Henry in Winter

December 29, 2006

At this time of year, I usually put him away in some quiet corner of my mind. My aptitude for compartmentalizing allows a hibernation of my exuberant passion … just as the house sleeps in empty, cold shadows for a little over half the year. But… for some reason… Henry floated into my mind last night.

I tripped over the casually tossed bags of presents on my floor and recollected a few of his Christmas letters and the insatiable yearning for Piatt. He made a careful purchase of a present for APA and wrote once, twice, maybe three times to inquire the acquisition and satisfaction… impatient for the next meeting. In appearances, he was the perfect Edwardian gentleman. Rigid posture, arms folded… and supposedly soft-spoken. But… those letters… even in his 30's… demonstrated a boyish need for attention from that one individual. Heartbreaking. Human. Beautiful in its sorrow. He leaves no doubt in the mind of anyone who reads his words how much he felt, how much he craved, how much he loved… until his dying day.

It is that love story, one-sided or no, that seduces my mind more than any element of the house. More than any part of a history that can not be proven with so many truths cast away into the winds of Gloucester Harbor.

Although, Henry lingers in my mind a little longer… with the thought of continued celebrations in the coming new year. He is definitely my inspiration for playing the host and creating themes… something I pursue with more regularity since the days I started touring his awesome home. I would appreciate a suggestion or two from him for Twelfth Night. What would he think of our triumvirate of themes this year?

What a strange inversion then… that I gush and sigh so futilely over my admiration these seventy-some years later? Or is it… just a testament to the fact we know not how many lives we touch in our immediate awareness of life… who can admire us… and for what reason? In what time? Did he ever think that his intimate letters would be published in a book, read by thousands… and discussed over a media he could never comprehend? No. All that mattered, I suspect, was the readership of that one. That one person and that hope… that unyielding, aching hope.