthy by non-Arcadia standards – moderately
comfortable is probably more accurate. One thing led to another,
and Alvin and Dorothea married a few years later. Dorothea and
her three children moved into Alvin's house, an eight room Victorian
with a veranda in front. Alvin adopted Bill, Dale, and Elizabeth.
In 1949, Dorothea died of cancer, leaving Alvin to raise the three
children.
Alvin had died before
I came on the scene, and the first few years of Bill's and my
married life featured vacations spent in Arcadia, where Bill was
working to settle Alvin's estate. The final vacation of that period
involved cleaning out Alvin's house, leading to an estate sale
and the listing of the house for sale.
That vacation was a
nightmare. Three generations of the family had lived in the house,
and it was filled with things that had to be sorted. There were
things that, had I been able to get them back to New York, where
Bill and I lived, would have had some real value to an antique
dealer; instead they were sold at the estate sale. I remember
a lady's desk that I loved that went for five dollars.
Finally, I went up
to the finished attic, where Bill had already packed the model
trains, and I began sorting through old trunks. In one of them,
I found two "memory books," mini scrapbooks girls used to put
together during high school. One, a blue cardboard book, belonged
to Dorothea. The other, a wine-colored suede book had belonged
to her friend, Elizabeth.
I was supposed to be
working, but I sat down to read the books. I started with Dorothea's,
but she hadn't been as faithful about keeping it as Elizabeth,
so I switched to her book.
It was filled with
dance cards, pressed flowers, programs, and records of parties
she'd attended and gifts she'd received.
And tucked in between
two pages was an envelope addressed to "Miss Elizabeth Haywood.
To be opened 15 years from today, Oct. 26, 1924. Or October 26,
1939. Not until." The envelope flap was held in place by silver
sealing wax. I opened the it and read:
Dear me:
I wonder what I
shall be doing when I open this letter fifteen years from now?
Will I be happy? What is my work? Did I get into a sorority in
college? Did I graduate from there? Am I married? These questions
interest me a great deal.
Today is Sunday
and I have finished studying and writing to Aunt Ruby. I am fourteen
and a Sophomore in H.S. I get an allowance of $1.50 a week. The
Sophomores are going to give the seniors a ghost party next Thursday,
Oct. 30, 1924.
Where will the original
gang be? Claudia, Sara, Dorothea S. and Dorothea H.? Where will
I be living? Just to think that in 15 yrs. these questions will
probably be answered.
Well, goodbye letter
for 15 years.
Lots of love, Lib
[crossed out]
Beth
P.S. I have been
to California this last summer 1926. I am now living in Arcadia.
I wonder how many young
girls have written that kind of letter? I think I wrote one myself,
though whatever became of it I can't say.
But what a strange
feeling it was (and is) to realize that I knew the most of the
answers to her questions. She could never have imagined that Dorothea
S.'s daughter-in-law would be the one to read that letter.
Nor could she have
ever guessed that a woman – and from New York at that – she never
imagined would spend so many years thinking about her.
