Part 13

      I decide to try an abstract approach to drawing the fountain. For one thing, I could easily spend years trying to do a technically accurate version... and probably still wouldn't be happy with it. For another, what struck me far more strongly than the intricate craftsmanship of the sculpture was the fluidity of the thing, the vivid sense of flowing water even when it has been dry for God knows how many years. I kept thinking about it on the walk home, and now I've gotten out my biggest sketchbook, a stack of chalk pastels, and some paper towels (for smudging the chalk around in larger areas, hoping to save my poor fingertips a bit).
      I am refusing to let myself do the whole thing in shades of blue. In fact, I'm tempted to take all the blue out of my pile and hide it in another room, far, far out of reach, but I know I'll want it to deepen purples or cool down greens or something. Blue would be far too easy, and I don't want it to be such an obvious water connection. I want to see if, like the original sculptor, I can convey the sense of water through motion, through composition and arrangement and subtle gesture, instead of hitting the viewer over the head with depictions of waves and rain.
      I replay all that I saw today in my thoughts as I draw, a pretty but subdued set of music playing softly from my headphones. I think back to the boy, to the woman, and to the couple... but I don't see any kind of family resemblance. Who was the boy? One of the women must have been his mother... or some relation, anyway. I didn't get a very close look at either person I saw today, but it was enough to rule out a biological connection to either of the others. I'm going to have to see if I can hunt down some old photos somehow or anoth---
      The book!
      Dropping my pastels, I jump up – and then stagger, my feet having fallen asleep God knows how long ago as I was drawing. Wincing as pins and needles set in, I make my way to the bookcase, and pull out the book of local history I bought a month or so ago. I didn't know the name Mason when I last looked through it, I'd only seen the boy (who is looking to be somehow disconnected from the family). I flip through it eagerly now, looking intently at the face of every town elder or politician, checking the names, the dates...
      And on the last page of the chapter, my heart stops – something in the face is familiar somehow, and the name!
      “Mrs. Cora Mason. President of the First Methodist Church's Ladies Aid for eleven years, founder of local chapter of Red Cross, dedicated member of Woman's Christian Temperance Union. Prominent figure in local charity work, donating large amounts to both local and foreign missions. 1872-1931. Photo c. 1911.”
      It's the auburn-haired woman I saw sitting alone in the garden... though the photo shows her much aged. She couldn't have been more than twenty or so when I saw her, and she's nearly forty here. Not a very kind forty, either, there are deep lines in her face, and her hair looks faded and dry – though granted, the photo isn't in anything like pristine condition, and I'm sure this is a copy of a copy of a photo taken when cameras and photographic materials had a lot more vulnerabilities than they do now. Still... Though her hands look a bit more work-hardened, her skin still looks smooth and well-cared for. There are still a few curls that fall gently against her neck, and her eyes are still soft and deep, though they look much more tired than they once did. The lines of her face remain, though softened and rounded, and her hair is arranged in much the same way.
      After a few minutes studying the photo, I flip slowly through the rest of the book, searching for any mention of the Masons, or any face I recognize. Nothing... and no photos or mentions of either the mansion or the garden. But then again, the house burned and the estate was abandoned before photos became really commonplace. (The Kodak Brownie camera, which was the first camera really accessible to the general public and used by amateurs, hit the marketplace in 1900. Thank you, high school research papers!)
      I turn back to the photo of Cora again, and stare a few minutes longer, wondering idly what her life had been... The map man in town made it sound like she was a bit of a rich snob, I got the impression of someone domineering and overbearing. But the woman I saw seemed only sad, maybe a little lost... And the Cora in the photo here did so much for the community. It's so hard to see how all of those bits fit together – but then, we all have odd twists in our personalities, in our interests. Half of my coworkers have no idea I'm an artist, I'm just the one who's best at tweaking photocopies into looking... well, passable, anyway. But if you took three random details about my life, and knew nothing else... Good at making copies, was quiet in class, walked alone in cemeteries. Oh look, she's a psychotic serial killer!
      At this, I have to laugh, and close the book. Going back to my drawing, I let my mind drift around the images in the fountain, the grace of the figures and the sumptuousness of the flowers... I plug my camera into my computer, and pull up a few shots of the fountains, just to check the form of some of the flowers, then return to the drawing, the world growing hazy and soft around me as the drawing comes more fully into focus...

      Before work the next day, I run to the bookstore and grab a couple of flower guide books. One is a field guide to flowers local to the area, while one is a thicker, more general guide to flowers and flower-families. A very thick book. Luckily for me and my wallet, it's an old library book being re-sold at a discount, so I can actually afford the silly thing. Should be a great reference for drawing, anyway, even apart from helping me figure out all the things I've been looking at.
      After work, it's too late to go out and do anything (apart from going to a restaurant or bar, neither of which appeals to little-loner me), but I curl up with the local newspaper and scan for a, information on the local historical society, and b, anyone offering psychic readings or something. The “Around Town” column lists the next meeting of the historical society... I'm a little timid about approaching the whole group out of the blue like that, but maybe I can poke my head in early, and just ask someone who I should talk to. There are actually three listings for psychics – I can't decide if it's odd there should be so many in a small town, or just par for the course in a small town without a whole lot of entertainment options. I circle the small classified ads, not sure which one would be the most reputable. I'll see if I can't somehow get a recommendation from a coworker or something, maybe see if any of these people have a website or something.
      I also spot a short article mentioning a local horticultural society, they just put in a bunch of geraniums along Main Street in town. Oh geraniums... I may not know much about flowers, but you bring nothing to my mind but '50s housewives. But as uninspiring as geraniums may be, that might be something to look into as well – gardeners are always looking at other people's gardens, admiring and borrowing ideas. I'm sure they must know something about this one...
      It's a little bit amazing to me that a full newspaper can come out of this town every week. There are articles on the high school and college sports teams of course, but also bits on local politics, some new arrangement of the water systems around the county (which the mobile home park owners are dead set against, and I can't figure out why), a fifth grader who found a surprisingly valuable arrow head in the creek, a whole column of information from the Chamber of Commerce (which is full of more business-speak than art-student me can stomach), a listing of some pets available through the local shelter... Half of the classifieds are obnoxious, blaring things in all-caps: “$$$ NEED MONEY FAST? WORK FROM HOME making craft items MAKE THOUSANDS every week!!! Call 585-8888 for information $$$” But the rest are oddly fascinating. A guy selling “seasoned oak for campfires, fireplaces”, which is normal enough. The next ad is selling “DIAMOND engagement ring, 1.5 carats, will take best offer”, followed by “PUREBRED MINIATURE DACHSHUNDS” (...dachshunds are not big dogs by any stretch of the imagination, who felt the need to make smaller ones?) and “LIONEL train set, engine 1100, Tender-Scout Caboose Lionel Lines 1007...” It's amazing how much hobby-specific jargon exists, I have no idea what that ad even talks about. “I use to pick grapes growing up and remember the old carts that we used. I am looking to buy one of those old fashion Grape Picking Cart...” Don't these charge by the word? Guess the guy's pretty determined, anyone I've ever heard of placing an ad makes it as clipped and short as possible. Finally, I just burst out laughing and close the paper:
      “52 Pairs of Jeans. I have a bunch of jeans that I am selling. I have way too many cloths so I decided to start with my jeans first. I have mostly junior/misses jeans...”