Sunday, May 07, 2006

 

ARGH!

"God, I gotta get over the fact that I can't be you." - E

sorry, that's not related to my post, but E just said it and I thought it was hilarious.

On to business.

So C-note was at her computer an hour or so ago, and I was at the kitchen table devouring the June Glamour. C-note exclaimed "Oh!" and told me that she just read that the oldest American living survivor of the Titanic, who could remember the disaster...is no longer living. The woman's name was Lillian Gertrud Asplund and she was five at the time. Her dad and three of her brothers died - she survived along with her mother and a younger brother. You can read about it here.

Okay. I don't know about you guys, but I did not think that any survivors of the Titanic were still kicking around. Much like I did not know that Jacqueline Onassis was still alive until she died, and Rosa Parks too. If I had known, I would have written letters! Tried to hang out! Become bosom buddies! When I read about their deaths, I felt so...cheated.

And Ms. Asplund! You know where she lived? IN BOSTON!!!!! YES. I had been no more than 30 miles from her for EIGHTEEN YEARS OF MY LIFE. I have this rosy picture in my head of me knocking on her door - her coming to answer it. It's a big old house, Victorian style, with a white wraparound porch. She's a frail old lady, but scary and stern and perfect in appearance. I'm there because I'm trying to earn money for some unattainable inspirational dream, and I want to clean her house to get some extra cash. She used to have an unattainable inspirational dream, so she decides to give me a shot.

I work there for a couple of days, and she warns me to never go in the East Wing. Or you know, the attic. Since I'm willful and sprited (and mourning the loss of my freedom at the cost of saving my old french father) I decided to go in there as soon as she is distracted by the magic mirror on the wall.

So I go into her attic, and I stumble upon a bed with a man's skeleton in it, with an indent on the pillow next to him.

Just kidding. (bonus points if anyone knows that short story reference!)

I find a beautiful old chest full of Titanic clippings, old photos, some yellowed lace, maybe some sort of dinner menu from the ship. Oh, and an old skeleton key. And a heart charm bracelet that says "Papa loves you." I hear strains of haunting classical music echoing in my head. I become totally engrossed in snooping, she of course catches me, and is extremely angry. I kneel there on the floor, clutching my dusty (yet cute) maid's uniform, looking frightened and alone. But then she sees the wonderment and respect in my face, tears come to the corners of her eyes, and she spills her story.

Now that opportunity is gone, before I even knew it existed.

*tears out her hair in distress, much wailing and gnashing of teeth*

Comments:
We all need our little fantasies, Meg.

*rolls about on the floor in tears of mirth*
 
just as long as I don't have to watch that wretched movie...
 
You know, because the thing she probably grabbed on her way off the ship was a few souvenirs.
 
A Rose for Emily is the reference, hehehe.
 
oh sick I remember that short story!! ewww. ohh NDA. speaking of, my father got invited to some faculty appreciation dinner there and hes taking me for free booze haha. I'll need it while surrounded by old teachers and nuns.
 
n: as fantasies go, that was a pretty boring one, huh?

i-66: definitely not. I only watched that when I was stuck on an airplane.

bub: or maybe she spent a lifetime collecting memories from the night that changed her life. party pooper.

cinn: cinn?! I'm a total fan of yours!! And Hurrah for getting the reference!

tans: hahaha - have fun! Tell your dad I said "cheerio!"
 
"bub: or maybe she spent a lifetime collecting memories from the night that changed her life. party pooper."

Again, I'm sure everyone was thinking "oh man, I gotta get myself a menu! It's going to be worth something someday!" And why would you want to collect memories of hundreds of people dieing before your eyes? That's what historians are for. People don't remember such things fondly.
 
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