Musings of a Wanderer

By Wandra Nomad

Tales of when the old meets the new, or vice versa perhaps. A couple renovating an old and complex house find their task greatly helped by an elderly ex-resident – who turns out to be so much more than the old, infirm and penniless resident she seems.
Then we move into almost science fiction with Carlotta’s life changing transformations.
Finally, there is romance in the Tropical Island and spookiness in the Unlikely Place for a Mystery.

A bonus is the first chapter of ‘Mansion of Mysteries’, Wandra Nomad’s first novel, coming soon.

You’ll really want to read the rest of it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leg Iron Books
• Release date: Sep 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005309671

Book preview

Musings of a Wanderer

By

Wandra Nomad

Disclaimer

These stories are works of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious context. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any events or locales is entirely coincidental. If any of the events described have really happened to you then I’m afraid that’s your own problem.

Copyright notice

Smashwords Edition

All stories and interior photographs are the copyright of the author, other than two images from old postcards.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the author, other than brief quotes used in reviews.

© Wandra Nomad, 2020.

https://legironbooks.co.uk/

Cover image © H. K. Hillman

Contents

Copyright and disclaimer

Memories From the Attic

1 – The Girl on the Pony

2 – The Amazing Mansion

3 – Quite a Bunch of Boys

4 – Where Did You Get That Hat?

5 – Bustling Activity

6 – The Erie Canal

Dust Mote Meanderings

1 – Transition

2 – Mission

3 – Explorations

Tropical Paradise

Unlikely Place for a Mystery

Mansion of Mysteries, Chapter 1

About the Author

Leg Iron Books

Memories from the Attic

This is a set of six connected stories which began as one short story that the characters just refuse to let stop there.

1 - The Girl on the Pony

I had Laurel’s childhood picture framed. It sits on our mantel piece where I pause often to look at it. Such a grim expression on the face of a young girl sitting on a Shetland pony intrigued me.

From beneath bangs cut straight across her forehead, her somber eyes looked directly into the camera. That must have been what caught my attention. She seemed so innocently direct and yet so worldly weary.

When I first saw that photo, I stopped working and stared at it. My beanpole thin husband, Walter, looked down from his towering height of 6’ 4". He dwarfs me even when I’m not squatting in front of boxes of pictures and papers, like the ones we’d found in the attic of the old house we were restoring.

Old photos? Junk ‘em. No one knows who they are now.

Though I agreed they were just more detritus, from lives long forgotten, that photo stayed in my mind. It must have been cold that day. She was wearing a heavy coat, with a big collar, leggings and high top button up shoes. Her feet didn’t even reach down to the stirrups. Her hands and head were bare, but I doubted the cold was why she looked so solemn. I dropped the picture back into the box.

We’d been lucky to find this charming old mansion on the outskirts of town. This whole area would have been rural when it was built. Now it overlooks more suburban surroundings, merely hinting at its former majesty. Because it stands alone at the top of a low rise, in the center of a small block, it still exudes some of that majesty, tattered and ragged though it is. It must have been a marvelous old manor house, with the hustle and bustle of a large family adding sounds and odors to its many rooms. But there’d been no loving family recently. The house had been cut up into rental units, all except the attic, which is too low ceilinged to be so bastardized.

The house had become the last owner’s albatross when the historical society took it under their protection and decreed that the only further changes allowed, must be restorations. With no maintenance even, the sad old edifice fell into disrepair; departing tenants were not replaced. Walter and I, got approved to buy the house to restore it. In that process we’d discovered a hidden narrow stairway; the sealed off access to the attic with a treasure trove of memorabilia. We’d been sorting through that in every available moment for weeks before I’d discovered the photos.

Walter glanced at the back of that picture. He laughed and said,

My-my, how you’ve changed.

Huh?

"Look, it says Laurie grade 1, 1906."

No way! But he was right. I picked it up again. I hadn’t even looked at the back.

Walter shoved the box and said,

That’s so long ago! She’d be about 100 now! Toss it in. Down the hatch with this junk!

I reached out to drop the picture back in the box but stopped.

No Walter. Set them aside.

Why?

I couldn’t imagine why, but something was urging me to keep the photos.

Well … because … there might … uhm … might be pictures of the house to help us with restoring it.

Good point.

Let’s take ‘em over to the apartment where I can go through them in comfort. Those albums too.

Laurie! That’s a lot of schlepping for boxes of old photos! They’re heavy yah know.

True but, we can take a few every time we leave, unless we find a secret chute right into the carriage house, I joked.

Later, as I did go through them, I found several other photos labelled ‘Laurie’ though it was that first one that haunted me.

We didn’t know who she was. But those boxes, along with piles of papers we found in the attic yielded information nuggets that did help piece together the history of the house. We’d heard it was the old Spencer Mansion. When our ‘nuggets’ confirmed that, my curiosity was running full tilt. I decided to see what I could find out about the Spencer family.

***

At the library – I didn’t have time to be at the library, but that just shows how much my curiosity had been tweaked – I discovered that originally Horace Spencer had the house built. His grandson, Horace, III, after both his children died young, brought his orphaned 9 year old granddaughter, Laurel, born early in the early 1900s, to live at the mansion. She seemed to be the last Spencer to live in the house.

These meager tidbits merely fed my curiosity. I sat with the book in my lap and the photo in my hand unaware of my surroundings until the librarian came to tell me it was closing time. She glanced at the open book.

Oh you’re interested in the Spencers? Such a sad story.

I showed her the picture and explained who I was.

So, you’re restoring the Spencer place! Well it sure needs some tender loving care. And so does poor old Laurie. She pointed at the picture.

Yeah she looks pretty sad, doesn’t she?

The librarian took a closer look and said,

Yes, even then. I visit her when I can and always come away so sad myself. Poor soul. I guess she doesn’t get many other visitors.

Still in my own reverie, I visualized Mrs. Tuttle at a graveside and was at the front door when I turned to ask,

Was she a relative?

No, but she came in here regularly as long as she was able. She lost the use of her legs, just like her Grand Daddy did, so she went into a nursing home. I go over and take her a bunch of our newest arrivals every time I can. It’s against our rules but I know I’ll get them back just as good as new.

How kind of you.

She appreciates it too. She says if she has anything left there will be a bequest to the library. She talks like that, the old dear. And she’s always so cheerful.

It finally hit me that this woman was speaking in the present tense.

You mean she’s still living? I gasped.

Oh yes, and sharp as a tack she is, too.

The date 1906 on the picture flashed through my mind.

But she must be about 100 years old!

Yes, and if it weren’t for those legs she’d outrun me any day.

Where does she live? Could I visit her?

Well I don’t see why not. But I don’t know if I should share that information.

Maybe I could take her some books. I stoop to bribery only if I think it might work.

She’d appreciate that. And I’ll bet she’d like hearing about the old place. But …confidentiality, you know? Her frown turned to a smile as she said, Well, let me call her. She disappeared into the office and soon emerged beaming.

She’s delighted and looking forward to meeting you. Her name is Hogan now. Laurel Hogan. She’s at Hilltop Manor. She’ll put you on her visitor’s list so you’ll have no trouble.

At home, bursting with excitement, I told Walter. He thought I was crazy. We’d entered into this venture strictly as an investment. But I was now intrigued with the history of the family who’d lived in the house. He grudgingly agreed when I reminded him that she might be able to help us know how to restore the house more accurately.

But the truth is I really wanted to learn why a rich kid was so solemn at that early age. I can never be accused of a lack of curiosity – some call it nosiness.

My brother Frank who helps us with the restorations was also intrigued.

I’ll go with you! he exclaimed.

Ummmmm – Noooooo. My instinct said to meet the old woman alone. "You could be a big help, though, I told him. I’m going over Saturday afternoon. If you could come help Walter he’ll be too busy here to object much to my absence."

I think I can do that.

I’ll make a huge lasagna before I leave, so we can dive into it when I get back.

With a big grin he said, That clinches it!

***

Saturday dawned cloudy and cold. By noon a huge storm had developed. Great torrents of rain came pouring down and the day turned as dark as nightfall. Walter wanted me to stay there but I was adamant.

If this gets any worse there’ll be flooding and you might get stranded out there.

If I do, I imagine they’ll have an extra bed, I laughed breezily and kissed the frown above his dark brown eyebrows.

Well, I hope a place called Hilltop Manor is on high ground. I’ll think of you stuck up there, like in the ark, but with all those old folks instead of animals two by two, he said pulling me into an embrace. But you don’t get out of here without a proper goodbye.

He gave me one of his long and lingering kisses that made me almost wish I had no plans for the day. But I pushed him away.

Promises, promises, promises!

Stick around and find out if I keep my promises! His brown eyes sparkled as he tried to grab me again.

I dashed to the door, jerked it open and startled Frank, fist raised, about to knock. With his light brown hair, hazel eyes and medium build my brother and I were often mistaken for twins though I’m shorter and a bit younger. Frank was dripping from his quick sprint to our downstairs door, which I’d unlocked earlier so he could dash right in.

Fortunately, the carriage house still had a space for our car below the apartment so I was able to make my departure warm and dry. I had a huge rain cape on the seat beside me, a book and a box of petit fours. I’d been back to the library and done my homework.

I wanted to get some fresh flowers too but when I turned down the street toward the flower stall, I saw no splashes of color. As I got closer, I saw an opaque plastic tarp secured across the front. Chester, the antiquarian proprietor, recognized my car. From his scant shelter, he made big arm motions for me to come close and lower my window. When I did, he yelled,

What you need today, Miz Laurie?

Something bright and cheerful – lots of yellow if you can, for sunshine.

He gave me a thumbs-up and disappeared. When Chessie, as we all call him, reappeared holding up a lovely bouquet, larger than I could afford I couldn’t resist. I nodded. He soon appeared again holding a smaller tarp over himself and the boxed bouquet.

I handed him some bills and maneuvered the box onto the passenger seat.

Who’s the lucky one?

Mrs. Hogan, at Hilltop Manor.

I heard you was gonna visit her, from Miz Tuttle at the library, he added. I hoped it was today, he said handing me too much change.

Chessie …

Before I could protest, he said, Half price today, for old Miz Spencer. And you tell her Chessie’s thinking of her and keeping her in his prayers. And you drive careful now, Miz Laurie.

I had only a vague idea where Hilltop Manor was but the directions Mrs. Tuttle had given me were excellent. Soon I was inching my way up a sheet of water streaming down the steep street. At the top there was the brick mansion – old, magnificent and graceful – with recent additions on either side faced to match, as nearly as something modern and budget conscious could come to matching the elegance of the old manor house.

Across the front was a covered carport-like area. I knew there was a French word for it. Porte something. It would once have accommodated a few carriages but now had parallel lines denoting empty parking spaces. I was grateful that few people had ventured out in this weather.

With my boxes and the book I entered the lobby. The young woman at the desk gave me directions. Before setting out, I turned back and pointed out the front door.

What do you call that?

She squinted towards the door, then looked at me as if I had two heads.

Rain.

No, I mean the place where I parked?

She shrugged,

Parking area? Carport? With a little shake of her head, she turned back to her computer.

I headed off wanting to shake my head, thinking, ‘At least I know it has a French name!’ I looked back at the end of the corridor. Her fingers were flying over her keyboard. I was forgotten.

I found room 214 and tapped on the open door. The elderly white haired occupant set a book aside and rolled her wheelchair toward me.

You must be Mrs. Langley, she said. Do come in! I’ve been looking forward to your visit. Oh, you’re nice and dry. You must have found a parking space in the porte-cochère.

I was already captivated.

Yes, Mrs. Hogan. I’m Laurie Langley. Just Laurie will do. I stuck out my hand which she grasped in her own slender, wrinkled, bony one which, like herself, seemed too delicate and fragile to produce such a firm and sure grip.

Well, I’m Laurie too. Her wrinkled face shone with her smile and her eyes sparkled. Laurie, Laurie! she quipped.

That’s us. I agreed.

Mine’s for Laurel. Is yours Laura?

No, it’s Laurene. I love Laurel, may I call you that?

I’d love it! Since my Mama died no one usually does, except our Jenny here.

For you. I said, handing her the boxes and book.

Goodness gracious! I love surprises. Let’s see what’s in these. She took her time opening them, which gave me a chance to look around.

Most of my notions of a nursing home needed swift revision. It was a huge L-shaped, corner room with the two prongs enclosing a bathroom. The doors were wide enough to easily accommodate her wheelchair. The portion I’d walked through was a mini-kitchenette. The rest was like a large living room. In a partially curtained off alcove was a hospital bed. The rest of the furniture looked antique. French doors, that were actually sliders, opened out onto a sizable balcony.

Ohhhh, she sang out in delight, petit fours! I’ll bet Grace Tuttle had a hand in this. She pushed a button on the stand beside her. Almost immediately a petite young blonde appeared.

I already have your tea water heating, Miss Laurel.

Laurel smiled.

I can always count on you. Jenny, this is my guest, Mrs. Laurie Langley. And see what she’s brought us!

Welcome. Oh! Miss Laurel loves petit fours!

So I was told.

Laurel nodded knowingly.

And what can we get for you Mrs. Langley? Jenny continued.

It’s just Laurie, please. Tea would be great, thank you.

Jenny left and my hostess said, She’s a lovely girl. I wish they were all like her.

Not knowing what she was alluding to, nor wanting to pry I said, This lovely room doesn’t compare at all with my notions of a nursing home.

Well this portion is called the Assisted Living section. We can live pretty much on our own if we want, with minimal assistance.

How modern.

Yes, and I can have guests. That sofa pulls out into a bed. It only looks like an antique so it will fit in with the rest of my furnishings.

All of which do look antique, I said.

Yes, we can bring our own, like I did. Even my wheelchair; I’d been in one for a several years before I came here so I brought it along. Of course this is a highfalutin upgrade of that one.

Impressive.

Bad as the weather is, you must look out and see that being on this back corner I have the best of views. She pressed another button and the curtains across the sliders parted.

I looked out over a lawn sloping gently away to a stream below and a wooded area beyond that.

Magnificent view! I agreed.

Though a million questions were in my mind I wanted her to set the pace. I didn’t want her to feel I was prying. I can just picture it with birds and squirrels, or rabbits and deer in other weather.

Yes, we get them all but not as much now as a few years ago.

I looked forward to seeing that view on a sunny day or buried in snow. That was my first inkling that I