Lady B’s mother is selling her house, and this weekend she had to take a raft upriver to go through dozens of boxes of forgotten-about things. Slipperless dolls that had never been played with. A decade of paperbacks with underlined text. Stones and pebbles from driveways of old playmates. Alas, Lady Beaver has tired of sentimentality. Sentimentality feels like walking up a staircase in telemark ski boots. Clunky. Impractical. Not very attractive.She bid bye-bye to her yearbooks; photos of faces slumbering in attics. Bye-bye to the pencils, the pens, albums filled to bursting with photos of school plays. Lady Beaver might not know who she is at the moment, but she isn’t Lady Larkin from “Once Upon a Mattress”. She no longer harbors a crush on Dan Block from Long Lake Theater and Arts camp, and that sewing machine she once got for Christmas? She never learned to use it. The petit beaver of yore is floating away on a little brown log, sleeping oh-so softly. What lies ahead for the grown up Lady B? So many maybes knit into dreams. Black and white photos turned midnight with time. Unrecognizable. Foreign. Steel cold and strange.
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