Dear Rita,
Boy! Do I have a story for you! Guess what I did? Well, remember when I went to the farmer to buy the seeds for my garden? He offered to sell me chickens. I said no that day. But thought on it...and realized that collecting eggs is one thing I could let Robbie do. Also, feeding them won’t take much effort. So Levi and me...we built a coop and then went to pick up some chickens. A rooster, too! But I have to keep them separate. You know all about this stuff, I’m sure.
When you are feeling a bit better, will you give me some advice on chickens? I trust you so, so much about these things. Well...everything, really.
Robbie is getting better with pencils and he wanted to add something to my letter so he drew a rendition of the chicken coop. I’ve tucked it inside. Do me a favor? Just smell that paper! Don’t you remember the way that pencil lead smells on paper? I bet Toby brought you home all sorts of essays and poems when he was small. This smells just like the inside of my desk when I was a schoolgirl.
Okay, so the chickens were here and then I SWEAR I put them in the coop and locked the gate. But a few minutes later Corrine began laughing and pointing from the porch. Lo and behold there were chickens EVERYWHERE.
So there I was, running all over my yard like a loon, trying to get those damn chickens back into that coop. I wish you’d been there. It must have been quite a sight. And it reminded me, quite abruptly, of a moment with Claire Whitehall, mother-in-law extraordinaire.
When Robert and I were first married I fired my entire household staff. And when I found out I was pregnant I refused to hire a nanny.
One night when we were visiting with my mother-in-law in Beverly, she had a little talk with Robert. I was tired and lying down on her sofa. I suppose they thought I was asleep, but I heard every single hushed word from the kitchen.
“You must have her reconsider, Robert! What does that girl know about housekeeping? About mothering? That woman, Corrine Astor? She was a reformed harlot who barely knew she even had a child!”
“I don’t order Glory around, Mother,” said my sweet Robert.
“But you will have to do the work, too, son. And you married well. I may not approve of the girl herself, but I DO approve of her finances. I’m sorry to sound crass, but that’s how I feel. If you are going to marry money, why not spend it?”
Robert was silent for a moment, but his next words came out fierce and between his teeth.
“My Glory is not her money. There’s never been a girl less aware of what she is worth. She’s wild and free. THAT is why I married her. THAT is why I love her. I will never, ever try to pen her in. I will never cage her capacity for greatness. AND we will NEVER speak about this again.”
I’ve tried so hard to live up to those words he said. Because at that moment I didn’t see that girl he was describing. It wasn’t until I met you that I began to feel like he might have seen something besides a honeymoon kind of love.
So, returning to the question of “JUST WHO DO I THINK I AM?” I am Gloria Astor Whitehall. That’s who I am. And I chase chickens and grow my own food. And I am a philanthropist. And I can be very odd. My son is sick all the time. I’m deeply in love with my husband as well as my good friend Levi.
My best friend in the whole world is Marguerite Vincenzo. And she recently lost her husband in this great and horrible war. She’s mourning now. But soon, very soon, she will realize that her world is too big to ignore. There are sunrises that bring days of gardens and pins on maps. There are friends who are being harassed by Mrs. K. because it’s Marguerite’s job to annoy Mrs. K.—no one else can do that.
Mostly though, I miss her.
Love,
Glory